Cover photo: 'Mandala' taken by author
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Yogic Truth It’s hard to do breath meditations because I have sinus problems. It’s hard to do breath meditations because they tend to bore me. It’s hard to hold the poses a long time because they hurt my nerves and muscles. It’s hard to attempt the balance exercises because I have terrible balance. It’s hard to let go of my thoughts because my thoughts are untamable creatures in a jungle of cerebral overgrowth. In other words— yoga.
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Distraction Lying on my mat, I look at my teacher for guidance, but I’m distracted by the flaming orange stained glass flower mandala behind her. If my teacher is lucky, she’ll be distracted by raccoons dancing on the skylight above her. “Come back to your breath,” we’re told, when the mind presents us with thoughts, but stunning symbols of creative energy and transformation, and performances by masked dancers—tiny gifts of joy— are distractions I welcome with open cactus arms.
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Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
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Feeling the Burn
Nothing triggers my pain like yoga;
nothing relieves my pain like yoga.
It gets worse before it gets better,
unlike other things in my life
that get bad before they get worse.
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Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
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Cover image of 'Amy' high tops
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Waking Up
You were up all night singing, watching videos, playing drums. The neighbors complained; you went to sleep, and never woke up. I remember the next night: Already sad, I came home late, and saw the headline— Singer Found Dead, and I knew it was you. I slept poorly, and when I woke up, your earthy contralto had seeped from the edges of my dreams and filled all the space in my heart.
Cherry
Sometimes I wonder what happened to you— were you given to a friend, or do you sit on a shelf in her father’s house? Who would dare try to play you? Whose fingers could touch your strings and hear anything but the minor keys of mourning, the plangent chords of grief?
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Background Music
“Valerie” always plays in the grocery store, the shopping mall, the doctor’s office— and people continue shopping and waiting, as if nothing happened, as if you are only a soundtrack for the spaces between the mundane tasks of living.
Ten Years
A decade has past, and I imagine you as you might be today: Perhaps shocks of pink or silver would replace your beehive, maybe you would tour with Tony, maybe you would go to rehab. It’s a blurry image, dimly lit, but I see you— still fusing words and music like heaven’s cheeky magician, still devoted to the Shangri-Las, still able to rip the seams of the fragile fabric of my soul.
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Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
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Shattered Dream
I always thought that, someday, I would see you under a spotlight on a stage, and I would barely be able to contain my heartbeat, or control my tears. I would soak up your voice like a balm that would penetrate every membrane of my body and soul. But it wasn’t to be. You never woke up, and I am left with audio and video and photographs, and with feelings that you can no longer sing back to me. We are all left with recordings that will last forever, but what we want is you.
Inside the Shell
Oh, to have been in that church in Dingle, where you performed an acoustic set to such a small crowd, and the scallop shell of St. James enveloped you, as it envelops all of us. We all struggle to find our way to the center; you wrote our struggle, you made it a song, you sang it, you lived it.
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Diane Elayne Dees © 2021
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Cover collage by JanK
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Revival
Through my well-worn mask, I breathe a fog of anxiety that smothers me like a weighted blanket of despair, threatening to crush my last vestige of joy, but then, out of nowhere— perched on a wooden fence— I see a shimmering azure dragonfly, drenched with rain.
The New Physics
In these pandemic times, my house is now a gym, my house is now a library, a coffee shop, a first aid station, a yoga studio. My house is now my body, with boundaries expanding and contracting like a forgotten figment of Einstein’s imagination.
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Wartime
My mother carried buckets of sand to catch fire from bombs, spent hours each day inspecting soldiers’ hats, and forgot what it was like to buy more than one can of her favorite foods. To be required to simply wear a mask would have marked her as a woman of uncommon leisure.
Modern Medicine
My doctor dresses in a plastic costume, mask and helmet; she is at war, but will never see a promotion, a star, a Purple Heart, a parade. Post-war carnage— the rubble of ignorance and greed—can never be sanitized from the landscape.
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Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
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Makeover
This is the summer of colorless toenails, which followed the spring of raggedy hair. Deep red, luscious brown, rich coral, bright blue, pearly mocha—all replaced by a dull layer of isolation, a dark gray top coat of fear.
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Diane Elayne Dees © 2020
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Cover photo by author
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Protection
My tiny house is some distance from the beach, but I don’t mind. To rattle around in a sleeps-six rental cottage would be like ripping shells from the fragile organism we call loneliness, and throwing them against echoing seawalls of sorrow. I want to feel enclosed, like a hermit crab, able to see but not be seen, and to walk slowly and silently through these beach days.
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Admonition
Do not squander your sorrows is painted in blue under the glass on the table where I take my seat at the little seaside cafe. I want to believe that it’s a message, but if it is, has the warning come too late? Have I merely collected my sorrows like so many seashells, so that I can put them all in a big glass bowl and admire them while—day after day—I taste the ocean salt of my tears?
Coastal Religion
I saw a giant angel carved from an old tree, casting its heavenly golden glow onto the sand. I saw a black Madonna in the middle of town, and I saw Love Is the Greatest painted on a big rock next to a birdbath filled with blue marbles. I saw crosses and Bible quotations on chains and bracelets in the little seaside shops. Then I saw the eyes of a Monarch butterfly who stopped by my tiny house on its way to Mexico to taste the nectar of a red hibiscus—and that was all I needed.
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Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
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Blue Illusion
Toxic blue-green algae ravages the Gulf, and I am afraid to set my feet in the water. The ocean, a deep cerulean, looks cool and inviting, not at all like a repository of illness and misery. I trudge through the sand, knowing that I, too, look fresh and serene, though a toxic grief flows through me, its waves lapping over my every thought. I keep a safe distance from the water and walk on, hopeful that the warmth of the sand and the rhythm of the surf can keep me a safe distance from myself, if only for a little while.
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Diane Elayne Dees © 2019
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