My Body - Learning to Live in the Skin We're Given

Book Info

Title: My Body
Author: Joan Larkin
Genre: Poetry

My Rating: 🌵🌵🌵

The Quick Pitch

What's it about?

This collection of poems looks at what it means to live in a body through every season of life. Joan Larkin writes about aging, illness, desire, loss, love, and identity with honesty and tenderness. 

The Setting

The poems move through ordinary moments and deeply personal experiences. There isn't one place or time. Instead, the landscape is the human body itself and the life it carries.

My Thoughts

The best part

What stayed with me was Larkin's willingness to tell the truth, even when it isn't pretty. She doesn't try to make growing older sound graceful all the time. She writes about the body's strength, its limitations, and the stories it keeps. Her words feel lived in. They remind you that every scar, wrinkle, ache, and joy has something to say if we're willing to listen.

What could have been better

Poetry is personal, and not every poem landed the same way. A few felt so rooted in the poet's own experience that I found myself reading them more than once before they clicked. That's part of poetry, though. Sometimes a poem opens its door right away. Other times, it asks you to linger on the porch.

A Standout Quote

The bitter

Edge I hated as I grew wild

Was the only weapon of the woman

Who called me Daughter.

Not it’s a current in me

Like the cold river

I take grief swimming in.

Final Verdict

II'd recommend My Body to anyone who enjoys poetry that asks questions instead of offering easy answers. It's a thoughtful read for people who are growing older, caring for someone they love, or simply trying to make peace with the body they've been given. 

Puttering

 As much as I love puttering around in a garden, there’s no place quite like your own.

Last night I came home at dusk—that sweet moment when daylight melts into moonlight—and stepped out onto the patio. The full moon was just barely peeking over the Catalinas, the hummingbirds were scolding me for my absence, and everything just felt right.

This morning I filled the hummingbird feeders and the bird feeders, and refreshed the bird bath. Now I’m hoping for plenty of activity outside my window. For the next two days, I’ll be tending to my own garden, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

I Am

 This morning I received an email through Ancestry from another distant cousin searching for family information, stories, and old photographs. It’s a request I’ve come to expect every so often.

For the past few months, I’ve been slowly working my way through boxes of old pictures. The oldest photographs have been the easiest. Grandparents, great-grandparents, and generations even further back have gradually found their way into the hands of relatives who treasure them. I’m happy to know those faces will continue to be remembered. I have a few photographs ready to send to this cousin as well.

The more recent photographs are different.

Those are still tucked away, waiting. Some memories need a little more time before they’re ready to be held again.

As I sat watching genealogy videos on YouTube this morning, I noticed the quiet irony. So many of the stories are about reunions. Families separated by decades finally finding one another. Long-lost cousins discovering they had been searching for the same roots all along. Broken branches of family trees being joined together again.

There is something deeply beautiful about those stories.

And something quietly bittersweet.

For the most part, I’ve grown comfortable being singular. I’ve learned to enjoy my own company and to walk my own path, even during the years I shared it with someone else. But every now and then, a day arrives that feels a little heavier. The silence is more noticeable. The heart remembers the people who are absent as much as the ones who remain.

I’ve stopped fighting those moments.

Like tears, they come. They stay for a while. Then they pass.

Today there will be housekeeping to do, a wonderful book waiting to be finished, and the ordinary rhythm of daily life to tend. The dishes will be washed. The floors will be swept. The sun will cross the desert sky just as it always does.

Life has a gentle way of reminding us that it keeps moving.

One small step at a time.

And somewhere beneath it all is a quiet confidence that has carried me through harder days than this.

Everything will be all right.

1 Thessalonians 5:18 give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.

So The Adventure Begins

Last week, my friend passed through Tucson on her way to her next adventure, and we celebrated her birthday with a sound bath and cacao ceremony. During our conversation, I admitted that as much as I'd loved having my little van, Beastie, these past six years, I was also tired of the stress that came with her. If she sat too long, I worried about pack rats moving in or mechanical problems from lack of use. I had started thinking seriously about putting her in a storage facility closer to home so I could keep a better eye on things, start the engine and generator regularly, and give myself time to decide what I really wanted to do.

