Marta Luzim’s Writing the Wave: Small Beats of my Heart – I am Alive

Snowdrops
The flower voice.
Despair, winter is.
Earth depressing me.
Damp earth, body able to respond
How to open
Cold light of early spring.
Raw wind of the new world.

I did not expect to survive
I didn’t expect to waken again
Remembering after so long how to open again.

The body of demons sat on my chest. They ripped my heart out and blood spat across the sky, my blood, my soul…they laughed these demons, depressed my body down into the cold mud earth. Their spiraling eyes drilled through my heart and twinkled in a despair that they delighted in — they were on a suicide mission and wanted to take me with them into limbo hell land.

I screamed from underneath the piles of mud, twigs and tar. I pushed my feet against the solid cursed grounds. I screamed at the fat, torrid sweat of the demons and said, “You won’t defeat me. No matter what. You won’t.”

They thought they left me for dead. I wasn’t breathing. My pulse stopped. I froze in my own terror…and yet behind, and under, and beyond, a slight pulse beat against a tiny vein that had turned purple; plumped up my inner ear, my third eye and my fangs of survival bit into the fruit of knowing. The beat kept a slow pace, a slow rhythm that sang to me, that awakened me to resuscitate my own being. I wiggled around in the close, suffocating, confined death of me. One could barely see that I was fighting, battling for a new life, a new body, a new spirit. No one knew. No one heard the fury of my driving, furious, fierce scream of guts and stink. No one heard me cry out for light. Even cold light would satisfy me until I could find the heat again, the passion again, the God of my loins again.

The new opening was a spot, a speck of, a small prism of shadows, of old warriors bent over in grief. But I followed their footsteps, out of my grave and bathed in their journey. I knew they would show me the way. Soon, I entered into a field of battered crimson hearts and wilted butterfly wings exhausted from the winds of time that blew across the field all the ancestors who had died before them. The whistling song of resurrection came from my lungs, my belly and I awakened, I rose up and said, “Yes! I want to live.”

Marta Luzim’s Writing the Wave: Still I Rise

Stone, rocks and ant hills, I step over and around, climbing, sweating, eating the rawness of the cold air. It is colder than the tundra in my soul, the claws of criticism of my walk on this earth, takes courage and valor which justifies my experience, my journey to surge up against the tsunami of rejection. She feels this blood ache in her heart, this tearing of her guts, and the lying words that she feels intuitively in her body. She’s been told she is cruel, crazy and obscure. That she has to wear tight dresses and spike heels and pretend they don’t hurt and cut off her breath, her lungs, from staying alive. She scrapes off the scabs of all the wounds and allows them to pulsate while the air heals. She is an outcast in a world that wants her to close her legs as she births herself into the world. A pregnant virgin who only wants her own voice to be heard. She is woman, Woman, female, the one who can’t fit her body into a square peg, or tie the rope around her neck so her black nightmare scream can’t be heard. She is playing a song that nobody hears except in their sleep. The ocean’s foam touches the tips of her toes in her sleep, and dead fish covered in tar wash up to the beach. She picks up this being of the sea world and kisses it, cries for it, and then says the Kadish prayer. Lifting its tiny soul into heaven. What am I talking about as I write this? I don’t really know. That is the thing. That I don’t know…it all comes through channels of light that lifts me higher and higher into domains of clouds that are covered with soot and grass. Why does everything have to make sense? Why do we have to find language so can understand the depth of our sorrow and joy? Why not our primal voices? Dance, or roll in mud, or chase a butterfly. Why do we have to know the answers? Why can’t we just stay on this journey without others telling us to turn here, or stay still or just be quiet. You make no sense. What does making sense have to do with living life? Life is a series of I don’t knows, and yes, maybe and then an epiphany. Don’t tell who to be or what to say or how to act. I will wear my outlaw dress down to my vagina and let the whole damn thing hang out, hang out, hang out and expose my deepest heartache and ecstasy to the world. And if one person applauds and says YES…then it is all worth it.

– By Marta J. Luzim, MS

Marta Luzim’s Writing the Wave: Beyond the Love She Seeks

I swear, the earth will surely be complete to him and her who shall be complete. Earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains jagged and broken. Inside I feel the edges of thorns that silently prick away at my soul. I am challenged to find a new light, a new avenue to see the God of delight in my every sight.

