R.L. Martinez's Blog, page 20

Startling Poetry: The Gutting

Saw this on Facebook and was riveted. The Gutting by Beck Cooper It is said, he who holds the hook is aware in what water many fish are swimming. I was full once, before the night he gutted me. The night I heard my own “no” echo into his cavernous, moaning mouth; and even then […]

12 Lessons of Adulthood

      The job of being an adult – a REAL adult, not a big person who still acts like a child – is the most thankless, grueling job on the planet. No other task or responsibility equals it. Not parenthood, not CEO of a multi-national company, not emperor, not president. Nothing. Adults have to do […]

5 Things I Learned from Self-Publishing My First Book

  1. Checklists are Crucial: I learned this after having to upload several corrected versions of my book – even after it had already been published and put up for sale. One of the most frustrating instance was finding out I needed to justify my inner text rather than having a ragged right margin. I had […]

Vaguepost Alert!

Okay, so I am going to do a sort of vaguepost, which I HATE, but I simply can’t be more explicit at this time. The release date for In the Blood is being postponed because of an email I received this morning. Nothing bad, promise. But I can’t say whether it’s good either. Not sure when I will have a new release date ready. Sit tight and I will put out updates as I get more information.

Startling Poetry: Wonderfully Made

Whatever we look like on the outside, we need to be kind to ourselves.

Wonderfully Made by Khari

There are mornings when you wake up

and don’t believe you’re beautiful

I’ve seen you stare in the mirror

curse under your breath

while your insecurities stare right back at you

I’ve watched your fingers trace

the stretch marked terrain

on your stomach

watched fault lines form on your face

and listened to your voice erupt into a volcano

of complaints about the way your body looks

I’ve heard you complain

about not being happy with your hair, weight, and stretch marks

all you seem to notice are your physical flaws

and you’ve told me there are times

when you don’t believe that you’re beautiful at all

Your inner critic is a plastic surgeon

who operates a private practice inside your head

he hacks away at your self esteem daily

purposely pointing out every wrinkle

pressuring you into wanting to look perfect

He’s convinced you into believing that

you can only look youthful again

if you removed the sags and wrinkles from your skin

he’s deceived you into thinking

plastic surgery is the perfect way to become a perfect ten

But I’m here to remind you that you’re God given gorgeous

The truth is there is no fountain of youth

today is the day

you free yourself from the mental prison

of being shackled to your inner critics opinions

I wrote this poem to remind you

that I fell in love with the internal you

not the external you

so I want you to stop doubting your divinity

embrace your flaws and femininity

You’re wonderfully made

If you were to ask me what I thought about your hair?

I would tell you that your hair

reminds me of heavenly clouds

hand woven by the most high

I don’t know when you began to developed

deep rooted kinks of contempt

but I love you even when you hair is unkempt

I think every kink, curl, nap on you is naturally beautiful

your hair is part of your heritage

If you were to ask me if you looked fat or needed to lose any weight?

I would tell you that your bodacious body is a blessing

your womanly curves are not a curse

and I know you’ve gain weight since we met

but I feel in love with the inner you

so I’m not concerned with a thinner you

Your weight and shape does not define your beauty

When I first fell in love with you

I was attracted your physical frame and the shape of your behind

but throughout time

I’ve become more attracted to your frame of mind

If you were to ask me what I thought about the stretch marks on your stomach?