So I called a storage facility to ask about parking the van there.

And honestly, the only way I can describe what happened next is divine intervention.

Early the following Monday morning, I received a phone call from an RV dealership asking if I'd ever considered selling my van.

My first thought?

Scam.

But I recognized the dealership's name, so I hung up and called them back directly. As it turns out, they really do have employees whose entire job is finding RVs to purchase. It's called procurement. Somehow, I ended up speaking with the exact same man. He gave me a lowball estimate and offered to come look at the van in person if I was interested.

That conversation kicked my brain into overdrive.

After we hung up, I started searching online for my dream SUV, the perfect little vehicle to camp and sleep in. The very first result was an older hybrid with fewer than 20,000 miles at the dealership where a relative of mine works.

That felt like another breadcrumb on the trail.

I called the dealership. The SUV had literally just been traded in. It hadn't even gone through inspection yet.

I sent my relative all the information on Beastie, and then I drove her to what would become our final destination together.

Now here's the thing about my little SUV. It's not flashy. There are no dramatic bells and whistles. It's practical, dependable, and, if I'm being honest, a little boring.

But it'll probably run 200,000 miles if I take care of it.

I won't live that long.

Oddly enough, that thought filled me with peace.

Before signing the papers, I climbed into the back of the SUV, in a discreet corner of the lot so I wouldn't embarrass anyone, just to make sure I could sleep comfortably.

I could.

Her name is Mini Beastie. A gentler, kinder, smaller version of her predecessor.

I've already sorted through my camping gear and packed almost everything into four storage bins that fit neatly in the back. Once I finish school, I'm hoping to take my first trip.

And when I finally pull out of the driveway, Kate Campbell's "See Rock City" will absolutely be playing through the speakers.

Mom, thank you for introducing me to this way of living. Every mile I travel will carry a little piece of you with me.

Hopefully, in six weeks, Mini Beastie and I will be heading down the road together.

Life is good.

Mistletoe Cactus

I've started a garden in my backyard, mostly desert plants. It's a bit cluttered, a little eclectic, but it has a charm all its own. In the morning, it becomes a quiet refuge, somewhere I can sit, meditate, and pray. The birds know it too. They come for the easy meal, for the water that's always there, and I sit still long enough to feel like I'm part of it.

One of my plants is a mistletoe cactus, and it's an odd little thing. When you think "cactus," you picture heat, dust, and something stubbornly holding on to every drop of water. This one does the opposite. It comes from the rainforest. Instead of rooting in the ground, it drapes itself over tree branches as though it doesn't need to belong anywhere in particular.

The stems are long and slender, falling in loose, tangled strands with an easy, unhurried rhythm. When it blooms, you could walk right past it without noticing. The flowers are tiny, creamy white, tucked quietly along the stems without asking for attention. Later, they become small, pearl-like berries that really do resemble mistletoe. The name suddenly makes perfect sense.

Cacao Ceremony

For the past ten years, I've been drawn toward holistic approaches to healing, incorporating mindfulness and exploring Buddhist philosophy, particularly Vietnamese Buddhism. Along the way, I've wandered down some unconventional paths in search of spiritual, emotional, and physical well-being.

A friend and I recently attended a cacao ceremony paired with a sound bath. The first half, the sound bath, did much of the quiet work. Lying in Savasana while listening to the harp and crystal bowls, my body gradually softened and my mind slowed. By the time the cacao was served, I was already at ease, open in a way that felt natural rather than effortful.

The facilitator invited us to set intentions, offered words of blessing over the cacao, and guided the group through the ceremony as we drank it slowly and mindfully.

What stayed with me most was the simplicity of what followed. The ceremony didn't become heavy or emotionally intense. Instead, it unfolded into quiet conversation, gentle laughter, and an easy sense of connection.