I gaze down at the earth and see cracks and pieces of leaves left over from weather change and erosion. How do you feel complete when around the corner is the unknown, the mystery of death. Yet, I die every day to something new in me. A new way of seeing my body, not something to pound away at to fit into my clothes, the way it feels, smells and sees. The skin on my hand, it’s veins stare at me, blue and pulsing, that is life in me. The way my husband sighs, the way the air smells of oranges, the way the woman holding a water bottle still seems dehydrated. What are we hiding from? We are mortal, but want to live forever as souls forever young and alive new born, children running and playing in the ocean.
Some can sit on a plane that is hitting horrendous turbulence and say, “I am in Jesus hands. I am in God’s hands.”

I cannot be in God’s hands with such surrender. So I cling to life in a way that strangles the life out of it. At times afraid to go forward in case I die. Because I think that if I let go, all the unfinished life yet to live is over. They ask, “Don’t you believe in an after-life?” I do, and then who cares? I am only first beginning to learn to love in this life. I have so much to learn about love. Love is so complex; fragmented, holy, fierce and wounded. My heart pumps throughout this life crying, yearning, drinking every last bit of its tigress pull of thunderous energy. Life is not placid for me. Although outside my window frames swaying palms, tiger lilies and buzzing sounds of the night. Inside my body, I walk a jungle, dark, roars of unfriendly terrain under my feet. Step by step, wondering if quick sand will suck me under. Each moment stressed with exciting terror that washes away all complacency and beliefs that I might for one second know or understand why I am here. I live life awakening in each moment, learning how to be here without reservation. As wise Indian teacher asked, “Why are we here?” He answered his own question, “To be alive.”

My outside does not reflect my insides unless I sit very still and never move out of the spot I sit in, smell the Febreeze in my sheets and the garlic from my stove. Then I am safe. Only when a hurricane approaches do my insides match my outsides. I don’t know what it means not to be jagged. I know moments when I am thrilled just be alive. Life is for me is the Olam Tikkum, the Hebrew purpose to mend a broken world. I step on the jagged pieces and breathe. The earth pierces the soles of feet. I look up and see the sky with its omnipresent clouds and I wonder, how is this life such a paradox?

Marta Luzim’s Writing The Wave: If I could hear you talking to me now it would sound like this

Rain. Soft, drip, on the green, leathery soft leaf. It drums, and beats, comforting me like a lullabye, and cascades like a song from the clouds where the water goddess lives. The grass sings and reaches, thirsty for the sweet rain that floods the tips of their blades, a tongue that slurps down the heaven’s ocean spray, like a child deserted from their homeland. Rain. It runs through my fingerprints, like river tributaries and through the lines of my skin…it fills me with light liquid, allows my throat to open to drink in the moist, flavorful wet air, travel into my cells, around and around in my belly. If I keep watering my empty hole with this rain, it will hydrate my insatiable soul with life-giving forces that shout to the elves and fairies. This life pulsates the dew, lilies and daffodils, the wheat, and flows into everything rooted to the earth. This rain, it keeps everything fluid and waving through tough winds and torrid deserts that need their sand dunes quenched, and fires that burns trees alive. All of nature needs the rain. Even the hurricanes come to whip up the darkness of the abyss and once again leave the earth with the sparkle and glimmer of saturation, and fullness. Rain, it is the universal milk of the divine…rain…it carries me down rivers, across oceans and beyond. Rain, the symphony of the pat, pat, patter against the pavement…rain converges and unites each human’s flesh to each drop, a drop with every human, dead or alive, their name is written in the rain. It is our ancestors coming home to us, whispering, ‘stand in the rain, let it drown you, devour you, devote you to all that is awakened within you.’ Rain, I lust for the rain. It is the lover that never ceases to give. It is the rainbow that waits for the wishes that release its magic. Rain is beyond, beyond, anything that is earthly, and when it comes to earth, it is angels tapping us saying, ‘I am here. Don’t leave. Stay with me. I will give your hearts’ desire.’ Warmth, connect heaven and earth within your heart and cocoon my soul in the mother’s womb. The child wants to go there, hide there, keep out the world that gobbles her innocence…the child leaps into the rain and disappears into the mystery..