I would say nothing

Instead I would slowly kiss every stretch mark on your stomach

until your inner critic committed suicide

then I would tell you that those stretch marks on your stomach

are written reminders from God

I should always be thankful to you

for giving birth to our children

woman, your womb is a miracle workshop

I love everything about you

so stop allowing self doubt to diminish your confidence like a fade cream

stop allowing your inner critic to skin bleach your self esteem

Now is the time for an extreme mental makeover

time to perform a tummy tuck on negative thinking

time to stop loathing yourself

and start loving everything about yourself

You’re a real woman

every bump, roll, wrinkle scar

has molded you into becoming

the beautiful woman you are

Since the term fearfully and wonderfully made

is written in the bible

wanting to look like a woman other than yourself

is like worshipping a false idol

There are people who don’t want you

to believe you’re beautiful

body image bullies who make billions of dollars

by using the beauty industry

to try and convince beautiful women like you

that you’re flawed

Don’t allow these media images

magazine covers and music videos

push you into developing an eating disorder

stop starving yourself of self love

My beloved

you are more

than your butt, breast, hips, and thighs

those are just your body parts

the biology of your whole being is God’s work of art

There are times when I wish I could silence your inner critic

have him convicted of mental medical malpractice

for all the times that he attempted to mutilate your body image

Woman,

you’re wonderfully made

So until you realize you’re beautiful to me

I’ll continue to run my fingers through your hair

kiss your womb

and hug your hips while you stare in the mirror

everyday romantic rituals to remind you

that I love you

You don’t need any type of cosmetic surgery

to be more desirable to me

you’ve been beautiful since birth

your outward appearance doesn’t determine your internal worth

I can’t defeat your inner critic

That’s something you have to do

but I can continue to love every ounce

of your being

until you start seeing

that the best kept beauty secret

is already inside of you!

You’re wonderfully made!

Startling Poetry: Why I Think This World Should Come to an End

Why I Think This World Should Come to an End by Prince Ea

The world is coming to an end

The air is polluted, the oceans contaminated

The animals are going extinct, the economy’s collapsed

Education is shot, police are corrupt

Intelligence is shunned and ignorance rewarded

The people are depressed and angry

We can’t live with each other and we can’t live with ourselves

So everyone’s medicated

We pass each other on the streets

And if we do speak it’s meaningless robotic communication

More people want 15 seconds of fame

Than a lifetime of meaning and purpose

Because what’s popular is more important than what’s right

Ratings are more important than the truth

Our government builds twice as many prisons than schools

It’s easier to find a Big Mac than an apple

And when you find the apple

It’s been genetically processed and modified

Presidents lie, politicians trick us

Race is still an issue and so is religion

Your God doesn’t exist, my God does and he is All-Loving

If you disagree with me I’ll kill you

Or even worse argue you to death

92% of songs on the radio are about sex

Kids don’t play tag, they play twerk videos

The average person watches 5 hours of television a day

And it’s more violence on the screen than ever before

Technology has given us everything we could ever want

And at the same time stolen everything we really need

Pride is at an all time high, humility, an all time low

Everybody knows everything, everybody’s going somewhere

Ignoring someone, blaming somebody

Not many human beings left anymore, a lot of human doings

Plenty of human lingerings in the past, not many human beings

Money is still the root of all evil

Yet we tell our kids don’t get that degree

The jobs don’t pay enough

Good deeds are only done when there’s a profit margin

Videos of the misfortunes of others go viral

We laugh and share them with our friends to laugh with us

Our role models today

60 years ago would have been examples of what not to be

There are states where people can legally be discriminated against

Because they were born a certain way

Companies invest millions of dollars hiring specialists to make

Little girls feel like they need “make up” to be beautiful

Permanently lowering their self esteem

Because they will never be pretty enough

To meet those impossible standards

Corporations tell us buy, buy, buy, get this, get that

You must keep up, you must fit in

This will make you happy, but it never does for long

So what can we do in the face of all of this madness and chaos?

What is the solution? We can love

Not the love you hear in your favorite song on the radio

I mean real love, true love, boundless love

You can love, love each other

From the moment we wake up to the moment we go to bed

Perform an act of kindness because that is contagious

We can be mindful during every interaction

Planting seeds of goodness

Showing a little more compassion than usual

We can forgive

Because 300 years from now will that grudge you hold against

Your friend, your mother, your father have been worth it?

Instead of trying to change others we can change ourselves

We can change our hearts

We have been sold lies

Brainwashed by our leaders and those we trust

To not recognize our brothers and sisters

And to exhibit anger, hatred and cruelty

But once we truly love we will meet anger with sympathy

Hatred with compassion, cruelty with kindness

Love is the most powerful weapon on the face of the Earth

Robert Kennedy once said that

Few will have the greatness to bend history

But each of us can work to change a small portion of events

And in the total of all those acts

Will be written in the history of a generation

So yes, the world is coming to an end

And the path towards a new beginning starts within you

Book Release Date!

