Life, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Self-care For the End of the World

  • 2 cups Epsom salt
  • 1/4 cup baking soda
  • 2 tablespoons dried lavender
  • 2 teaspoons olive oil
  • 5 drops peppermint oil

Stir to combine.

 

Fill a tub,

a bucket,

a sink,

a bowl,

a glass,

a thimble,

with water as warm as you can stand.

Pour in the salt

and stir.

Submerge your body

and soak

until your fingers prune

and the water clouds

with your doubt,

fears,

and anxiety.

 

Touch

every inch of the body

that was given to you by someone else

but is yours now.

 

(If you have a pumice stone,

now would be a good time

to slough off

those chips that have been weighing down your shoulders

and rid yourself

of all your

dead skin).

 

Pull the stopper from the tub

or sink.

Pour the water from the bucket,

bowl,

glass,

or thimble.

 

Say goodbye.

 

Rinse.

 

β€” Janine Serioux

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Life, Love, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

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More than anything, she wanted her life to be beautiful.

Helvetica light on her eulogy; curious fingers smudging the messily handwritten pages of her diary years after she was gone.

She wanted to grow beyond her cramped apartment, with its drafty windows and dingy incandescent lighting; the international thoughts that swirled in her provincial tan body.

She longed for the streets of Paris at night, some foggy British heath, a Japanese hillside covered in snow, Brazil in torrential rain.

She wanted to return to her birthplace and explore her native streets with alien eyes.

She wanted solitary cups of tea in sidewalk cafΓ©s, rowdy pub nights with overzealous strangers; a picnic for two.

She wanted to fall in love a thousand times, be host to a hundred intense passions, have affairs in a glance.

She ultimately wanted a someone with steady unflinching eyes and nerve, who would love her desperately, until she wept from the sheer maddening happiness. A someone who might one day become her Paris streets and Brazilian rains realized in sinew and bone and bed frame.

Though outwardly she scoffed whenever it was mentioned, she secretly wanted a daughter. A beautiful little stranger who would emerge from her, perfectly flawed with her nose or brown eyes,maybe; who she would rock to sleep as she whispered the lyrics to “Que Sera, Sera” or “She,” who she would read a thousand picture books to as she fell asleep or on overcast and rainy days.

Yet she wanted to be alone.

So expansively alone that her thoughts echoed; so alone, she would wrap herself in the deafening cacophony of her identity.

That she might dwell in this chrysalis undisturbed, and emerge finally, steeped in herself

never again to question who, or why, or what she was.

Forever certain that her existence was self-evident. That she was created to learn and teach, and love and die and live.

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