The nation of the awful stars,I am always watching,
The wandering star whose blaze is brief,
These make me beat against the bars
Of my grief;
My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.
O fretted heart tossed to and fro,
So fain to flee, so fain to rest!
All glories that are high or low,
East or west,
Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go. (from Fluttered Wings, C. Rossetti)
always on the lookout for some new way of thinking;
some different way of seeing
that will make sense of this strange grief I feel.
Why strange, when it has been so long?
By now, how is it that this is not yet familiar?
Why grief, when I have lived with less and yet been satisfied?
Why still this sudden emptiness,
this sense of loss?
What have I lost?
Everywhere there is preaching, advice
(I can't complain - I seek it out)
There are answers, smooth and pat and trite
Neat boxes of experience, tied up with bows
People eager to explain what they had not known
People full of contrition now
(I see them in my mind, all wisely nodding)
They had not understood;
had sought the things that pleased themselves -
our Father rescued them.
The hurt is over now, because they see aright
Why can't I see? What is waiting to happen before my healing comes?