Coming Friday, May 22, 2015!

Excerpt:

With the cold-stiff fingers of one hand, Ottilde Dominax rubbed the prisoner number tattooed on the side of her neck. Her other hand gripped the heartstone suspended from a leather cord just below her breastbone. Its gentle, steady warmth provided some respite from the frigid air, though not enough to keep her body from giving an occasional shudder. She kept her eyes on the Latote Mountains in the eastern distances as the guard who walked around her block, counted the prisoners while his partner called out identification numbers and waited for the indicated prisoner to respond.

Barely autumn, Kalliroe’s far northeastern corner already had frost on the ground. “Least its smells better ‘round here,” Ottilde heard one of the other inmates grumble. Several muttered assents answered that bit of optimism. As far as Ottilde had observed, the only benefit to the glacial temperature was it tamped down the usual stench of the prison. In high summer, a disgusting mélange of unwashed bodies, piss, food, and animal droppings would drift like a fog over the prison houses and their occupants. It mattered little how often or thoroughly everything was washed.

“296.” The call of Ottilde’s number was met with angry hisses and mutters.

Ottilde shifted observed the guard at the front of their formation. He watched, seemingly bored, as the other inmates spat at her feet. “Kingkiller,” the woman next to her hissed. Ottilde raised one hand into the air. “Here.” The guard checked her name off his printed list and moved on. The commotion died down after he called a few more numbers and Ottilde let out her long-held breath. She made the fingers around her heartstone loosen. They came away aching with the force of her grip. Chroy had not been a king when she threw her knife into his throat, but he would have been.

When all the numbers had been confirmed down the line of blocks, several inmates broke formation to walk to the dining house for breakfast. The guards, however, growled at them to remain in line, shoving some of the slower ones back into place.

Ottilde frowned at the break in routine and peered around. She saw Prison Chief Wilder Coomb stride towards them on the other side of the wire fence that formed the front of the yard, his adjutant close at his side. One of the guards unlocked the yard gate and stood back as the Chief entered.

Wilder Coomb was a formidable man. Ottilde supposed, he might once have been handsome, but life had not been kind to him. His hair had been shaved to reveal a deep, curling scar on one side of his scalp while his face and neck carried similar gruesome marks. One earlobe was missing, which gave his head a cock-eyed appearance when viewed straight on. A jagged horizontal pink line along his neck indicated someone had tried to cut his throat. But the most impressive scar, Ottilde speculated, lay behind the patch over his left eye. She could see the silvery tail of the wound snake down his cheek and neck to disappear in the stiff collar of his forest green officer’s coat.

When he reached the front of the formations, he folded his hands behind his back and swept a contemptuous eye over them. Ottilde wondered what he saw as he stared at them, the ragged, unlucky soldiers taken prisoner during the recent Yemesh War between Dosalyn and Roanaan. For a moment, Chief Coomb’s hard, dark eye settled on her and she lifted her chin, refusing to show him how much he intimidated her. But his gaze moved on and she sensed the subtle shift of discomfort in the prisoners around her when one of them felt the whip of his gaze

He held up a sheaf of folded papers, a letter. “Queen Kamora has fled and Dosalyn has vanquished her armies.”

The prisoners shuffled and muttered. The cold air warmed with the force of their anger and humiliation. Ottilde kept her eyes on Chief Coomb’s face, though she felt a good portion of their collective rage focused on her. She knew she held blame for breaking the back of Roanaan’s fighting spirit.

“Over the last several weeks, those with authority in such matters have considered what to do with you all. I have a list of officers and knights to be traded for Dosalyn soldier now held by the remnant of Roanaan’s military as an act of diplomatic faith. Step forward when I read your number. You will be readied immediately for transport to the rendezvous point.” He snapped his fingers and his adjutant took the letter from his hand, replacing it with a single sheet of dark paper. Coomb scanned it and shouted out prisoner numbers.

Ottilde listened with unsteady breaths as each number was read and a man or woman came forward to answer the prison chief’s call. But he reached the last number on the list without calling hers. Her stomach soured as she watched a contingent of guards escort the fifty or so fortunate prisoners from the yard.

