The Unbroken

There is a brokenness
out of which comes the unbroken,
a shatteredness
out of which blooms the unshatterable.
There is a sorrow 
beyond all grief which leads to joy
and a fragility
out of whose depths emerges strength.

There is a hollow space
too vase for words
through which we pass with each loss,
out of whose darkness
we are sanctified into being. 

There is a cry deeper than all sound
whose serrated edges cut the heart
as we break open to the place inside
which is unbreakable and whole, 
while learning to sing. 

-Rashani Réa

pieces

I watched her drop the mirror
saw her face adopt the fear
that she would now been destined
to bad luck for seven years

but she looked at the pieces
there were hundreds, maybe more
and she noticed how they caught the light
in ways they'd not before

the light was bouncing everywhere
all spirited and bright
a hundred little mirrors
bringing all that light to life

so she picked up all the pieces
whilst she still had every chance
and she turned her bad luck
into opportunities to dance

and if you ever watched her
you would notice how she smiled
and how she moved and shimmered
like her soul had come alive

and if you didn't know her secret
you would not consider
that the glitterball she danced around
was once a broken mirror

-Becky Hemsley

Space

(I wrote a poem about how I'm feeling.)

My heart is a fist

clenched and forgotten

pounding tombstones in my chest

It is an anchor

ruthless, relentless

dragging me into the deep

It is a compass

desiring true north

but finding only chaos

My heart is a storm

Its raging rain clouds

shatter puddles beneath me

In my solitude

a shooting star

unwelcome and uncaring

sears my darkest space

My heart is on fire

I am undone

electrified within

A void searching 

for a soul in the night

Desperately seeking

the heart

that once mirrored mine

In the forest

 

breathe

she sat at the back

and they said she was shy

she led from the front 

and they hated her pride

they asked her advice 

and then questioned her guidance
they branded her loud

then were shocked by her silence

when she shared no ambition 

they said it was sad
so she told them her dreams 

and they said she was mad

they told her they'd listen

then covered their ears
and gave her a hug 

whilst they laughed at her fears

and she listened to all of it 

thinking she should
be the girl they told her to be 

best as she could

but one day she asked 

what was best for herself
instead of trying 

to please everyone else

so she walked to the forest 

and stood with the trees
she heard the wind whisper 

and dance with the leaves

and she spoke to the willow, 

the elm and the pine
and she told them what she'd been told 

time after time

she told them she never

felt nearly enough
she was either too little 

or far, far too much

too loud or too quiet

too fierce or too weak
too wise or too foolish

too bold or too meek

then she found a small clearing 

surrounded by firs
and she stopped and she heard 

what the trees said to her

and she sat there for hours 

not wanting to leave

for the forest said nothing... 

it just let her breathe. 

-Becky Hemsley

Awake

You dream I'm looking down on you
like a light on a ceiling
as though you are a thing

and I am a thing, 
a light you aren't,
shining down

on a body
you can't escape
even in dreams, like this one

in which you dream
you're awake, trying to awake
to the light that holds you together

like sticky surgical tape
even when you're a vibrating ruin, a mistake
that keeps making mistakes, 

too hurt,
too convinced you're nothing
to understand or explain

the light you dream you see,
sassy, dancing,
clothing you in splendor,

glorying in your glory.
That's when you're awake.

-Joy Ladin

Letter to a friend

This is my path. It is not a path of my choice, but it a path I must walk mindfully and with intention. It is a journey through grief that takes time. Every cell in my body aches. I may be impatient, distracted, frustrated, and unfocused. I won't want to celebrate anything. I may get angry more easily, or I may seem hopeless. I will shed many, many, many tears. I won't smile as often as my old self. Smiling hurts now. Most everything hurts some days, even breathing. 

But please, just sit beside me. 

Say nothing. 

Do not offer a cure. 

Or a pill, or a word, or a potion. 

Witness my suffering and don't turn away from me. 

Please be gentle with me. 

Please, self, be gentle with me, too. 

-Joanne Cacciatore, Bearing the Unbearable: Love, Loss, and the Heartbreaking Path of Grief