Sometimes I cry
the rain of tears
fail to hide
with words unsaid
I hit the wall
for the fight for holiness
deep, down, dead
my heart reels
I wait for the blessing
He knows my shame
and rains down
Art (Parshat Naso) Yolanda Raanan The Priestly Blessing
Hello friends. It has been a sad, slow journey since the untimely death of one of our daughters. I find it difficult to put words to page these days. A few months before she passed away, in a happier moment, my husband and I bought a vacation package to Las Vegas for New Years.
We aren’t gamblers, but enjoy the relaxed atmosphere of the many entertainment venues and eateries available. Visiting the hotels with all kinds of interesting stuff is a treat. One particular favourite stop of mine is the Art Gallery at the Bellagio. It is a small innocuous spot nestled along the busy promenade where visiting artists are showcased.
This last visit was spectacular in its simplicity. Perhaps it was my melancholy that perceived it this way, but the exhibit by the Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama was riveting to me. As the picture shows, it is just a collection of stainless steel polished globes. They are all grouped. But they are not randomly placed. The interesting thing is that they are arranged in such a way that no matter where you stand in the room you can see your reflection in the balls. It is named The Narcissus Garden.
The story of Ms. Kusama is really intriguing . You can check out her website here. I’ve included her picture. Spoiler alert….she has an obsession with dots. She also continues to wrestle with the big question of who we are and where are we going. As do I. ❤️ Then there is my experience in the Infinity Room. More on that later.
True story: While grocery shopping the clerks always asked if they could help me carry my groceries. When I was younger I felt quite offended. In fact one time I responded with a terse “I’ll let you know when I need help” as I picked up my 40 bags and struggled to the car. By the time I dragged them home I had broken out into a cold sweat. My husband offered to help, but I waved him away intent on proving that things were lighter than they looked.
Sometimes we are unwilling to let someone help make our burdens “light”. We would rather struggle along self righteously or indignantly wearing ourselves out, perhaps not wanting to be seen as weak… ignoring the help that is offered. How silly it seems now.
Haha ok. I’m a lousy listener. My mom (there she is again, sorry mom) told me once that I was vaccinated with a phonograph needle when I was a child. I think I was the only one in kindergarten that was rapped across the knuckles by my teacher with the pointer and told to “sit down and shut up.” Less social souls would have curled up in a ball sucking their thumbs, not me. I always have a word in due and not so due season lol.
It’s hard to explain, because I get accused of not listening enough. Let me tell you a secret. I hear it all. the important stuff. Ok ok…perhaps my husband Kenneth would argue at this point but ask me…his favorite colour…RED, How he likes his toast. Charcoal…almost. See?
I love words, and conversation. I guess I learned it from my Father who loved a great debate and like myself, loved to read and be informed and discuss, discuss, discuss. I feel strongly about things. I take it to heart. It usually isn’t about who is right. Its the FUN of the conversation. and when people give me their words I fill up with answers. Everyone wants to tell you THEIR story. Rarely do they ask to hear yours.
“The world had a way of speaking to you if you let it; the trick was learning to hear.”
― Justin Cronin, The City of Mirrors
The Bible , a book I read often as a child and adult says something I think is very profound.
“Can two people walk together unless they be agreed.”
That means listening to the whole story. And agreeing to remain friends. Sometimes it means to agree to differ.
And that’s the word. Ciao friends, thanks for listening.
Sometimes the heavens
Have ceased to hear me
I speak to the silent earth
I pray to the god of the lesser things
The god of everyday birds
Who offers nothing
Just sits on the edge of each new day
watches the unraveling of life
In unexpected ways
Pecking on empty seeds
Idly observes the demons
Wipes no tear stained cheeks
Lingers sullenly, consumed ,
Silently taunts my humanness
It’s not giving up really, just a bitter cup
Move along, there’s nothing to see here
Just a lesser god doing nothing
Except reminding me of my weaknesses
Daring me to give the heavens another chance.
photo : Ondrej Pakan
Mary was a precious soul. Her poetry paints beautiful pictures with her unique vision, style and language. My life has been enriched. Thank you Mary.
Photo :Iris~ vcl©️
I started real work as I call it when I was 15 years old. I went away to a church run private school and paid part of my tuition by working part time in a book bindery. My classes started at 730 am till noon then I worked the afternoon 1 until 4 . Oh yes…and all day Sunday. I worked as a cover layer ..rebinding old and putting new books together. Covers were cut and glue (old horse glue) was melted in a machine that was plastered on the covers and another machine was used to fold and trim the corners and edges. I was so efficient at my job that I was asked to make the year books. It was a huge task. Oh and all the work was done standing btw. And the hot glue smell? …..phew , especially if you forgot and it started to burn!
Those years cemented a lifelong love affair with books because an added bonus to my job was being able to read the books that I was working on during my lunch breaks. Books of poetry, books about the world, history books, books of maps, and magic…… all kinds of books.
I have also noticed through the years that whatever work I have done involves a lot of reading…❤️.
There is a song that I heard as a child that goes “I’ll work till Jesus comes” and I joke that I took those words literally.
If there is a heaven…(and I believe there is) …this quote says it all… book paradise.
“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”
― Jorge Luis Borges