Marta Luzim’s Writing The Wave: Fragrance of the Mother

Marta: The Telling was a major success. I am filled with hope and healing in this endeavor. So many Tellings that can free us from our deeper secrets, our need to be held, loved and comforted. There is still grief that is in my body. Fear that is in my body. The child who never had a mother to soothe her. My father who died young and I never got to work through my anger with. He never comforted, rocked or held me when my mother beat me, or terrorized the family. A sister that left without a touch or a look of knowing that we were bonded in this life as sisters. She tore that bond to shreds.

There are times I still don’t know how to mother myself. I need somehow to find a way to fill up this hole. I breathe and sit…and breathe and sit, until I find the connection to that silent song of love. I am 61 and with all of what I have accomplished, all of the personal work I have done…I still need a mother…one that can weave the the parts of myself into a whole. Listen to me. Look into my eyes and reflect me as her daughter…her life.

I am ashamed to say this, but I am sharing this. I am not sure how I am going to find this in my body, this love that is endless and enduring. I have the will to live, I have strength, I have courage, I have tenacity, I have creativity, but the deep self love still calls in me…strange…I have survived and I am still recovering from the lack of a gentle touch from a mother.

When I was sixteen, the first therapist I went to told me I was touch deprived (along with other physical and emotional abuses). I didn’t know what that meant. In my first psychology class as a freshman at Brooklyn College, they screened a documentary on rhesus monkeys that were touch deprived. The young baby monkeys were screaming with insanity from lack of touch and comfort. Then it dawned on me, that was what my therapist was speaking of. The after-effects of touch deprivation leave a hunger so deep that a thousand angels wings need to stroke you into heaven. A pain in my heart that pumps out a yelp for the mother who never could mother. It is hard to admit that I still need that mother, and I continue to be the mother, nurture and be kind to myself, be warm and open to my daughter. My daughter and I learn together how to touch each other’s skin, mind, body and soul so we can feel accepted and breathe in that it is okay to be alive. Just saying I’m okay seems small, yet it is big. It is a whisper that I needed to hear as a child, “It’s okay, everything will be all right.” Even it wasn’t all right, it is good to hear that comforting sound. I’ve learned to live with loss and fear as a divine source that ignited me to find the true mother love that lives inside of me. All these feelings hold the key to the meaning of my life. “I’m Okay,” says the mother to me.

Friend: All that you shared in this message has been with me today like a melody, a song, a plea. I resonate with joy and pleasure at your success, the chords you have touched and the new conversations that will grow and grow from your work, from the gift that you are in voicing the unvoiced. I am most profoundly touched by what you share, what you say you are ashamed to share. Your words – the desire, longing, need for your mother, your true mother, to mother you, these are words I now hear in such a different way. From your own writing I have heard and from this new conversation I am having with my own daughter – a daughter that I thought I “mothered”, yet she, too, is missing a mother to comfort her. It is a deep place, this motherhood. A vital, elemental fragrance necessary for our lives. It must lie within us, and how we find that it lies within us is perhaps part of the life journey. I miss deeply, my own mother, who did mother me AND whom I still need. Out of our friendship in writing I am discerning that there is an essential feminine that is evolving as if the utter source of being is found in the discovery of the feminine power, depth, love, spirit. I am simply and profoundly grateful to have you in my life.

Marta Luzim’s Writing The Wave: ‘Nothing Personal’, said the Oil Spill to the Dead Seagull

I haven’t sat, or known the ocean for some time. The endless soft waves that heals the caked up blood and scar tissue of my wounded child. The little pig tailed girl swirls around, her toes holding her life with sand and sun, but then she plops down. Her tuss all filled with muddy clay and all she can feel is the loss of this splendor and innocence she once believed lasted forever.

I am an adult, but all I can feel is the feelings of the child. The abandoned promise that she would be loved, or own love, or have love, or walk on love like a cloud from twilight stars. So much nails and soot to pull out of her arms and legs; the ones life left behind, as life rolls its holy terror through her soul. She can’t get over it, she just can’t. She needs to dig and cry down into the earth’s core, scratch away at her skin and let the blood drip and mix in with the cracks and swigs and dead ocean fish. How can life be so alive and yet so dead with shame?  So afraid to show the depth of one’s sorrow because only joy is written as our inheritance…what of the grief? What of the desperate need to hug you until the life is squeezed out of your lungs, and then she can suck it all like a vampire and attach to you like a vine to a tree.   She is enmeshed in every feeling and word. Her life depends on how much she can drink your moods and swish them around in her body and then run off into the sun and jump for joy that she finally felt you, felt you, felt you in her…

Stop it! Just stop the damn blazing cold, hard, nothingness of cruelty that says “it’s all in a day’s work, she’s busy so she has no soul, she’s cut and dry, she’s business, she’s off to the races, she’s driving her car, she’s focused on her taxes”. Where is everyone? Don’t they see?
What are you here for? Die, pay taxes, eat, sleep, fuck?