Once the yard gate had shut again. Chief Coomb’s adjutant handed him another paper. “Now, King Talin of Dosalyn has decided to offer those of you with reports of good conduct and no criminal past the opportunity to swear fealty to the Dosalyn crown. You will be released and transported back to either Roanaan or Dosalyn – you may choose either – and be given a small subsidy to start your new life. If you wish to accept this offer, step forward when I read your number.” He sounded off another list of prisoners. Again, Ottilde listened tensely for her number, though she knew how unlikely it was she would hear it.

Coomb must have called a hundred numbers or more, but Ottilde estimated only forty prisoners stepped forward. They averted their eyes from those who remained in the formations. Another handful of guards led this group from the yard.

“As for the rest of you,” Coomb said, “you are to be moved to a civilian prison facility where you will no longer be my concern.” He folded his arms behind his back. “Remember, as long as you remain in this camp, or in the custody of my staff, you will obey Laklas regulations. Everyone will appear for morning roll every day. You all know what will happen should even one of your numbers go missing.”

Ottilde did not watch as he departed. She no longer felt the cold autumn wind or the bump of her fellow inmates pushing past on their way to breakfast. She did not know how long she stood in the yard, clutching her heartstone and trying to breathe over the painful lump in her throat. But at last she wended her way into the moist reek of the dining house where she took a wooden tray and allowed the cooks to slop food onto it. Still in a slight daze, she claimed a seat in the back corner, well away from the other prisoners, though she felt their eyes on her face and back. Their stares pricked her, chafing her already raw nerves.

Ottilde caught the shadow of movement to either side of her. She sighed as her short-lived solitude came to end and glanced up. Hetch Bilo, her former cavalry squad’s lieutenant, and his two companions, Tanna and Hyrman lurked over her. She watched them sit; Bilo opposite, the other two flanking her.

The lieutenant reached across the table and stabbed a thick finger into her soupy porridge before bringing it to his mouth. “Looks like your high-born family wants nothing to do with you either, eh King Killer? Otherwise, they would’ve put in some pull with our military.” Ottilde schooled her face into a blank mask, refusing to react to the epithet.

Tanna leaned close and touched the prisoner number running down Ottilde’s neck. Ottilde resisted the urge to jerk back. “And as long as yer body shows up at roll call, I don’t think anyone’ll mind if ya ain’t movin’ or breathin’. What do ya think?”

Ottilde examined the disgusting food on her tray. She curled her hands into tight fists on the table’s planked top. Her eyes fixed on the ugly crosshatch of scars decorating her arms, angry reminders of the suffering she had endured since coming to Laklas. They throbbed with memories of the searing pain from the hot stove. Her lungs burned recalling the many times another prisoner held her head under water in the bathhouse. The smack of wooden boards from prisoner’s bunks against her back and head rang in her ears. She had kept still and taken their vicious punishments to stay inconspicuous and secure her release. Coomb had killed that prospect this morning. Snatched away the solace of home and her sister. The time for silent acceptance was at an end. Her heart picked up its pace. Ottilde met Tanna’s sneering stare. “I think you need to keep your filthy hands to yourself.”

Tanna’s sneer twisted into a snarl and she raised her fist to attack, but Ottilde struck first. She rammed her elbow into the other woman’s face, smiling at the satisfying crunch of bone followed by a spray of blood. On her other side, Hyrman let out a shout of surprise but Ottilde had already risen and swung a leg over the bench to steady her body before delivering a sharp punch to his jaw. He flailed back and tumbled from the bench. The next instant Bilo leapt over the table, sending her tray, with its messy contents, smashing to the ground. He clipped her on the cheek with his meaty fist. She spun and slammed into the wall but recovered enough to swipe her spoon from the ground and ram it with neat precision into Bilo’s eye socket as he came at her again.

Her opponent let out a blood-chilling scream and fell back against the bench clutching the gory spoon. Tanna and Hyrman had recovered enough to make another try for her, but by then the guards, alerted to the uproar, had rushed into the fray with batons swinging. Ottilde ducked one swipe but caught another in the ribs. She sucked in an agonized breath and crouched against the wall. Tanna and Hyrman tried to lunge at her, which earned them each several knocks about the head. When they were subdued enough, the guards dragged them from the dining house along with their still wailing comrade. The three remaining guards eyed her uneasily. Beyond them, the rest of the prisoners watched her too. This time, it was not hatred that radiated from their wide eyes, but fear.

