On Quitting Smoking
I raised her hand to my lips:
Cigarette smoke and soap and perfume--
Rebellion and shame--
Lingering in the scent
Of her fingertips.
--Rebellion and Shame - written by me - 2003
I was 18. It was the year after I ran away from home, the year I transitioned from homeschool to college, the year I started smoking. As I fought to assert my freedom, I struggled: new environments, survival, feelings of self loathing, social interactions, battles of chemistry and emotion. The smoke and ash in my throat felt foreign and raw, but I loved how it burned. I loved how it killed my hunger and made me feel empowered, liberated from my fundamentalistic upbringing.
Over the years, the smoking came and went, in phases. From clove cigarettes, to bongs, to Reds. I never really needed it, but, oh, how I loved it! The feeling of fire in my lungs, and the way the smoke exhaled in a soft white stream...
With my coffee in the morning. Between classes. Rituals, with lovers and friends. There was nothing like a bowl before getting down to business with a project, or settling down to create. It was the curtain, separating work from play.
And then, I was dancing, traveling, all over the world. Little spliffs -hand rolled- with green gifts and tobacco from the yellow calico pouch I made myself. Smoking brought people together, sparked conversation. Time slowed during these intermissions, and so many beautiful connections were made, talking to strangers, all senses engaged...
...But the tiny spark between fanned fingers could always make a space too - if needed - between me and he. And nothing said, "I know exactly where I'm going; don't mess with me," in the rough part of town, than a lit cigarette, a steady gaze and a fierce step.
For all that I loved it, a still small voice kept telling me: "stop." I tried not to listen, but then I was a mother. And then (though I tried to deny it) my lungs started to prod me with sensations, saying the same. I remembered the poem I'd written (above) and thought about how it might one day be my epitaph. Revisiting my diaries I see the scribbled wars with myself, over years' time. And then, the word "God" crept onto the pages: "God is speaking to you and saying: stop." "You are killing your daughter's mother."
Then COVID happened. I knew that I had every right to keep smoking if I wanted to. But I could not rationalize knowingly damaging my lungs during a global respiratory pandemic.
The last party I went to before everything shut down was a small and intimate gathering of women, celebrating International Womens' Day. At the end of the evening I sat in my car with a soul sister, in front of my house, unburdening my heart. I rolled up the crumbs that remained in my tattered tobacco pouch and we smoked, and cried, and I knew it was time.
That was March 7th - 6 months ago today. I have not smoked anything since then. The craziness of the past few months and the shutting down of the activities attached to smoking rituals made for perfect timing. I thank God for freeing me so painlessly!
As I remember so many sweet shared moments, my emotions are stirred. It feels nostalgic and bittersweet, like the end of an era. In my heart though, I know: this step was perfect, and good.
https://lyricstranslate.com/en/fumando-espero-smoking-i-wait.html
Cigarette smoke and soap and perfume--
Rebellion and shame--
Lingering in the scent
Of her fingertips.
--Rebellion and Shame - written by me - 2003
I was 18. It was the year after I ran away from home, the year I transitioned from homeschool to college, the year I started smoking. As I fought to assert my freedom, I struggled: new environments, survival, feelings of self loathing, social interactions, battles of chemistry and emotion. The smoke and ash in my throat felt foreign and raw, but I loved how it burned. I loved how it killed my hunger and made me feel empowered, liberated from my fundamentalistic upbringing.
Over the years, the smoking came and went, in phases. From clove cigarettes, to bongs, to Reds. I never really needed it, but, oh, how I loved it! The feeling of fire in my lungs, and the way the smoke exhaled in a soft white stream...
With my coffee in the morning. Between classes. Rituals, with lovers and friends. There was nothing like a bowl before getting down to business with a project, or settling down to create. It was the curtain, separating work from play.
And then, I was dancing, traveling, all over the world. Little spliffs -hand rolled- with green gifts and tobacco from the yellow calico pouch I made myself. Smoking brought people together, sparked conversation. Time slowed during these intermissions, and so many beautiful connections were made, talking to strangers, all senses engaged...
...But the tiny spark between fanned fingers could always make a space too - if needed - between me and he. And nothing said, "I know exactly where I'm going; don't mess with me," in the rough part of town, than a lit cigarette, a steady gaze and a fierce step.
For all that I loved it, a still small voice kept telling me: "stop." I tried not to listen, but then I was a mother. And then (though I tried to deny it) my lungs started to prod me with sensations, saying the same. I remembered the poem I'd written (above) and thought about how it might one day be my epitaph. Revisiting my diaries I see the scribbled wars with myself, over years' time. And then, the word "God" crept onto the pages: "God is speaking to you and saying: stop." "You are killing your daughter's mother."
Then COVID happened. I knew that I had every right to keep smoking if I wanted to. But I could not rationalize knowingly damaging my lungs during a global respiratory pandemic.
The last party I went to before everything shut down was a small and intimate gathering of women, celebrating International Womens' Day. At the end of the evening I sat in my car with a soul sister, in front of my house, unburdening my heart. I rolled up the crumbs that remained in my tattered tobacco pouch and we smoked, and cried, and I knew it was time.
That was March 7th - 6 months ago today. I have not smoked anything since then. The craziness of the past few months and the shutting down of the activities attached to smoking rituals made for perfect timing. I thank God for freeing me so painlessly!
As I remember so many sweet shared moments, my emotions are stirred. It feels nostalgic and bittersweet, like the end of an era. In my heart though, I know: this step was perfect, and good.
https://lyricstranslate.com/en/fumando-espero-smoking-i-wait.html