Poetry at Midlife

On new containers and the great re-wilding

Last week I wrote about my lifelong tendency to deliver a “meadow report,” and “empty the basket” and other quotation-mark-worthy analogies. It’s a shock to exactly nobody that as a 45-year-old newly/almost divorced woman who just finished the draft of a memoir, got an ADHD diagnosis, and is reimagining her career, I would be feeling a little reflective right now. (Insert a variety of self-deprecating emojis.)

Yes, it’s true: I’m gazing at my navel so hard these days that I basically gave my belly a laser scar. Some eras of our lives just beg for deep thoughts, creative exploration, and analysis. That’s where I’m at. It’s midlife, and it’s wild, you guys. So as I’ve been untangling old ways of doing things and examining the old patterns I’m desperately trying to break, I’m trying to give myself permission to think outside of the box, or basket, if you will (oh, I hope you will).

So when I alluded last week to burning the basket and basically trying something different, I realized that in the past year or so, I’ve written a lot of weird, semi-angsty poetry. I wrote a shitload of really bad poetry in college, and let’s be honest, midlife (particularly midlife amidst intense life disruptions) is essentially a second adolescence, isn’t it?

Second adolescence or not, it’s is a beautiful time for women to bust out of their creative containers, ignore restrictions, and reinvent themselves through their beautiful words. So today I’m going to boldly share some of this weird poetry with you as I unapologetically (lies, all lies, semi-unapologetically is the best I can do. How evolved do you think I am?) explore a new container, dumping out the tired old basket full of shoulds and “look what I dids” and “watch me do this!” This brings to mind Portia Nelson’s Autobiography in Five Short Chapters in which the author ultimately abandons the street that has routinely disappointed her and chooses a new path.

So here’s my haiku along the same lines, and a little photo collage for illustration.

My life in three parts:
(Does everybody do this?)
Wild, unwild, rewild

After I wrote that last summer, I wrote this accompanying poem, betraying my vulnerability at entering this new era and trying to shed the old shit that doesn’t fit me anymore:

Un-wilding Myself.

Does my swearing bother you?
How do you feel about tattoos? I can’t erase mine,
But I could wear long sleeves, or not get any new ones.
Sorry I didn’t put any makeup on today.
Am I talking too much?
Laughing too hard?
Singing too loud?

Can I have a drink even if you don’t?
Are you cool with the fact that I take anxiety meds?
Do you judge people who take edibles?
Would you rather I not talk about my beliefs?
How do you feel about my hair color?
Do you want me to tell you how much money I made this week,
How much work I got done,
How clean my house is?

Should I tell you all the appointments I made for my kids,
And drove them to,
What healthy meal I made for dinner?
Or maybe I’ll tell you that I fried salami for one
And made frozen chicken nuggets for another
While I ate a plate of leftover roasted vegetables
Standing up in the kitchen alone.

I didn’t wash my hair today, or shave my legs
And I actually don’t plan to.
Walk into my messy house and wait for me to apologize.
I won’t.
My daughters swear, too.
I won’t make them be good, either.

Dancing in the Rain: The Beautiful Re-wilding

And then today, I had the delightful opportunity to take a live freewriting workshop with the incredible Robin Finn of Heart, Soul, Pen. She gave beautiful prompts that particularly speak to women at midlife, and I’m going to share some of my responses. They are raw and unedited, and damned if I don’t think that’s one of the freedom paths for women at this stage of life. Write, stop editing, create, ignore restrictions, share.

I’m not going to share the prompts themselves, just my responses in their jumbled form.

***

I am flowing into new chapters. I try not to chart it or map it or plan it. I stop swimming against tides and currents and turn onto my back and drop into the flow. I can flow. I can stop pushing and forcing and bending. I have learned that the time for this has ended. Things are shifting, and I allow it. It is exhilarating, this new stage, the one where I accept and allow and float and receive. It is the time where I tune into the voice of my deepest, highest self and claim my power. No, not claim, reclaim.

Or maybe better yet, remember. That power was always there, a tiny seed planted upon my birth, and it grew, has been growing, whether or not I’ve watered it. Even during the years when I didn’t let it see the light of day, still it grew. So I do not in fact need to claim it, I just need to open the window and see it—there it is, there it has always been. It is inside me, sustaining me, as I flow into this next chapter where pretending has stopped. 

We live with an undercurrent of disappointment as we approach midlife. We can feel it, pulsing beneath the surface, sometimes whispering in our ear, “You know this isn’t working, right?” and the rule-following parts of us push back, allowing a tentative acknowledgment, “Yes, yes, of course I know that, but please be quiet. It’s time to return to our regularly scheduled programming.” 

We approach perimenopause and the voice grows louder. You know, you don’t have to live with this, like this. There is a better way. All you need to do is remember the seed of your power. 

***

It felt like death. It was as though I were convalescing from a serious illness. I was paralyzed with lethargy; in a box/bed. I couldn’t shake off the heaviness, the heat of general malaise. It felt sickening. The room was closing in. And then I opened my eyes and saw there was a window. It was right there. Outside was right there, closer than I thought.

I sit up suddenly, realize I am not stuck here. I am awakening. I push my feet into shoes, pull my hair up, take a deep breath. I walk to the window to gaze out at freedom and beauty and peace; it’s right there. I stare out the window; then I find a door. Now I am outside, too. The box with the bed is far away, and my legs are moving and my lungs are breathing. I was trapped and sluggish; now I am free.

The door opened and I walked through it. As I walked, I realized I had made the door. I drew it, I wrote it, I built it, I dreamed it. It was my door. It was the door I created to free myself.

I knew I could make more doors, anytime I wanted. I am the doormaker; the architect of escape routes and the builder of dreams.

The truth is, I never needed a door. These constructs were imaginary. Everything was always wide open to me, but I put myself in the small room because it felt safe and I knew it. It was familiar and I am a rule-follower and someone told me the room was built for me, or I was built for the room. Both are lies.

***

Robin made an observation that really struck me—the unconscious shift to second person women sometimes make. It depersonalizes, makes things feel safer, but diminishes the power, also. I’m leaving my own unmodified second person shift above. 😉

In case you aren’t midlife poetry-d out, you can pop over to Midstory Magazine today where I share a poem I wrote about midlife about a year-and-a-half ago. It’s partially about breasts, and not in a very sexy way. If that doesn’t entice you, I don’t know what will. 😂 Check it out here.

Now go write your own semi-weird, semi-crappy poetry, and share it in an only semi-apologetic way.

XOXO,
Steph