One of the guards cleared his throat and reached forward to grab her arm in tight fingers. “Seems you want another trip to the black house, 296.”

Pride kept her quiet as the guard hauled her through the dining house and across the yard. But when she saw the four foot tall, two foot wide wooden stall standing at the center of the camp she snapped out of her mental paralysis enough to pull against the guard’s grip. “Please,” she whispered. But the guard shoved her inside and slammed the door shut.

As she listened to the guards depart, Ottilde braced her forehead against the wall coated in ash and pitch, fighting the angry, frightened sobs rising in her throat. Crying would only worsen the fire in her ribs and increase the sensation of suffocation the black house elicited. But the fear of enclosed places she had developed since coming to Laklas held sway. She panted and pounded her hands against the walls, trying to hold them back in their imagined march towards her. There was no telling how long they would leave her in the box and the absence of windows made it impossible to tell the time of day. “Please, let me out!” she cried, all pride and bravado replaced by desperation. She screamed and begged until she ran out of breath and voice. Her hands stung, now slicked with both sweat and blood.

One of her shaking hands swept through the heavy air and brushed the heartstone. She grabbed at it and squeezed. Oriabel. The warmth and sense of company in the darkness calmed her breathing and helped drain away the fear drained. Exhausted, she leaned against one wall. The confined space forced her to stand hunch-backed with her head brushing against the ceiling.

As the hours wore on, she dozed in and out of a fatigued sleep. Occasionally, she heard the ping of stones against the outside of the black house. Another petty revenge from her fellow prisoners.

At last, the door was pulled open and Ottilde stumbled into icy early morning darkness. Her cramped legs gave out and she fell to the ground, clutching her side and trembling. One of the guards standing above her said, “Get her to the infirmary. Looks like she sustained some damage in the fight yesterday.”

“Not as much as she handed out.” The other guard helped her stand and then supported her to the camp’s infirmary. Inside, oil lamps bathed the wood-paneled walls in a warm glow. Two rows of beds formed the general infirmary ward while private rooms for more serious injuries stood behind closed doors at the back. Through the slits of her eyes, Ottilde saw Doctor Hazelspur, Laklas’ chief medical officer, bustle towards them, bushy white eyebrows raised.

He inspected her grimly as he helped the guard ease her onto a bed. “She might have hypothermia, you realize.”

The guard shrugged. “Wasn’t my idea to put her in there this long.”

Ottilde listened to footsteps coming and going, felt blankets pile on top of her. The doctor urged her to swallow a mouthful of wine, warming her from the inside out. After a while the shaking lessened, and feeling flooded into her limbs. The doctor returned and ran impersonal hands over her swollen face then down her arms and sides. She hissed when he reached her ribs and tried to pull away.

“There, there. Be calm.” He pushed the blankets part way off her body and ran gentler hands under her shirt and coat. “Bruised rib,” he muttered to the orderly standing behind him. “Wrap her up and dose her with some poppy tea. Not too much, though. She has formation in a few hours.” The orderly nodded and went off for supplies. Doctor Hazelspur leaned over the bed and smiled. The overpowering sweet smell of his shaving lotion made her nose sting. “We haven’t had the pleasure of your company for at least two weeks, Ottilde.”

She watched him through bleary eyes. He was the only person in the camp who used her first name. Not Dominax or 296, but Ottilde. “I didn’t want to wear out my welcome, Dr. Hazelspur,” she croaked.

He chuckled and patted her shoulder, his kindly hazel eyes dancing. “Your cheek is a lovely blackish-purple but nothing permanently damaged. I can’t say the same for the man you sent here yesterday. He lost his left eye and almost died.”

Ottilde closed her eyes, longing for sleep now she was calm and warm. “He stuck his finger in my porridge. What would you have done?”

“Well, if I had learned my imprisonment was extended for an indefinite period of time, I think I would have tried to see the long range effects of my actions.”

She did not open her eyes. “But there is no ‘long range’ anymore. Not for me.”

