Tag: marriage

Glass Jars, Moonlight, and Intention

Posted on by stacyeliz

It was the night of a final full moon-  the decade had been so long, 

She’d had enough, done calling all bluffs, time to sing her old new song 

So she stepped outside

And lit fire

To all the pages

All the phases

All the stages

All the faces

That didn’t serve her, and didn’t deserve her

Dropping them into to a jar made of glass

She watched as the water  turned from clarity to ash

Shattered.

Something within her broke. 

Held up her arms in the darkness and the smoke—

Yelled, “Moon-do your Work! 

Can’t take another minute of sitting with this hurt.”

Closed her eyes, closed the door, closed the blinds

Turned on reality, turned off the lies

Sometimes the words come, without having to try 

Then there she was, 15 year old me

Little blonde head, fairy wings, and big dreams

She said, “Stacy, you’re still me, and now you’re strong enough to set some boundaries. Only you can set you free.”

Climbed into my own baptismal bath

Soaking in the brokenness of the pain in my past,

Let the salty water, burn my wounds clean

Let the voices from within rectify me

I’m calling on you, You, the someone deep within

The one who holds the echos of my loved ones, my  friends

I’m calling on You, to come and give me the words

The courage

The boldness that screams

You don’t deserve this, and you never did

I’m calling on You, for gentle wisdom in my bones 

The kind that only comes when you refuse to throw stones

Help me be gentle, but HARSH

Leaving no room for longing in the dark

Help me speak every word with extreme accuracy

Leaving not a single gap for crazy-making

I have been silenced, but only we know

Time to break curses and time to let go

A thousand ancestors lifted me up out of the bath. Woundedness dripping off me, time to speak out the past

Leaving puddles of yesterday, down the wooden floor path, each drop holding memories of rage released on me in wrath

Yes, It was time enough, I was coming for me, Nobody else could do this work- if I were to ever be free

Didn’t need another soul, just the girl that I had been

Before I picked up his darkness and made it my friend

Phone rang. I began to speak,  Unveiling Every Action that’d ever hurt me

Like the glass jar soaking in the moonlight illuminating every burnt trait that I’d accepted in my life

The moonbeams read them out to me, so I spoke them loud and clear, And each time I said, “No More,” a wound would disappear 

Something spiritual was happening as I spoke my own worth over me, I was untangling the ethereal cord that had been attached from him to me

Finally, I could hand it back, Said, “I think this belongs to you.” I can try to help you unravel yourself

But I won’t carry it all for you, you’ll have to be the one to see this work through

I will not bear the weight of your wounds, I am not the reason for your pain

And all this  time instead of healing yourself You poured your poison into my veins

I’ve choked on it, drowned in it, trying to get myself back to me, trying to come up for air from the pools of rage you spew at me

And if you’ll admit that you need help, Then we can find who you’re suppose to be

Before you were wounded, before you had bruises, before darkness called your name

I will stand beside you, but YOU have to lean into your pain

And, I am not your pain. 

I. Am. Not. Your. Pain. 

But I can be your full moon clarity, And we’ll call each wound by name.  Call every single broken piece out until you are free from them,

We’ll watch every ash and ember that rises into the night, cause we know healing  comes when we set our intentions in the glow of the full moonlight. 

Dear Patriarchy

Posted on by stacyeliz

Dear Patriarchy,

I was placed into your grasp as a little girl. I ate the crumbs from your gnarled and mangled hands. I watched you work the system and create a breed of subservient little female beings. You chewed us up and spit us out and told us our purpose was to simply be present to help You. You needed our fertility, open our legs for your pleasure and your cum. Carry your babies so you don’t fade away into oblivion. We sit here now foaming at the mouth ready to rip your fucking throats out, and you tell us to smile, keep quiet, be a lady. Meanwhile, you’re lusting for the blossoms in the church pew, with your pious and godly wife sitting right there beside you. But she doesn’t know how to be the Slut you need. The Sacred Whore within, she’s never unleashed. You did that to her. You, Patriarchy! You told her to be good, but with everything you are, you like em bad. So so bad. You told us to be honest, but you’ve got your secrets. You snicker, and you smile, and you keep things under the table. Your army, your squad, your “good ol boys”—- they uphold you as the Man among men, and while your wife may be fooled cause she’s a product of her raising, just know-your daughter won’t bow down to ANY SYSTEM that’s degrading, she’s not just the winds of change-she’s a fucking tornado. She is tearing this shit down and you don’t know what to do. You hang on to your faith cause it ALWAYS WORKS FOR YOU. Cling to your traditions, the empire built by men for men, but your daughter yells, “No!” She’s watched and she’s listened to every command made on her mother and her sisters, she’s thirsty for the blood of every person whose ever said, “A woman’s place is in the kitchen.” She is harsh and bold and she is ready to hurt your feelings. She yells, “Fuck you and fuck your religion! You pieces of shit-stealing the minds of the innocent, and they can’t even think critically enough to harbor resentment.” Your daughters are coming for you, Patriarchy, are you shaking in your work boots? We are coming for you, right after we untie your shoes.

Written by: Stacy Johnson

Paper Clip Castle, a poem

Posted on by stacyeliz

You left your coffee mug on the counter,  I saw your Adidas on the floor. I breathed heavy  down the hallway and saw your jacket hung on the closet door. 

