revisiting closure

So.

Say you are injured deeply. Cut to the core and then split right through,
so you can see the sky through your middle.

And it really, really hurts, so much so that you're not quite sure you can stand it.

And it keeps on hurting.

Daily.
Hourly.
Every blessed, pained minute.

Sometimes you have to concentrate on breathing just so the seconds can pass.

Some might suggest that you let the wound be stitched up.
Close it up so that you can't even tell it's there

(well, except for the big scar and the dented-in hollow place)

and try to act like it didn't happen.
Patch it, spackle it, and move on, Missy!

But you have a fascination with what's been exposed.
And you don't want to act like it didn't happen
Or that you are the same.

So you tend and clean the wound, and it does heal.
But you don't let it close up.

And if you do that,
do you then have a special window into your innermost center?
A place you can expose to others, if you have a mind to, and say

Look, I was wounded like this, but I can still walk around, and isn't that cool?

A lens through which you can catch glimpses of the eternal?
Can it be a good thing?
Or even a thing of beauty?

Is the opposite of closure

An opening?

Today's lovely words are leant to us by Julie, a dear friend and mama to starborne Ward. She peppers her blog with poetry so familiar it calms and electrifies me all at once, and with thoughts on meditation, visions, gratitude, and staying open to cross-dimensional love.

If you'd like access to Julie's newly private blog (the reason for which is happily explained within), email us here at Glow and we'll pass you along to her.

Comments

[michelle]

delurking to say i've always felt this way, even with the hurt, but have never quite heard it expressed like that before.

i only wish the people around me could see things the same way.

thank you for this.

[HMC]

That is so lovely. Thank you.

[Martha]

My cracks are where the light gets in. It took a long time and lots of therapy, but I made it through the fire, tempered like steel. I share my battle wounds and scars when appropriate (whatever the heck that means) because I have learned that we all have loved, lost, and fear something. Losing a child is all of that rolled it one. F*ck3d trifecta for sure...

[kate]

Martha, what a brilliant comment.. tempered steel? I'll take that.

And thanks so much Julie. Seriously - please email us, those of you who'd like to read her blog. We'll get you in touch.

[B]

I found this echoing my thoughts so much I had to slap it on my own blog to share it with more people. Gracefully worded.

[Julie]

Thank you all so much for your words. I am so touched and honored that you liked this poem. And I'm so sorry that you have a reason to understand what I'm talking about. I'm in the process of making my blog private, so if any of you would like access to it, please just email me for that.

[STE]

Thank you for sharing this. It makes me think of lyrics from "Graceland" by Paul Simon:

And she said losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow

[Ann]

Such a beautiful way to describe such a dark and horrifying feeling.

I caught myself looking in the mirror now and again, studying my chest, my back, to verify there's no tangible wound.

[starrlife]

I wish I didn't know exactly what you mean although it is something that I do hold close to my heart.