All of us. Each of us.
With our distinct faces,
Our unique thumbprints,
Our own affliction.
For a long time
I have collected pain
And now I don't know
What to make of it.
Isn't this enough? To
Enter this world through
Our own mother's body?
But we are lost.
Grief waits in the alley
For the ambush.
Risa,
ReplyDeleteI have not written in quite a while, but I have been silently reading your work since before you moved to the Seattle area. I say silently, but that only refers to communicating directly with you - I often think about your words, and they have been an inspiration to me. My parter and I are "senior citizens", so certainly there is some personal relevance in what you write about, but I am also involved in Senior Theatre, as a playwright, actor, director and teacher, and much of what you have to say has made its way into my daily artistic life.
I know from what you have shared that your life has not been easy, and certainly much of what you have to say seems to come from pain, tragedy and occasionally desperation (I am speaking both of you and your patients) but I wanted you to know that is also illuminating paths of those you have never met.
If I can be of any assistance to you, do not hesitate to contact me.
Best wishes, and thank you, Bob
Hey Babe,
ReplyDeleteThanks for putting into words what is so most often turned away from and unrealized; that is, the truth. The effort is one of artistry, of poetry. Deep understanding. Your choice is clear.
Tell it and keep sharing, you are saving lives as you do the hard work hitting the nail on it's accepting head.
But what else is there? You're an artist. Perhaps grief just wants an autograph?
Stay well my dear.
Love, Mark