These two poems by Tina Lear explore the possibility of loving the unlovable, embracing it, holding it dear. Turning our predictable reactions upside down can often open the eyes, and give the heart a rest from its lifetime of defense…
by Tina Lear
Old Age, True Myth.
I can do what we all do.
Complain about varicose veins
and the dingle dangle of the skin under my upper arms that
my grandson loves to fiddle with.
I can spend shocking amounts of
money on anti-aging creams.
Or, I can understand. I can stand
under the trees and see the spots
on my hands and my face as shadows
made by the sun and the leaves.
I can see the spots on my hands and my face,
and on my legs, as cities on the map of my skin.
Cities of Whimsy, Regret, Compassion, and Don’t Know.
My skin is a map of the world of me, covered with cities
now, populated by the life I’ve lived. They’re not age spots.
They’re stamps on my passport. The places I’ve been.
My skin is thin because we learn to travel light when we’re old.
My eyesight donated its clarity to my insight.
My soft belly is the secret haven for my othered self,
the self I was ashamed of, that I ignored or banished.
The self that lies down now, sweet in that soft belly,
and is safe from harm, and is loved, and is quiet.
I lost my glasses. Couldn’t find them anywhere.
They showed up in the deli drawer of our fridge.
Is there a loving way to hold the loss of memory?
Maybe.
Maybe.
Without memory, there is only the same moment that
was there, even with memory—this moment,
fridge light bluing my face, the cold plastic
of the drawer in my left hand, and a sudden bark
of laughter because…oh my God, you gotta see this!
The glasses are there, open, between the prosciutto
and the vegan cream cheese, reading my life from the inside.
Today, Love.
Not the laid-back, everything-is-beautiful,
I’m-going-to-sleep-now
kind.
But love. Unconditional, wide-ranging,
absolute, tangible, no bullshit, excluding no one,
not even my next-door neighbor
who never lets their dog out.
Everyone is within reach of this radiance.
Everyone.
Even the old woman screaming
at her barefoot grandchild outside of Target,
yanking him to her beat up Honda by his little arm.
Unconditional love for how hard she tried
and how badly she failed at getting
where she thought she was going.
How completely fucked and without
resources she feels right now.
Real love for her.
Today, love —
Leave-it-all-on-the-field love.
Unreasonable, extravagant, all in, all out love —
is the practice.
Love even for me in my shut down,
sour-faced, negative state,
even for me.
The world is devolving into
an obscene circus of catastrophes
where anguish is entertainment
and caustic contempt masquerades as courage.
Or comedy.
And in the middle of this circus,
love, the bloody, beating heart of love,
naive, stubborn and without end,
pumps its crazy tenderness into the world
regardless of the odds
and we are probably all still here
because of it.
So today, love—the biggest love I know—
is the practice.
Tina Lear has written since she could hold a pencil. Four musicals (one of them published by Dramatic Publishing 2005), countless poems, articles published in the Buddhist review Tricycle Magazine, and in the past few years, a fantasy novel and a collection of poetry. She’s taught yoga at Rikers Island, dined with Queen Elizabeth, performed for thousands at Folklife in Seattle, and driven cattle in Wyoming. For more info, www.tinalear.com.
