Healing Words

The Lessons of the Falling Leaves...

The leaves believe such letting go is love

Such love is faith

Such faith is grace

Such grace is God

I agree with the Leaves

-Lucille Clifton

I love this poem. It is a poem about healing, for me it reminds me that letting go is an act of love rather than hurtful. Often when I sit down to write I am bogged down by the intensity of the work I do. I wish I were able to set aside my memories and experiences completely at moments. I love what I do and I do not have bad memories, but it is an intense line of work. So tonight after a hectic day at work, healing keeps coming to my heart.

Lucille Clifton's poetry often addresses the beauty and pain of real life. I decided to read a bit about her poetry concerning abortion. She has a unique story concerning abortion. In the poem "the lost baby" Clifton expresses a since of ambivalence and sadness about a terminated pregnancy and alludes to financial strains. I believe this poem is beautiful, not because all women *should* experience sadness after an abortion, but because some women do experience some kind of sadness just like some women experience relief and joy.

I have spoken to a few women in both my professional and personal life who experience regret in some form after an abortion. I believe that just like any difficult and life altering decision abortion can be intense and hard.I wish that rather than offering judgment we could find ways to help women heal. No one wants to face an unintended pregnancy, no one.

Lucille Clifton wrote another poem about abortion called "donor". I was unable to find the poem online but from what I have read she attempted to self abort unsuccessfully and 30 years later her daughter donated a kidney to her. This story would probably make an anti-abortion radical hyperventilate with excitement. Based on Clifton's experience I wonder what about her opinions on keeping abortion safe, legal, and accessible. I have no idea if Clifton is pro-choice, but for me what is revolutionary about this poetry is her willingness to make herself vulnerable by sharing her experience of abortion access and choice.

I dream of abortion provision that allows women to express their feelings without the expectation that they should feel any one way. Last week, a woman stated that she felt many of the women in the clinic were taking the procedure "too lightly." I explained to her that each person who walks in the clinic had different life experiences and circumstances and each person will respond to their choice differently. I further explained there is not one way someone should feel or act through their abortion appointments.

*It is hard to write about regret and sadness and abortion. I fear some crazy person on the internet will skew my words. This blog is a place to address all aspects of abortion both as providers and as women.

Guest post: Sons

A warm welcome-back to deliverance, who joins us again with a new guest post :)

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“wishes for sons” by Lucille Clifton

“i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
i wish them no 7-11.

i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.

later I wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn’t believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.

let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.”

Male privilege is something I encounter on a daily basis at my job. It often comes in the form of a phone call with a curious son on the other line—“If my girlfriend and I had sex on the 8th, but she also had sex with someone else on the 12th, how could it be *my* child?!” In this process of protecting himself, he is avoiding the responsibilities which come with being a sexually active adult.

Women don’t have the option of walking away. Our bodies are bound to such consequences.

In other instances, male privilege oozes from the walls of the waiting room. Impatient sons position themselves on our comfy couches in ways which look all too forced—they appear pouty, bothered, and cast rude stares. “What takes this long? I have things to do!” If only he could know how inconvenient it is to have something unwanted growing inside of you.

When I was in college, one of my Women’s Studies professors shared with me one of her hopes for third-wave feminists: “You need to involve boys and men. We need to make them aware of how gender roles influence their own lives, too.”

Lucille Clifton and my college professor both were communicating something similar: These are our sons. We need to be teaching them better.

Every once in awhile I am reminded. A son comes into a session, scoots his chair close to his partner’s, and listens intently. He does not interrupt her, talk over her, or insert his own opinion wherever he feels compelled to make his voice heard.

He does, however, sincerely ask—with open and interested eyes—“What can I do to take care of her?” This kind of son sometimes asks a myriad of medical questions, about the process her body has to go through. He holds her hand, the entire time.

There are sons who are concerned about the well-being of women. There are sons who honor women. I just wish there were more.