Ottilde felt the tickle of the doctor’s whiskers as he leaned closer to her ear. “An interesting fact about wars, Ottilde: their aftermaths are full of cracks through which people can… slip.”

Now she did open her eyes, blinking them to focus on the doctor’s face. His white whiskers trembled above his lips. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but the doctor stepped away as the orderly rejoined them. “Stay until the wake up bell and rest. As long as you avoid any more tussles, you should heal fine.” He left, Ottilde staring after him, her brows creased with tired puzzlement.

On Accepting Incompleteness in Marriage

Today I finished watching the third season of Netflix’s House of Cards. If you are not yet a fan of this show, I encourage you to check it out. Not only is it a finely wrought political drama, but it is a fantastic collection of character studies. Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright, in particular, have created masterpieces out of their characters Frank and Claire Underwood. As I watched the last episode of season 3 (I won’t give spoilers, I swear), I found myself thinking a lot about marriage – mine in particular and the concept in general.

It occurred to me how much we enter this yoked state expecting to be completed by another person. Often we do this subconsciously. After a few years go by, we look at ourselves and realize we are unhappy. Desperately so. The most obvious (or convenient) culprit for our unhappiness is, of course, our spouse. But, unless we are married to someone who abuses us, cheats on us chronically, or in some other way mistreats us, the blame for our misery most likely does not belong to our spouse. It belongs to us and a mindset we have been taught to internalize until it takes over our romantic relationships, destroying them. The belief that we are a) incomplete without a romantic partner and b) our romantic partner is EVERYTHING to us is a toxic combination that not all corrodes our own sense of worth, but our ability to maintain a stable connection with another person.

Before I go further, let me pause and say I am not talking about or advocating polyamory, swingers, open relationships, or extra-marital affairs. Those are issues that each need and deserve their own conversations and I am not an expert in any of them. And, while some couples truly believe those activities are essential to their own marital health and happiness I am conflicted in my own mind about whether they actually contribute to married life.

What I am focused on are the aspects of our personality that demand expression in order to keep us balanced and whole. For instance, I’m a writer. Mr. A has never read any of my work. We don’t really talk about my work in any specific way. I still struggle with this and wish he were more of a partner in my writing life. But, that is MY failing. I am expecting him to provide something for me he is simply not capable of. Does that make him a bad husband? No, absolutely not. What this means is I need to make myself complete as a writer through relationships WITH OTHER WRITERS. I need to find others outside my relationship with Mr. A who share my passion. Conversely, Mr. A is really into sports and cars. I have absolutely no interest in either. Does that make me a bad wife and partner? No. And Mr. A has never expected me to share those interests. It doesn’t hurt him or make him think badly of me or the bond we have. He’s much more evolved in that capacity than I am :) And so, he expresses those passions through his job at a dealership and by watching sports in his down time.

As a more basic example, let’s look at the obvious. Mr. A is a man. He has a penis and testicles and all the hormonal/biological baggage that comes with. He cannot give me the same companionship and  understanding that a woman friend can. It’s impossible. I’m not one to see things in black and white. I don’t like to make generalizations or hardline my views. But, I see a disturbing trend in today’s world where the differences between men and women are seen as bad and worthy of annihilation. Why? What is so wrong with naturally occurring gender-based tendencies? And don’t tell me there is no such thing because I have two sons in whom I have never encouraged a preference for girl or boy toys/activities yet my youngest was irresistibly drawn towards cars, trucks, trains (anything with wheels and some sort of engine), which is a “traditionally” boy thing. I DO NOT subscribe to the idea that boys should only play with/be interested in certain things and girls in others. Neither do I subscribe to the idea that you need to make your daughter play with trucks and your son with dolls so they are not “brainwashed” by artificial gender notions. I say, watch your kids and find out what they are interested in. Expose them to different activities and encourage those they take to. As spouses and romantic partners, we should also encourage our “other halves” to explore different healthy hobbies and passions. We should help them find opportunities for expression and allow them the independence and freedom to get immersed in those activities. Doesn’t mean we have to jump in the pool with them. I’m content with waiting on a lawn chair and making sure they don’t drown. Weird analogy, I know.

