Miracles

A poem to invite you to see the fullness of how you came to be

Photo by Dewang Gupta on Unsplash

Dear all, I’ve been enraptured with poetry lately. In many ways it is one of my first and primary literary loves. I have never thought of myself as a poet but anytime I write said poetry, it lights my brain and heart afire in a way that no other form of writing does. After having the pleasure of seeing Joy Harjo and Tracy K. Smith talk with Krista Tippet for the On Being podcast the other week with my dear friends Carla Zanoni and Lisa Weinert, I am feeling inspired and energized to play with words the way that sometimes essays don’t allow me to do. So I wanted to share a poem from the momentum of their words and after a recent free-writing session with Narrative Healing that made me contemplate impossibility. May it be an invitation for you to reflect on your life’s meaning, and may it be a gateway for you to sit with the practice of Looking Deeply, the teachings of the Five Remembrances and remember all the karmic elements that you are comprised of.

My invitation for you to contemplate is: What miracles happened for you to be right here, right now?

—

Miracles

Miracles they say
are extraordinary events
defying natural laws,
a source of the divine.

But when we look
at ourselves
at each other
I mean, really really

Look
Deeply

Is not everything a miracle?

Not in the Eat, Pray, Love kind of way
but sure, I’ll buy that discounted sign from Marshall’s.
Maybe, sure, I guess you could say
there’s nothing wrong with stripping down
this idea
painting it onto cardboard and plastic
selling it
for $3.99.

But what would it mean
if it we looked beyond these elements?
What would it mean if we could believe
in what we call
Miracles?

It feels like
a pomp and circumstance
to say
Me
sitting
Here
is a Miracle

but my life
my existence
has been defined by survivals.

Is it not a miracle
That my parents navigated treacherous waters between Vietnam and Thailand in the bowels of a fishing boat to somehow find their way here? Partly because of the kindness of strangers and partly because they desperately believed in the truth of the American dream.

Is it not a miracle
That my father scraped through rice paddy fields to eat sundrenched dirt and field mice hoping that my mother wouldn’t leave him like the other women who left their husbands? Partly because he knew the tenacious, resilient woman he married and partly because he believed she loved him, just as much as he, her.

Is it not a miracle
That she stayed and found him, somehow fighting off the blood filling her lungs? Partly because she did in fact love him as much as he, her, and partly because of her stubborn persistence to stay alive.

Is it not a miracle
That out of 4 tries, I am the second of two children? That I am just one half who survived in the womb? That only I survived our mother’s waters as she slowly died next to me? Partly because of my own stubbornness, and partly because my cells formed just differently enough so I could emerge screaming, fists up to greet the world.

Is it not a miracle
That I reached towards my own version of their American dream only to be constantly disappointed over and over again because of my slanted eyes and flat nose? Partly because my constitution is not considered in the Constitution even though I partly want to believe in its words just as desperately.

Is it not a miracle
That I can be both Asian and American? That I can hold these two self-evident truths simultaneously? That the dichotomy within me is not tearing me apart? Partly because I love American beef hamburger patties just as much as the rich phở broth my ancestors made from beef bones, fish sauce, cloves, and ginger; and partly because only other refugee kids like me can truly understand the unique grief of constantly searching for home.

Is it not a miracle
That I am standing here despite all of that? Partly because it is my life’s work to heal the echoes of my parents’ trauma in my bones and partly because I can only do so by unlearning the conditioning of false and fabricated systems that tell me I am not enough.

Is it not a miracle
That I am here in this body, feeling the tenderness of the tissue around the circumference of my right knee wearing away? Partly because I am of the nature to grow old and partly because I am of the nature to one day die.

Is it not a miracle
For me to remember all of this so I can savor this moment? Every moment? To love as deeply as my heart will allow?

Is this what they mean by defying the laws of nature?
Is this what they mean by being a source of the divine?

Is this
Are we not

All

Extraordinary events?

Yes.