I walked passed the recliner, it’s a newly empty seat, for 14 days it will not be the place you prop your feet.

I journey to our bedroom, then replay our moments in the quiet. Tears swell, I let them fall,  cause your side of the bed will be silent. 

I miss you for these moments, I wipe  the sadness from my tired eyes, I walk to our kids’ bedrooms and declare, “It’s an  Uno game kind of night!”

I pretend that I’m not broken, I pretend I’m strong enough, I act like I’m not waiting on my savior in his silver Ford Truck.

I do all the laundry, give the baths, then sweep the floors, I do ANYTHING to busy the thought that you’re not walking through that door.

I embrace your hoodie for a moment, take in the dirt and work and sweat. Hold it close before I wash it, so your scent I don’t forget.

I cheer on all our babies, I give kisses and hugs goodnight. I try to be everything to them, but as Dad, I’m just not right…

I play podcast after podcast, listen to lectures on repeat, I blast my mind with so much noise to distract from my reality. 

I praise you for your willingness to make a living such as this, I know you let your tears fall down, driving opposite of your waving kids.

But then it is your go time, down to strictly business, and in the meantime I hold down the fort with thumb tacks and paper clips…

(written by Stacy Johnson 3/6/19)

Momma whooped dat Uno booty tonight!

I Have Her Eyes

Posted on by stacyeliz

Scurrying into the always familiar home of Mamaw and Papaw, I am met with the same pale yellows and olive greens hip from the 60s. My Papaw rests in his recliner, Mitzy, his ever faithful pup companion perches at his side, knowing she is  his equal.

As my grandparents age, I realize, “How’s it going?” is a loaded question. One I better be ready to settle in for- for the long-haul, I welcome it.

He begins unveiling the  list of ailments appropriate for that of a 78 year old. I pay attention. I encourage him, letting him know I’m sympathetic to his pains and fears about his pains. Today, he lifts up his shirt for me to examine his back. 

“Do ya see anything back there, Stac?”

“Well, Papaw, I’m not sure what I’m looking for? I see a couple bumps.”

Papaw’s eyes grow large with concern, “Is there anything else around the bumps, Stac?”

“Um, I believe there’s a sunspot right between the bumps, Papaw.” 

“I’ll tell ya what, they itch, they really itch—-you sure those ain’t moles?”

I pull his shirt down and give his back a firm scratch, “Honestly, Papaw, they just look like a couple small pimples.”

He carries on sharing that he hopes it isn’t shingles or melanoma. Smiling at him, I express that if he feels the least bit worried, he may want a doctor to have a quick browse. He changes the topic to his gall bladder and I listen intently. 

My Papaw is a constant source of comfort to me and he always has been. The man is an amazing carpenter who worked and still works very hard. He told me once, that if he ever sits down long enough to get real still, he’d die, so his work must continue. I believe that if he needs to unveil his trials, I am fortunate to be the chosen listener. 

Mamaw walks in nonchalantly, “Did you know it’s been ten years since my last colonoscopy?” 

I act as if this is common knowledge and she fills us in on her trip to the doctor this afternoon. Mamaw is 76 today. I gift her our shared favorite candle, “Berrylicious,” and she literally jumps in giddiness!

“Oh, I just LOVE this scent, it is my absolute favorite.”

“Me tooooo, it’s THE BEST!” We hug and giggle- this particular scent, we thought had been discontinued. To our delight, they brought it back for a season!

Birthdays are special in our family and I can’t explain how grateful I am to hug her neck here in her home. 

She pulls out a photo album faded  by time,  worn from eager hands anxious to be taken back. We scan each of the pages together. She’s proud. I take in the humanity of my grandmother. I watch with each passing page, how her glorious green eyes remain the same. As we progress, the eyes looking at me  in person are the same as the girl, the young woman, the young wife, the sister, and mother. The sparkle is still there, the vibrancy still there. All that’s changed is the home around them. 


As Mamaw recalls each photo’s happenings, I as usual, am tangled in a mess of nostalgia. Her clothes, her hair, her red-lips, their cars. A part of me longs to be in the picture, seeing it as it was in the moment. Feeling the time, the culture. 

Although I know the story, I ask again, “So, how’d you guys meet?” 

They each take turns reminiscing on the mutual friend’s party where their paths first crossed. They went for a walk and Mamaw was not intrigued. A year later, another party, another walk around the block, and this time-it was love. I teased Mamaw that she must’ve been dreaming of Papaw’s handsome self that whole year! And boy, he loved that! 

They’ve lived in this home nearly fifty nine years, built it together the year they were married. This is a sacred space, and I feel praise arise in me, not to a higher power, but to the Story that lives in these walls. 

I hug them tight as I leave, I take in the faces of my lineage. I think about the joy Mamaw spoke with as she said the names of her people, her people that she longs for. I wince at the reality that one day, they’ll be my people, they’ll be the ones I’ll speak of longingly. The time to cherish is now, not in retrospect…

I walk out the door, Papaw mutters one final comment about his sunspot and I remind him he’s gonna live to be 100. We laugh, but we both believe it…

Another project, another day…