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barbtries a blog
Thursday, September 25, 2003
irony - epiphany
Rumi: I've had enough of sleepless nights, of my unspoke grief, of my tired wisdom. Come my treasure, my breath of life come and dress my wounds and be my cure. Enough of words. Come to me without a sound.

9/25/2003 1:51:53 AM

hi Bekah-la, maybe I’ve missed you so much because I haven’t been touching base with you just like this. Because I have not gotten Andy’s letter into the mail and have not written the poem worked on the book gotten something in the mail having to do with the book….

Anyway sitting here just a little bit inspired and you are here darling girl you are. This is not much I know I’ll just leave it open for the moment all heaven breaks loose and I travel then. Then to you – like falling back into a wall of pillows but I climb to the plane of spirit to be next to the girl I love best.

She is my girl, my girl, my girl, talking bout my girl…

Ooh. Yeah.

Because after over two years of seeking and pain and questioning and crying I find that the greatest sadness is inextricably bound to the greatest joy. And this I call irony. Knowing that what allows the full panoply of human emotional experience to be within my purview is my passion. This I name epiphany.

Passion. To suffer. I have accused myself of clinging to my suffering. That was the distant past before losing you took me to whole new levels of hell. That was about men and romantic love that I chased and craved and abased myself for in vain, to end up single and bereft before the age of 50. The epiphany is in the knowing that I have not done wrong by myself or my children or the world to have been passionate in my loving. If I was not, I could not be open and hopeful in my present state. I would not know you were here, though perhaps you would be here.

Love. Is passion, is feeling, makes all things possible. If we are not feeling our experience is there a reason for it to be? When I am missing you I am suffering and this will be true from now on and cannot change. So I will suffer bekah, and there is a pocket of triumph in the very suffering. Passion gives me the whole range of experience and I will partake of this all of this this pain so exquisite it cannot be described this joy so pure it rushes like spring water on a hot day to refresh us again and again…love.


Love, mom



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