Sunday, May 17, 2009

parenting mental unwellness

Today began with joy and celebration and has once again ended here, at a wall I cannot move. I have done this before and finally managed to turn around in another direction. This time, the wall is different, aren't they all? I am not finished yet, wishing to share the garden I imagine is inside. I am so very tired. What irony! I am a good therapist, but can do nothing for my own children. The following is a poem (good or bad- yo be the judge) I wrote when the first child went finally lost to us.

Is it really you
who stands east of here
having ridden the wind
been carried by my left hand?

Two golden and silver rings
celebrate those carried before.
Just two:
as eyes, as ears, as a pair.
For you, having chosen to ride
on only the smallest finger
straddling a weak knuckle
there is no ring pale enough.


The east remains to my left
I dare not turn full face into it
in the hope of moving it from that side

I might see
that you have sung
no songs
into the mountain crossing air
stand back to here, facing a large and roaring ocean.

by susanne wichert.

I wonder, does anybody read this stuff? Doesn't matter really--tonight it helps to write it. Good health, peace and kindness to all, love sopha.

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