I recognized something familiar in that ease. It echoed what I've been learning through Vietnamese Buddhist practice, how to sit with what is, without needing to analyze it or make it into something more.

It reminded me that not every meaningful experience needs to feel profound. Sometimes a heart opens in quieter ways, by becoming relaxed enough to be fully present with yourself and with others.

The ceremony ended with the lingering resonance of a gong. Nothing dramatic happened. There was simply a room full of people sitting together in stillness before returning to ordinary life.

Sometimes that's enough.

Spaghetti Sauce - We Begin Somewhere

I never learned how to set up a kitchen. I didn't know where pots and pans belonged or how to organize spices and canned goods. No one ever took the time to teach me, so I never really learned to cook.

When I moved into my first home, I felt lost. It became easier to say, "I can't cook," than to explain why.

Around the age of sixty-three, I decided to change that. I'd just remodeled my kitchen, and most of what belonged in it had been sitting in storage. Truthfully, there wasn't much to unpack. A friend came over, helped me think through the layout, and showed me what I was missing.

From there, I took off.

Not everything I made was a success, but enough of it was to keep me going.

Working in the kitchen wasn't easy. I misplaced spoons and knives constantly. I'd open the refrigerator to grab an ingredient, get distracted, and find myself cleaning the shelves instead.

So I adapted.

I began setting up stations and working from one to the next, finishing each task before moving on. Everything I needed stayed within reach. I talked to myself, a lot. It probably sounded ridiculous to anyone listening, but it worked.

Now, making simple pasta sauces, fresh salads, and healthy desserts gives me a genuine sense of accomplishment. Friends know that what they learned from their mothers years ago, I'm only learning now. They've cheered me on every step of the way.

Recently, I figured out a simple roasted tomato sauce for spaghetti squash. Now I keep batches in the freezer, ready for an easy meal.

I'm still learning.

But I'm no longer standing on the outside of my own kitchen.

Simple Roasted Tomato Sauce Formula

For about 2–3 lbs tomatoes:

2–3 tbsp olive oil

1 tsp salt (then adjust later)

½ tsp black pepper

3–5 garlic cloves

½–1 small onion (optional but recommended)

Small handful fresh basil (or 1 tsp dried)

 

Roast → Blend → Simmer → Finish

1. Roast

Tomatoes + olive oil + salt + pepper + garlic

400–425°F until soft and slightly browned

2. Blend

Everything goes in—no peeling

3. Simmer

Add to a pan with sautéed onion

Simmer 15–25 minutes

4. Finish

Add basil

Taste and adjust:

Needs brightness → tiny splash balsamic

Too sharp → pinch of sugar

Flat → a little more salt

The “don’t overthink it” rule

If you remember nothing else, remember this:

Salt + garlic + olive oil + basil = a complete sauce

Everything else is just fine-tuning.

 

A Day That Doesn’t Scatter

There are mornings when I wake up and already know it's going to be a hard day. My mind feels scattered, and I don't want to get out of bed. If I'm not careful, I'll move from the bed to the couch and stay there.

I've learned not to ask too much of mornings like that.

I start with one small thing.

I make tea, usually a blend I prepared the night before to bring a little clarity and help me stay present.

This morning, it was my Morning Awareness blend.

I step outside and stand there for a while, long enough to feel the air and let the desert sun settle over me.

That's enough.

I don't build anything on top of it. I don't expect it to change the whole day. I just get my footing before the day starts making noise.

By midday, things begin to loosen. My energy fades, and my attention starts pulling in too many directions at once. Instead of trying to fix it, I stay with what's in front of me. I load the dishwasher, wipe down the counter, start a load of laundry. Simple things. Work I can feel in my hands. It helps me stay where I am.

In the afternoon, I don't try to think my way through anything. That usually makes it worse. I move instead. I take a short walk, stretch for a few minutes, spend time in the garden, or sit somewhere quiet. I'm not looking for answers. I'm just giving my mind room to settle.

