I wrote a poem when my daughter was sick a few weeks ago. She had a fever that lasted six days. Off and on. Not super high but definitely high enough. Headache and cough that was painful for her. I’m used to illnesses that rise up and then release in a day or two, three max. Watching this one linger threw me. I googled lots of things and reached out to knowledgeable friends. But the only times that felt like calling the doctor was when I started to panic and project into the future. (What if it got worse??!) Or when I started to panic that I was a reckless terrible mom who was being dangerous (If she gets worse will everyone be mad at me? - This one feels embarrassing to share)
But the moments I could call myself back and be really present, I could see that she was fine, just sick and moving through it. And in my experience with sick kids, I’ve noticed when I’m quick to lower the fever, they get sick again. It’s like I press pause on something that I’m not actually allowing to leave. I didn’t want that for her.
I wrote this poem the day it was clear she was almost better, but didn’t want to share it immediately in case I was wrong and she was actually, secretly horribly sick and I was my deepest fear.
But within a couple days her color came back brighter, her cough didn’t linger, her energy was big again - quickly. And it made me think just how hard it is for us to let people be sick without meddling.
Healing takes work, and also community, resources, slowness and on top of bravery. And while she napped in those final days of sickness, my mind drifted to what the colonizers of this land saw when they watched the land intentionally burning. The lack of control that was outside anything they could imagine. How my ancestors stopped the land from burning so we could build in places that should never have been a permanent home. And now our California fires are so hot and scary, all because we didn’t let the land burn. Welcome to the inside of my head.
Permission to Burn
Permission to take my time inside this fever
To sweat and writhe and whimper
To sip broth and eat nothing
To be in pain
Permission to call out of work, or school
For more than the acceptable few days
Permission to burn
To allow my forest floor to scorch into ash
Cleaning dead brush from the meadows
Clearing the dried grasses my tissues
Opening my earth bed for new lush foliage,
New life
Don’t rush me
Let me burn
Without your hurry
Without your worrying
That the fire I am burning is too hot, is taking too long
That it must be contained
That it is dangerous, that I am in danger
Permission to let my body burn what it needs to burn
Wrap me up in love, but let me do my work
What we do to bodies, we do to the forest
What we do to the forest, we do to bodies
Let me burn
Let me rest
Let me renew