Of words, beauty and a heavy heart.
As I walk another 10 minutes up the hill, towards the classroom, the path seems steeper...
Why does my heart feels so heavy, I wonder.
Its July 11th and after a day of community art, small group session and art-making, I start a new subject course that I am pretty excited about ( Language & Discourse in Expressive Arts Therapy and Aesthetic Responsability by Margo Fuchs Knill) yet the heaviness seems to linger. Class begins and one of the first things we do is a free writing exercise. I grab pen and paper and a strong feeling hits me, as the image of my dad comes to mind. I begin to write and the heaviness transform into these words:
The hour is near
I can feel it deep down in my soul
like a grey cloud moving in the skies before the pouring rain
The hour is near
I can hear the tears welling down
forming a massive body waiting
for the sound of the bells of death
The hour is near
where the memories will come back
like blue butterflies as you fly away with peaceful eyes.
The hour is near
I can feel the great sadness coming to greet me
as you wave a last goodbye
The hour is near
When your comfort
will bring me to the land of nostalgia and melancholy
The hour is near
I can feel it deep down in my soul
Could my heart ever be ready when the clock ticks eight
as you fly away?
Overwhelming thoughts.
I could share with you about what I have learn this week, but I rather share some of the words that have come up as we did different exercises. These words have helped me to shape the heaviness of knowing that my dad is his last stage of Alzheimer (needing around the clock assistance, almost complete loss of awareness and the ability to walk, refusing to eat, and fighting a strong kidney infection) and how my mom, being his only caregiver, is being affected both physically and mentally.
In the words of Hilde Domin, poetry takes courage. Courage to tell, courage to name, courage to call.
Well, here are some words of my courage.
When asked to write a 7 lines poem about where do I come from:
A story of sweat and sea:
I was born to warmhearted nomads
searching for home and belonging
among the sweetness of mangoes and coconut trees
I was born into a voyage of memory bliss
built with dreams of cinder blocks, laughter and tears
binded with the salt of sweat and the roaring sea.
But the ship collapsed for me to rebuilt.
What would I do from now on, my teacher asked?
From now on:
From now on
I will open doors for the unknown
into the ordinary seconds of life
making them eternity.
From now on
I will shut the windows
to restlessness and hurry
and I will dance in the stillness
of a whispering wind.
From now on
I will look into the skies
on a moonlit night
and wonder at the hand of the Maker
that calls by name each star
From now on
I will let go a kite of hope
to wander into a stranger's land
and I'll lend a hand
to a foreign heart.
From now on, I'll take plume and ink
to make love to paper hearts
birthing stories of beauty wonder
From now on
I will go on.
When asked to write a short poem on hope, using a few words chosen by another classmate:
Hope:
Beyond life's threshold lies a dream
made of kindness, tea and cream
I close my eyes and then I see
how close that dream can be.
Here is my fable:
The Kingfisher and the duck:
From a chesnut tree a kingfisher hover down to the river
to a drake and duck traveling by
With haughty eyes and disdaunful chirping he asked to the duck
How can it be that you are so dreadfully dull
when the one next to you is intensely hued.
With a gentle and humble manner the lady reply
Don’t look down on me because you are unable to see
the treasury feathers hidden under my wings
If you open your sight to what its unseen
You will find in the seemingly ordinary
a dazzling beauty to catch your heart and eyes.
After seeing my surroundings and told to write a poem of praise:
Such a beauty:
Maker of wonders, how can it be?
Such a beauty exist.
Bewildered, my heart wants to sing
your grace and beauty scattered around
for all to see.
The strong gentle eyes of the horse
The streak of light piercing the greyness of cotton clouds
The grandiosity of mountain peeks lovingly embracing the sky
The slow dance of the wind and the weeds
Maker of wonders, how can it be?
Such a beauty exist.
The joyful antennas of a laborious kingdom
the chivering sight of a community of trees
Roots down, arms upwards, reaching out.
Maker of wonders, how can it be?
Such a beauty exist.
Delighted, my eyes in awe behold
your grace and goodness portrayed around
for me to seek.
Maker of wonders, how can it be?
Such a beauty exist.
A symbiotic relationship between you and me.
Words continue to flow, and though there is still some heaviness, there is a felt sense of peace above of all. Maybe is the beauty of memories and my surroundings, the laughter of my son as he tries to make a step forward, the company of friends, the compassionate and loving gaze of my husband and the soothing comfort of the hand of my Creator, that holds me through.