Before evening, I spend a few minutes with whatever is still there, something unfinished or sitting just beneath the surface. If anxiety or frustration has followed me through the day, I write it down and read it out loud. Then I place it in God's hands so it doesn't follow me into the night.

After that, everything grows quieter. There's less light, less noise, less expectation.

I've learned not to force clarity when I'm worn thin.

It usually comes on its own once I'm carrying a little less.

Most days, one small thing in the morning is enough to keep the rest of the day from drifting too far.

Just life, noticed slowly.   

"In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength."
Isaiah 30:15

Morning Awareness

Base: Herbal Infusion

Intention: Morning awareness, gentle focus, calm energy, hydration

Ingredients (1 serving):

• 
  1 tsp hibiscus
• 1 tsp tulsi (holy basil)
• Small pinch of rose petals
• 2 thin slices fresh ginger
• Pinch of mint
• Small pinch of dried citrus peel (orange or lemon)

Brewing Instructions:

• Heat water to 205-212°F (96-100°C).
• Add all ingredients to an infuser or teapot.
• Pour 8-10 oz of hot water over the herbs.
• Steep for 7-10 minutes.
• Strain and enjoy.

Flavor Profile:
Bright, tart, lightly floral, with warming ginger and a refreshing mint finish.

Benefits:

• Hibiscus supports hydration and cardiovascular health.
• Tulsi promotes calm focus and helps the body adapt to stress.
• Ginger aids digestion and provides gentle warmth.
• Rose petals offer a delicate floral note and support relaxation.
• Mint refreshes and may ease digestion.
• Citrus peel adds brightness and aromatic oils.

Best Time to Drink:
Morning, during journaling, prayer, meditation, or a quiet sunrise on the porch.

   

Crash And Burn

 Some mornings arrive heavy

When sleep comes in dribs and drabs

Before the day even begins

I wake up tired…

Ready for bed…

 

This is one of those mornings where

I fold myself into the couch,

Mindlessly scrolling

Sad and overwhelmed

 

The kitchen is a silent accusation

Dishes tetrised in the sink,

stacked like unfinished thoughts

Trash not taken out

Clutter from yesterday’s food prep

Sitting where it started.

 

This is my crash day

My burn day.

Everyday Life

The best part of my day has quietly become this little morning ritual. I fill the bird feeders, give a drink to the plants that aren’t on irrigation yet, fill the bird bath and then I sit down with my coffee and watch what can only be described as total bird anarchy outside my window. Honestly, it’s better than TV.

This is also the time of day when I feel things a little more deeply. I miss the people who aren’t here anymore. I catch myself thinking about my mom, and I like to imagine she’d approve of what I’ve made here. I can almost see her at the patio table—coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other—watching the sun come up behind the mountains like she’s got nowhere else to be.

I get to see my granddaughter this week. It’s been years, and I honestly don’t know how I’m supposed to look at her and not see a 9-year-old. Apparently, she went ahead and became an adult without asking.  I’m really looking forward to that time together, even if my brain needs a minute to catch up.

Meanwhile, the backyard has decided to keep me humble. I spent about seven hours yesterday wrestling with the irrigation system, which I’m pretty sure is winning. This week’s plan includes regulators and a couple of those four-port drip manifolds—“spiders.” I’m trying to run everything off one zone, but I’ve got a feeling this is going to turn into two… maybe three… which means more time on YouTube and a steady stream of me muttering, “I am way too old for this shit.”

And then there’s the yard itself. I look around and think, “Well… your ADHD brain really went all in, didn’t it?” I’ve made promises to two of my friends—no more random plants, no more lights, no more geegaws from thrift stores. I did not, however, say anything about Costco.  I know I might need to start attending Backyard Anonymous. “Hi, my name is…., and I bought another unnecessary garden decoration…”

But honestly? Sitting out here, listening to the wind chimes, the birds arguing over breakfast, and watching the sun melt into the sky… it’s my favorite place to be. It’s peaceful, it’s a little messy, and it feels like home.