Painting & Poetry

To be completely honest, its been rough lately.  I have gotten to another layer of grief around the ending of my romantic relationship.  We were in the denial stage for the past few weeks and tried on the “lets stay friends” roles.  Nothing changed.  Of course, it didn’t.  We needed these past few weeks to realize that just because two people love and even like each other it doesn’t mean they are meant to be together.  That is what is so hard about this ending.  Neither one of us are assholes.  It would be so much easier if we were.  This has been the hardest ending I’ve ever had because of that reason.  There is nothing to be angry at him for.  I mean, I could find things if I really wanted to, and I have tried, but its not very honest in the long run.

I was talking to a friend last night and telling her how lost I am now.  I’ve always known who I wanted to be when I grow up.  The past 20 some years I’ve even lived some of that dream.  Now, I just don’t know. . . So, today, I did what I do when I just don’t know.  I wrote a poem and I painted.  The poem came from a place of deep sorrow and I wanted the painting to reflect the same.  That’s the beautiful thing about painting.  It becomes its own thing.  Painting comes from the heart and soul and knows more than the mind.  The wisdom of the painting tells me from deep grief a new life is formed, if we choose it.  I hope to have the courage to do so.

 

 

The QuickeningThe Keening

Voices,
keening on the wind.
Echoing.
Grief in my heart.
Breath.
Held in.
Body,
curled tight.
Not.
Understanding.
Why?

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