No spouse/romantic partner wants to hear the phrase “You are not enough.” It contains so much possible hurt and feeds into our secret insecurities that we are not good, not worthy. I certainly would be crushed if Mr. A ever said that to me. But why? Why should I take that statement as an insult? Why should I interpret “You are not enough” as “You’re bad” or “You’re worthless”? They are not the same.

To often, we believe a separation of passions and interests means we are incompatible to each other. If our spouse does not plunge 100% into what WE are into, we take that as they don’t love us. That they don’t support us or respect our pursuits. We expect our partners to be a partner in EVERYTHING. But that just isn’t possible. Think about how much energy it takes to live your daily life: go to work, take care of your children or pets (or both), look after your own health and well-being, take care of a home, spend quality, intimate time with your spouse. Now add into that mix a submersion in a hobby, pursuit, or passion you really don’t care about. Is it fair to ask anyone to be all things to us. To be spouse, co-parent, co-caretaker of a home, worker, and lover as well as an equal enthusiast in all the things we take an interest in? Be excited for your spouse/partner. Rejoice with their success and cry over their failures. But don’t feel bad or unworthy because you can’t drum up the energy to participate day to day.

It’s true, those superstars of life who have made a HUGE success of their passions seem to have the tireless support and help of their spouses (at least as far as the public can tell).  And I won’t dispute that a person can go much farther when they have a spouse/romantic partner dedicated to their dreams. But a healthy marriage/relationship does not require you to be totally focused on your spouse’s/partner’s aim, nor they on yours.

No one should come to marriage as an incomplete person. If you love someone, bring your complete self to the effort of loving them. Bring the whole person. If you feel you need a spouse or romantic partner to be complete, you have no business getting married or being in a relationship. Fill in yourself with work, friends, family, passion and hobbies, and amazing experiences. Then, you can approach a relationship as an equal partner, an independent force.

 

Startling Poetry: Cinderella

In honor of the new Cinderella movie that came out this weekend, I present to you:

Cinderella by Anne Sexton

You always read about it:

the plumber with the twelve children

who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.

From toilets to riches.

That story.

Or the nursemaid,

some luscious sweet from Denmark

who captures the oldest son’s heart.

from diapers to Dior.

That story.

Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,

eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,

the white truck like an ambulance

who goes into real estate

and makes a pile.

From homogenized to martinis at lunch.

Or the charwoman

who is on the bus when it cracks up

and collects enough from the insurance.

From mops to Bonwit Teller.

That story.

Once

the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed

and she said to her daughter Cinderella:

Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile

down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.

The man took another wife who had

two daughters, pretty enough

but with hearts like blackjacks.

Cinderella was their maid.

She slept on the sooty hearth each night

and walked around looking like Al Jolson.

Her father brought presents home from town,

jewels and gowns for the other women

but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.

She planted that twig on her mother’s grave

and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.

Whenever she wished for anything the dove

would drop it like an egg upon the ground.

The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.

Next came the ball, as you all know.

It was a marriage market.

The prince was looking for a wife.

All but Cinderella were preparing

and gussying up for the event.

Cinderella begged to go too.

Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils

into the cinders and said: Pick them

up in an hour and you shall go.

The white dove brought all his friends;

all the warm wings of the fatherland came,

and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.

No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,

you have no clothes and cannot dance.

That’s the way with stepmothers.

Cinderella went to the tree at the grave

and cried forth like a gospel singer:

Mama! Mama! My turtledove,

send me to the prince’s ball!

The bird dropped down a golden dress

and delicate little slippers.

Rather a large package for a simple bird.

So she went. Which is no surprise.

Her stepmother and sisters didn’t

recognize her without her cinder face

and the prince took her hand on the spot

and danced with no other the whole day.

As nightfall came she thought she’d better

get home. The prince walked her home

and she disappeared into the pigeon house

and although the prince took an axe and broke

it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.

These events repeated themselves for three days.

However on the third day the prince

covered the palace steps with cobbler’s wax

and Cinderella’s gold shoe stuck upon it.

Now he would find whom the shoe fit

and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.

He went to their house and the two sisters

were delighted because they had lovely feet.