I give up. I just give up. Vulnerability is buried in the mouth of God.  Deep in Her throat, choked in a scream. It is caught, like a fish hook in my bowels, strangled in Her larynx. Don’t take anything personal– just don’t, don’t! Cheating, not personal, lying, stabbing, ignoring, coldness, indifference, murder, rape, not personal. Hide it, cover it up, forget it, just get on with it, nothing personal. Sad, core hurt, a tearing of my nerves, a ripping of my soul. A battle between my head and heart. Inside a tangled mess of blood and cartilage. Screams. I am tight and sore and distraught with emotions…death and despair. I can’t keep smiling because it makes you feel good, so you can pretend that I accept the cold, hard world of ‘business as usual’. It’s not personal. I feel good now because you’re not my business.

Make it all go away. I will just bury myself among the dead gulls washed up from oil spills. The baby seals clubbed to death and I will bury myself in their death and their shock that man can be so cruel and then forget it ever happened.

Marta Luzim’s Writing The Wave: The Family In My Veins

They were my world. Their big voices, large laughs, glamorous wardrobes, and exciting trips to Las Vegas and Spain. They wanted to live BIG…big and hard…and their pain got in the way. I hunger for them…and all of their grandiosity.

They had wings
They had fangs
They had arms that suffocated my life
They whispered, jump off that cliff
They screamed, you can’t love anyone but me
They were the honey that seeped into my pores and turned into bee stings
They made me fight for life, although they thought they were giving me an easy life
But they knew war, poverty, dead meat on their backs.
They went through it all…pogroms, heart attacks, mental breakdowns, suicide and cancer.
They lived and died and now I am left with their handprints all over my cells.
How can I ever just give them a tatter…or a scrap…they made me…they made me.

And now I am still me in them.

Marta Luzim’s Writing The Wave: I, Woman, Still Stand Among My Tribe

There I learned: from the edge of the rails, the ocean’s roar, the slaps of cutting waves, she sailed across from Poland, a cold place, a hard place where she escaped from the camps. There her mother died, her sister and brothers, disappeared into the dark forests of blood, where bodies lay topside, no graves, no burial rites. I learned how to survive the generations of women, the insane, the insane asylum. How the hand of G-d and the belly of the Goddess births a people, a nation, and spreads them like salt across the world and gives them a life that is challenged by displacement, estrangement and isolation.

A death of a self that emerges from the ashes, of black hearts, dirty minds, and filthy souls that tear out hearts of families, children, mothers and fathers leaving the women empty in her womb, waiting for a seed to birth a new beginning. And then, after the tears, and grief, and swollen stomach of the dying young, after the stench of death and the screams from behind the jails, I see a tunnel of light. I see the entrance into an angelic realm. Gabriel blowing his horn, Miriam playing her tambourine.  I am here to witness how life can distort us into suicidal thoughts, to hate ourselves. And then realize that it is the only life that we have and we have a choice. I am here to watch the thousands walk across the continents, at first one in spirit, then split apart like the atom and exploded into separate tribes, separate nations, separate countries. I am here to hear the call of the wild, the women waving from afar, waving to come home, come back.

My grandmother crossed the ocean in a pickle barrel. She left behind everything, every picture, fork, spoon, tear, touch and connection to her roots. My mother swam in her grief. The women of my family fought to stay alive, fought to find love, fought to forget that there was a past to their beginnings. But they couldn’t wipe it all out, couldn’t forget. They tried, with fancy cars, large diamonds plucked from the sky, gambling junkets and big brick houses with mezuzahs attached to the door, where they kissed G-d’s lips every time they entered the house.

This is their remembrance. The witness of a people who survived but didn’t know quite what it meant to be happy, or alive, or satisfied; an insatiable lust for life that never quite got quenched. I learned so much from these women, these people of the desert tribe, this world I live in because of their courage and valor. I witness being human, being afraid, being torn apart and sewn back together. I have no way of knowing anything except to see that I stand on the earth, sun shining, oaks swaying, moon behind the rim of the stars–and down below is me–watching, waiting, delivering the past from my womb to reinvent the secrets that are encoded in my cells.

