Innocence

Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

I'm feeling a bit Plathish today if that makes sense. I do adore Ms. Plath, Sylvia that is. Her deep, introspective thoughts and questions never cease to amaze me and to think she was this way from childhood really makes me admire her more. I often think it's no wonder she wasn't long for this world. Her heaviness, her feelings of isolation, her struggle to understand her surroundings and make sense of the chaos inside and outside of her head was too much. I often feel at times I can relate to her feelings of "otherness" her feelings of either being misunderstood or not understood at all.

Everytime I read this poem, something different speaks to me. This morning it is the verse,
"Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well."
Not to worry, I'm not relating to the literal physical dying but the dying of something inside such as loss; the loss of a dream, the loss of desire, the loss of hope, the loss of an idea, the loss of a sense of who I am, the loss of innocence and the list goes on.

I do seem to have a gift for the melancholy, a gift is a term I use loosely as others would view this as a curse. I choose to view this as a gift because it is so much a part of how I see the world that to not claim it and somehow make use of it would be unnatural for me. I do love life and do want to live it to the fullest so this melancholy, this introspective way of thinking, of seeing, of smelling, of tasting, of touching the world, is with me everywhere I go. My son told me one day, "Mom, I had this dream of you going away. You were sad and you were walking around touching things that meant something to you as if to say goodbye. I didn't know where you were going, only that you weren't coming back."

His dream does capture a bit of how I am, a bit of how I walk this earth. I do often walk through the rooms of my apartment looking at the things I've collected and carried with me through the years. Not much outside of books but a lot of inspirational quotes, pictures, art, a small shrine in my room....Lately I've returned again and again to a picture of myself at the age of one or two, sitting in a highchair, chubby legs and cheeks, anticipating all that life has to offer and most likely a chicken leg to chew on that given day. But the point is that I look at her, me, and wonder if I've given her the life she deserved. Have I let her down? Did I sell out? Did I settle? Where have I quit when I should have kept going? Is she disappointed in me?

I say I have no regrets, I like to believe that. I keep seeing a quote lately that speaks to me "Never have regrets because what you did was exactly what you wanted to do" or something along those lines. It is true although it doesn't take away the fear that I might have done things differently had I put this little girl's needs and wants first at times. If I had allowed her to come out and play more often, to not take care of everyone else's needs before I let her discover her own. My mom said I was always a serious child so it's no wonder I'm a serious adult. I do know how to have fun and lately this little girl in the picture has been calling to me from my dresser, from her high chair. She's telling me that it's not too late to choose "living fully" and learn to do it exceptionally well.

May you get in touch with your little girl or boy inside and ask her or him what it is that has been neglected in your spirit. May you discover what you can do today, tomorrow and for the rest of your life to bring out that child inside, to rediscover innocence and playfullness and life in every corner of your world.