The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on

but her big toe got in the way so she simply

sliced it off and put on the slipper.

The prince rode away with her until the white dove

told him to look at the blood pouring forth.

That is the way with amputations.

They just don’t heal up like a wish.

The other sister cut off her heel

but the blood told as blood will.

The prince was getting tired.

He began to feel like a shoe salesman.

But he gave it one last try.

This time Cinderella fit into the shoe

like a love letter into its envelope.

At the wedding ceremony

the two sisters came to curry favor

and the white dove pecked their eyes out.

Two hollow spots were left

like soup spoons.

Cinderella and the prince

lived, they say, happily ever after,

like two dolls in a museum case

never bothered by diapers or dust,

never arguing over the timing of an egg,

never telling the same story twice,

never getting a middle-aged spread,

their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.

Regular Bobbsey Twins.

That story.

“Fluffy” Divas and Living in the Extremes

I’ve really tried to bite my tongue about an issue that has been floating around the Internet lately because it can awaken such strong feelings (both positive and negative). Namely, pictures and videos of obese women being lauded as pioneers in the beauty industry. But today, I was browsing through my Facebook newsfeed and saw a video someone had posted. It was of a young woman of considerable size wearing nothing but a black thong and matching tank top. She leaned towards the camera and said, “I hope you guys enjoy this.” Then, she turned on some music and began sexy dancing. The tagline for this particular video was “This is for all the fluffy divas out there.” I was going to post the link to the video, but I really don’t want that associated with my blog because it originated on a site called BBWRoyalty, which appears to be a fetish site (think Mama from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and you will have a good idea of the physical type of women this site consists of).

Before I really get going on this post, I should state up front that I too am overweight, WAY overweight (like I have about a hundred pounds to shed in order to get down to a healthy weight). So, please don’t take what I am about to say as jealousy or body shaming.

Why do human beings feel the need to live in such extremes? I just don’t get it. How is being 300+ pounds any healthier or laudable than being 90lbs?

Now, there are women who are naturally very slender…. I get that, and think they are lovely as long as they are living at the ideal weight for their height, are happy in their skin, and enjoy good health. I do NOT believe being 300lbs or more is a natural condition of our biology for anyone – except a VERY VERY few men who are extremely tall and muscular. If it WERE natural, we would all have that kind of body just by eating healthy, balanced diets. Right?

Some of these obese women claim to be happy and healthy. I don’t buy it. And I don’t say that in any effort to take away their happiness or self-confidence. I say that because I KNOW how it is to be overweight. I know the strain on my bones; I know the difficulty of finding a comfortable position to sleep in; I know what it’s like to have to pay way more for my clothes because they are in “goddess sizes” or only found in special stores. I also know the more intimate details of carrying too much weight. I won’t go into those because they are private and, in some instances, involve a person other than myself. To be clear, just because I am unhappy with my body does not mean I have low self-esteem either; I do not believe it’s healthy to wrap up your entire self-esteem in your body (whether big or small). To my view, these women have bought into the same beauty cult as the unnaturally skinny women – the cult of extremes.

The point is, I don’t want morbidly obese women held up to me as role models any more than I want an anorexic/bulimic (like, literally) waif held up to me as the ideal of beauty. I don’t want to strive for a physical ideal that is harmful, whether the harm comes from making myself throw up and undergo unnecessary cosmetic surgery or settle into a weight that will open me up to the possibility of diabetes, heart disease, osteoporosis, back and muscle pain, sleep apnea, and aggravated arthritis (I already have it at 35). How are either of those ideals “beautiful” anyway when they mean a woman cannot perform and live at her best?

Don’t get me wrong, I love romances that feature Big Beautiful Women (BBW); I admire paintings and sculptures that feature lovely, luscious ladies; I’m totally on team Mindy Lahiri. But I am not ranting about women who are curvaceous in a HEALTHY way (see Ashley Graham, Amy Lemons, Barbara Brickner, Candice Huffine, Justine Legault, Carre Otis, and Chloe Marshall, among others).

And when I think of people breaking down barriers and inspiring others to be strong, I think of women like this:

                      

And to close, I will hurt anyone who calls me “fluffy.” Even if they are saying it to compliment me. Yuck!