Heartbreak and Wonder Coalesce in December

And that's totally okay. Here's a poem in which I wonder if Mary fretted about microwaving her deli meats.

Hello, Slow Take readers! I’m poet and essayist Heather Lanier. This is my occasional newsletter about the strange beauty of being human. Here, we lean into invitations that make us feel more human. Think of it as the opposite of a boob-implant billboard or an AI-generated “thank you” note. There are only real thank you’s here. Welcome! And thanks for reading.

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Some things have been blowing my mind lately. Dobby Gibson’s poetry collection, Hold Everything. The podcast, The Telepathy Tapes. (Have you listened?! If not, hold my mug and I’ll get you the link.) Small kindnesses from my kids.

My kids and me watching snowflakes and Santas and sparkly ballerinas projected on a massive screen.

And then other things are breaking my heart—many of our hearts, probably about half our hearts. The direction of America, for one. The number of men in power with credible sexual assault allegations, another (related to above).

Heartbreak and wonder seem to coalesce in December. Like a strange soup, the deepest darkness mixes with twinkly lights. It’s the season for naming what’s awful and praying for what’s possible. For hope-beyond-hope sprinkled into our honest words of despair.

In my spiritual tradition (contemplative Christianity) we call this season Advent. The time of waiting for what could be, while sitting amidst all that’s broken. The metaphor is one of pregnancy. Mary, waiting to give birth.

So I thought I’d share a poem from my poetry collection, Psalms of Unknowing. When I was pregnant, I spent the requisite amount of time obsessing over eating all the right foods, etc. This made me wonder about Mary. Whether you’re Christian or not, it’s still a fascinating journey for the imagination: What would it be like to carry God in your body?

The Messiah Could Have Gotten Listeria

By Heather Lanier

Mary, did they wag their fingers no at unpasteurized milk?
Did you have to count your protein for too little
and your tuna for too much,
fretting mercury might metalize
the haloed brain of the divine?

You had no sonic wand
snooping the precise size
of the incarnate’s kidneys,
no weight-gain tsk tsks or glucose tests

but you had, of course, the risk of infections.

How did you carry the burden, Mary,
the earthquake of history, like a big bang
contained in the squash-sized babe?

When you watched Joseph’s tired gait ahead,
did you hear in your head
the warning: your thoughts could do your child harm?
You could sing the wrong songs? You could love
the God
you carried incorrectly? You could fuck this up?

Mary, all I’ve got inside me is another human,
and still, men give up their seats,
women sing odes to my stomach,

and crazies blow up buildings
all because they think the baby in my belly
weighs the world.
(The doctor thinks I weigh too much.)

Mary how did you handle the pressure, carrying
not the weight of the world
but the weight of its maker?

Did you just place your hand on your belly,
take a breath like a breeze, and trust
that you were enough,
that this world and all the things in it
would not kill him?

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Blessed Advent, friends. And Happy Solstice. if you want more poems, grab a copy of Psalms of Unknowing wherever books are sold. (For a signed copy, let me know or reach out to Words Matter Bookstore in south Jersey.)

If you’re like, “I don’t know… These poems seem a little religious-y,” well then, here’s the perfect Goodreads review for you:

Advent wreath on my kitchen table. Kid rejoicing in the background.