God, we are heartbroken in the face of so much grief. What could we possibly call blessed? Could we try? Blessed are we who allow ourselves to feel it—the impossibilityof what was possible a second ago—the light decision, the casual stroll,the easy exchange and ordinary duty,a decent choice or a nothing one,the sweep of hours…
Blessed are we,when love makes us brave.Be it our friends or teachers,Our mentors or partners.Our siblings or parents or grands. From the littles who remind us to get in the game,even if there really is something more pressing to do in that moment.To the parents who remind us how quickly it all goes,whose wild, ungrounded…
God, this. This is impossible. This grief is too much to bear. If there was a tight orderto the world that you made,it’s come unspooledand no one will wind it up again. God, I feel it coming,that ache for the stories that will never be told.And an anger risingwhen i rememberwhat never should have been….
More Like This
More Like This
More Like This
More Like This
I see you there, suffering alone,with the illness or pain that lingersthough friends do not,—or cannot. You, in isolation,locked in, or locked out. You, the caregiversstruggling in the certaintythat there is not enoughstrength, time or resources. You who counsel others in their trauma,but suffer deeply from your own. You who are grieving losses, too many…
Blessed are we, who feel the wound of fresh loss.Or of a loss… no matter how fresh… that still makes our voices crack all these years later.We who are stuck in the impossibility of it. Frozen in disbelief.How can this be? It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Blessed are we, fumbling around for easy…
End of content
End of content
