Day 766

“I have only a story and my belief in the power of story to save us.”
– by Bruce Weigl.

“We are beings who require language to be. It is an existential imperative that people share stories. Indeed, the human experience is contingent upon the interaction of stories.”
– by Frances Driscoll, a survivor of rape and a writer with the power to heal through poetry as a way to process pain, giving voice to the voiceless.

Island of the Raped Women

There are no paved roads here
And all of the goats are well-behaved.
Mornings, beneath thatched shelters,
we paint wide-brimmed straw hats.
We paint them inside and outside.

We paint very very fast.
Five hats a morning.
We paint very very slow.
One hat a week.
All of our hats are beautiful
and we all look beautiful in our hats.

Afternoons, we take turns:
mapping baby crabs moving in and out of sand,
napping, baking.
We make orange and almond cake.
This requires essence and rind.
Whipped cream. Imagination.
We make soft orange cream.
This requires juice of five oranges and juice of one lemon.
(Sometimes we substitute lime for the lemon. This is also good.)

An enamel lined pan.
Four egg yolks and four ounces of sugar.
This requires careful straining,
Constant stirring, gentle whisking.
Watching for things not to boil.
Waiting for things to cool. We are good at this.
We pour our soft orange cream into custard cups.
We serve this with sponge cake.

Before dinner, we ruffle pink sand from one another’s hair.
This feels wonderful and we pretend to find the results interesting.
We all eat in moderation
and there is no difficulty swallowing.
We go to bed early.
(Maybe, we even turn off lights. Maybe, we even sleep naked. Maybe.)
We all sleep through the night.

We wake eager from dreams
filled with blue things and designs for hats.
At breakfast, we make a song,
Chanting our litany of so much collected blue.
We do not talk of going back to the world.

We talk of something else sweet to try with the oranges: Sponge custard.
Served with thick cream or perhaps with raspberry sauce.
We paint hats. We paint hats.

droppedimage

 

Day 757

photo

Feel No Guilt in Laughter

Feel no guilt in laughter
They would know how much you care
Feel no sorrow in a smile
That they are not here to share.

You cannot grieve forever
They would not want you to
They would hope that you could carry on
The way you always do.

So talk about the good times
And the way you showed you cared
The days you spent together
And all the happiness you shared.

Let memories surround you
A word someone may say
Will suddenly recapture a time, an hour, a day,
That brings them back as clearly
As though they were still here
And fill you with the feeling
That they are always near.

For if you keep those moments
You will never be apart
And they will live forever
Locked safe within your heart.

– Anonymous.

Day 752

img_0321

“This weekend I am going for a girl’s night out” said I.
“You are not a girl” Saagar responded with amusement.
“I want you to remember that even when I am 85 years old, I will still be a girl.”

Yet, I lost that girl. I became a grieving mother. Nothing more.

2 months ago I took my Mum to a hobby craft shop. I thought she would love seeing all the pretty things in there as she is creative and full of great ideas. But it was me. It turned out to be a treasure trove for me. I was completely sucked into the rows of lovely stickers, stationery, buttons, pens and ribbons. I wasn’t sure what I would do with them but I couldn’t help bringing a few things home.

One Sunday morning I took them all out and displayed them on the kitchen table. After looking at my loot for a while some ideas started taking shape and I made a few birthday cards, thank you notes, messages of sympathy, blank notes with some art work, nothing-in-particular cards and so on. I was on a roll. I found that girl!

Now I know where she’s been hiding. I’ll be keeping track of her. She’s fun!