As I often do during or after a crisis, I've lost a lot of my ability to read this week. It's heartbreak into heartbreak. I feel brain-sore and unstitched. But I did finish one book of poems. Poems show up, some of the best are bite-sized, and they give me a little hope, a little mind-healing.
Restoration seems nearly impossible, but I've got to seek it on a small scale. Coming home, I took comfort in the familiar, in my own space. My armchair, my books, my mirror, my pajamas, my purple silk rose hiding in a glass Dr. Pepper bottle on top of the fridge.
Trauma can displace us and rip away our stories. We have to hold right to our stories and the stories of others, professional storytellers or not. Stories are one of the only treatments for just about anything, whether we tell or listen and whether we write or read. Without stories, I think I would burst with salt water.
I have had two good, unexpected phone calls, Those restored me a bit.
Some of the goslings by the pone are still cute. A cushion in supporting my sore upper back. I've been think about past and future gifts.
Inspiring lists, sparkling reads, and quirky musings from a writer~reader~wife~mama~advocate who wants to seek, create, and savor life's sweet bits.
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