Boca Cerrada: The Joy In Waiting

October 19th. Monday. Late.

Ya te dije que no.  And I'm tired of repeating myself.

The answer is the same today as it was yesterday and last week and last month. Before you ask, I want to blurt out "no" when I see you because I know what you will ask.

No. I am not pregnant yet and each time you ask and offer a wealth of advice, it reminds me that I am failing my husband and my family.

"Oh, but you already have two kids," is the most hurtful phrase to surface from a mouth.  It wouldn't matter if I had one or four, the feeling remains the same.  My husband and I would like a child and I cannot carry one at this time.  There is much to learn in that.  To find joy in the midst of waiting is a quiet peace.

Therefore, I will allow my life to be the birth and rebirth of something extraordinary.  I will allow our new garden to surround me with abundant life as I watch our pinto beans and watermelon vines crawl up our front window.

I sit in quietude, a lesson in humility.  Where I take for granted that I am a woman capable of creating life inside me in the form of a child, I must notice that I create life in my home when I choose to love what I have been gifted.  I am surrounded with life to remind me that it comes in all forms.  God makes sure of that.

Tonight, with my boca cerrada, I sit on my porch, my legs crossed, my back against the writing dock (porch swing) and my eyes averted toward the heavens.  I see the moon staring back at me; it always shows up.  My perspective might be skewed by the clouds, but each and every night the moon shows up.  I take a deep breath and wait.

What are you waiting for and how do you find joy in the waiting con la boca cerrada?

Onlookers at moon observation night.  McAllister Park.
Carolina Hinojosa-Cisneros, 2015

Writers Group: Children Always Welcome

This weekend we met up with some of the writers from our group to have an isolated block of writing time.  Some of us cannot write at home or need a change of scenery every so often.  My son came along with us and had a great time playing X Box with my friend's son. It was a very productive night; one writer submitted to a publication, another submitted music to a publication, another queried a publication and I wrote a few words toward another story.

I love our time together and am most grateful because it includes my family.  We all come to group together because that's who we are:  parents who are writers.  Those in the group who are not parents or whose children are grown also understand and are welcoming.  Our writers group is a part of my life like a limb on my body.

Blessed be the writers.

Reaction: The Pearl That Broke Its Shell

"I was a little girl and then I wasn't. I was a bacha posh and then I wasn't. I was a daughter and then I wasn't. I was a mother and then I wasn't."

There were moments in the course of reading this book that had me paralyzed.  This was more often a sobering read than it was a tragic one.  I followed Rahim(a) with an attentive eye, finding connections with her bacha posh life and mine as a young tomboy.  When she was changed back into a girl, it was with a heavy heart that I read the lines and understood that it was only because she and her sisters were to be married off in exchange for money to further fuel her father's opium addiction which soon became their mother's.  

I cannot imagine putting a price on the body of my young daughter - Ages 12, 13, and 14 Rahima and her sisters were married off into the life of a warlord family to bear children, to lose life, to lose the blindness of a sheltered life, to taste the richness of an open window at the seat of parliament.  Often, I would close the book and exhale loudly.   I would press my hands onto the pages wanting one of them to reach out and not have to endure the life of a young Afghan girl in war torn Afghanistan by the Taliban.

Following Shekiba through her early 20th century life, the great great grandmother of Rahim(a), I admired her skill, her endurance and her hope.  She often reminded me of my grandmother in her incessant will to survive and her faith in God.  Also, a bacha posh for a time, Shekiba knew the importance of her life in guarding the king's harem.  

Through a mighty tragic event she was spared a stoning, but the concubine she was to be protecting did not.  Hashimi describes in artful detail the stoning of this young woman and with each stone that belted the life out of her, I almost could not read on.  Stoning was (and is) true for so many woman that stood outside of the box of rules ordered of them.  Shekiba could be described as a mighty warrior woman who found her place, at last, among the backdrop of an impossible journey.  

Although, this was a work of fiction, it still brought me to my knees to read of these women.  I admired their hope and their courage.  I recommend this book.  Don't give up.

My Body The Earth

The canyons on my stomach 
remind me that there was 
once life inside of me.

Reservoir

We grew up on the other side of affection

where the grass was green and the trees

were comrades in arms protecting the lot

but the water was scarce and the light was

shadowed by the thick arms of protection

I love you was like the after taste

in your mouth after you ate a sour dulce

hugs and warm embraces were like scrubbing

clotting toilets - hurry up and get it over with

ya andale after snapping the roof of

grandmother’s mouth and the tip of her tongue

so violently that the lights flickered, a florescent

bulb near the verge of shattering  

Pero quién crees que eres

but who do you think you are

her hands on her hips looking like a water jug

ready to overflow with water

the water does not come

from abuelita’s cool stance the water does not

come forth from her reservoir of a body

giver of life and protection where is the water

thirsty like the half marathon sprinters

running for childless mothers and fathers

get me to the finish line where adoption

is afforded and homeless children go home

make a pact to grow them up on this side of

affection where the grass is green and the trees

are comrades in arms protecting the lot and

the water is plentiful because our reservoir

of a body tips over and pours into thirsty

mouths of our blood or of another 

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Motherhood

It is every color I have yet to see

Quantified echoes of beauty

It is deep pain in hard places

Conversations sewn together

When no one is ready to talk about it

It is every tear shed at 6 p.m. on Sunday

Not ready to go home

It is every countdown to summer

Stay with me here

It is a laughter that leaves us breathless

A happiness emitted from within

Hands cupped over my chest

Please don't escape from me

It is every broken piece of life

Held together with prayer

Bombarded with kisses and

Never let me go

Hugs

It is the richest blessing

I have ever received 

This poem was inspired by a question that was posed at bible study about what Motherhood meant to us as we learned about Mary and her great sacrifice.

Tumors Tremors Trains

It’s held up to me – a contusion of words

a laceration of ego

a clod of tissue

a before mentioned thought

an indecency

a murk of blazoned heart tubes  

a woman – spineless figure

a pearl on edge of string

a crate on plastic pendants

a nervous tick, tickets galore

a fantastic field of fury

a small girl – hide and seek

a tumor, brain button puke

an extraction on live TV set

a pretend it didn’t happen

a prayer to end the day

Day 11 for the 30 Day Challenge for National Poetry Month is to write a list poem.