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There are too many parenting articles on the internet. It’s too easy to get sucked in, too, when so many have titles that scream “Do These 8 Things or Your Child Will Grow Up to Be Horrible”, or “You Are Doing Everything Wrong, Parent”.  I wonder how much, if anything, the folks writing these things make? Not that I’d want to do that, or have anything wise to say on the matter. My article would read “Parenting Tips: 1. Stop Reading This”.

I’m inspired today, but nature. Which is great, but also a bummer, because nature poems are so hard. But, I’ve been investigating what to do with the giant ant hills around our place, and came across this:

The ants are a problem for our garden and our house, so they must go. If I knew how to get my hands on some molten aluminum, I would make cast. Actually, I don’t know if I would have the heart. Part of the reason we haven’t dealt with the colonies already is that I admire their little colonies, all devoted to one mother. I wouldn’t want to bring them liquid fire death.

I’ve also been listening to some Brene Brown TEDtalks, which are very thought-provoking. I’ve watched them before, but it really helps me to hear her discussing vulnerability, and the difference between guilt and shame.  I’ve been trying a little spiritual housecleaning these days, and these subjects have been on my mind. It’s combo-poem tuesday: ant colonies+new agey shame poem. We’ll see.

Colony in Silver

This morning, standing between the mounds and watching the progress, I grew in a pause.

Look at this, they said. We’ve been busy. Digging the deepest cave for the mother, we’re down to the depths now, and we’ve unearthed this blame. It belongs to you.  The sticky black stones block our way. They are too heavy to move, even for an ant. Here is your unfinished, your given up, your wrong turn, rough patch, dark times, and doubt, yards and yards of it. Here is the weight of each failure, more and more of it the deeper we venture. If you could, wouldn’t you pour liquid silver down the maw of this colony of regret, raining in fire through the tunnels, down to the chamber, an excision in heat and smoke,

to let it cool and harden into a sculpture for the mantel?

 

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You see how I wrote a poem about shame and regret without actually naming them for real? Yeah, I’m not quite a vulnerability expert yet. It takes all I’ve got just to post these drafts. Eh. I’ll get there. Naptime is over and I’m done poeming. Happy Tuesday!

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