When We Rise Up From Our Bed of Tears

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Sometimes it’s okay to walk away for a time, to leave the dark and allow the sun to slide warm and languid across your cheek. To climb a mountain, spread your arms to the cerulean sky, to howl fierce and glad and free at the filling moon.

We have been initiated in the worst of ways, and the price was the death of a baby, babies, a child, children, or perhaps of fertility and physical wholeness, and always of tenderly tended dreams. And we are not the same. We can never go back, as much as we might try to claw our way back into the shredded cocoon where hope was easy and babies never died.

Grief has made a friend, an enemy, an ally of the dark. The light becomes raw and blinding. We learn to walk blind, with bleeding hearts. Perhaps we even become comfortable, excruciatingly comfortable here.

But perhaps, one day the black will lose its luster, and you will find yourself enamored with the dawn.

And –

this is okay.
Today I'm writing  over at Still Standing Magazine.

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