Marta Luzim’s Writing The Wave: The Dark Side of Female Relationships

It is potently important to give a voice to the abuses towards women in a patriarchal society. Every woman in our culture has been affected by male dominance. But it is also deeply important to be aware of the dark side of female relationships. It has been taboo to talk about the pain of female competition, negativity and abuse of women against women, mother against daughter, sister against sister. This article reveals some truths of these acts. In certain tribes in Africa, female circumcision, although mandated by men, is performed by women. For many of my clients, the abuse is perpetuated by mothers and sisters, as you can read in the entries on this blog. Women need to accept that they too can be abusers…each gender needs to take responsibility for their acts of violence, heal and forgive.

My mother physically and emotionally abused me. My sister emotionally betrayed me. I learned rage as a way to protect myself from their abuse. Learning to trust the feminine has be a lifelong journey…and one that has been rewarding, filled with faith, hope and a miraculous understanding of the feminine, free of societal myths and stereotypes. My wounds of being a female have been the road to my creative and spiritual evolution… and the healing still goes on.

Read this article: ‘The Twisted Sisterhood’ — The Dark Side of Female Friendship Explored – Lemondrop.com

Marta Luzim’s Writing The Wave: My Daughter, My Life

Take a deep breath, feel the life in me
Tears of joy lift me so high in the eyes of my daughter
on my stomach a warm, soft, ball of ecstasy
wrapped in a blanket of my blood
placed on my stomach to rest, merging into my heart, a soul sister

Graced with a miracle of skin, bone and pumping heart
a squeaky cry of aliveness whistles through my being
Oh my god she is here from inside out, she is here
from a seed, to an egg, to the word in flesh
my daughter a thing of unbridled passion

Her tiny fingers cling to my hand
Visions of dancing feet, swaying hips, grand destiny
my daughter an infant goddess
Mother Earth’s gift of Aphrodite’s beauty, Hestia’s self-hood,  Athena’s wisdom
crawling across my stomach into my mind’s eye
a reflection of my genes, my legacy, my woman power

Climbing my family tree, each branch bent, each limb thrown to the ground
I make a promise to plant new seeds, new visions, new feminine yearnings
Dig up the dirt, hands dirty, sweat across my brow, I dig a promise in the ground
Down where Persephone lives to birth new suns, new seasons, new worlds
Mother-daughter reunion of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness

Through the veins of my daughter I feel the pulse beat of my soul
it drums an ancient song of cosmic pleasure
drinking dark wines, eating juicy foods, laughing at each others face
love together, cry together, scream together, howl together
like wolves of the mountain skies
Oh my God, my daughter is here, she is here, the coming of a new dawn

Naked under the eyes of Goddesses, Gods,  Saints, Sinners
Tear apart the dried up sand paper womb
hush the cries of unmothered daughters, unmothered mothers, unmothered grandmothers
feed them to the wild dogs hungry for soul food
fill their bellies with a warm glow of umbilical love
slowly melt away the slave flesh to free my daughter myself
from jealous hags, panting men, old lady treachery
Crusaders who stalk woman’s homes
hanging them on crosses, lifting them on pedestals, baking them in ovens

A new life, oh my god, my daughter is born
A new life, oh my god, celebrate my daughter
A new life, oh my god,  dance to the resurrection
A new life, oh my god,  the awakening is here
A new life, oh my god, words cannot be words in
in the face of my daughter
they dissolve and dance at her feet

Breathless from this journey that is eternal
My daughter renews my every self
Talking for hours woman, daughter, friend, talk
Shopping, walking, holding hands, inspiring each others visions

What more is there to say
Incomprehensible to feel such feelings of love
My daughter a mirror to my soul, a champion to my being,
a challenge to my darkest wounds
Always, forever, growing so I can love her forever so she can love herself.

I give my all to this being of beings
Any wall, any mountain, any moon beam
I will scale with broken nails, shoeless feet, naked
to give her a home within herself, in this world, in this universe
my breath cannot consume all that I will do for her
My covenant, my covenant, my covenant

Raise my eyes, raise my hands, raise my voice
heaven can you hear me?
I stand on sacred ground
blessed with my daughter