I've been making some headway with packing-at least that's what I keep telling myself. I know I have accomplished quite a bit, but it feels like I've done nothing. I keep getting sidetracked by things, like sweet pictures of the kids when they were little. I was going through a stack of photos when the enormity of what we're doing struck me. Hard. It was one of those early pictures of Rachel, the ones that I can look with 20/20 hindsight and see Autism's calling card. It was a time of sweet ignorance, when we knew something wasn't quite right, but had no clue what it would mean to us, or her. I'm always surprised by this seemingly never-ending grief for what might have been.
After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes
by, Emily Dickinson
by, Emily Dickinson
After great pain, a formal feeling comes
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone
This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow
First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone
This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow
First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go
12 comments:
There are no words adequate to respond to what you have shared. Except, I hear you. And, I am here and we are here.
Much love to you, from me.
You are very kind Sue, thank you. I need to stop listening to certain music while I pack. Packing was hard enough without a soundtrack to match my feelings. Tomorrow, I think I'll listen to hip-hop, a music style to which I can't/don't relate. I'll avoid all photos and give that job to one of the men.
Thank you Lisa.
Hugs from me.
For every thing there is a season...
I've never read that poem of Emily Dickenson. It is so right.
A time of internal inventory as the external takes place---for me the external facilitate the process of the internal. Then the healing begins.
Much love to you. You've had quite a year...
I don't know what to say. I always tell myself that feelings of deep compassion or sorrow or grief are better than the opposite feelings. So in some ways they are positive feelings. If you weren't such a caring person you couldn't hurt so deeply. I like the quotes you have been putting up, especially this one about the unawares.
So sorry. My heart goes out to you. There's no pain like the pain over our children I think.
The poem says it all. I think you're right to take time to reflect and not go at it like a mad thing. Photos are the things that stop you in your tracks. I keep trying to clean the cupboards but come across photos, trinkets, paintings and bits and pieces of the past. I sit and reminisce when it's from somebody no longer with me.
Yes get the cheery music on tomorrow, maybe a bit of Dancing Queen & have a bit of a dance about too. Take care, thinking about you.
...definitely some upbeat music, or talk radio/NPR. That can be engrossing. Oh, who am I kidding?:>) I can't even get the attic cleaned out! I found a bunch of orphaned game pieces--the original games ARE GONE. I can't even throw those out. I tossed them all in a Ball canning jar and stuck it above my kitchen sink. I hate throwing out my girls' childhoods.
Thank you for sharing this Rudee. and I love the poem. What might have been... is a very strong emotion. I'm sending you a hug and a prayer
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