revisiting closure

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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.

glowing in the woods: august 2008

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Our hearts are full up these days at Glow. We're so grateful for all of you--our friends and our sisters and lostbaby daddies and everyone else in between who comes here for solidarity, perspective, warmth. Your voices make this space what it is--the words and stories of your babies and your motherhoods and your love, a most honourable and honouring sort of love.

This month we honour Gwendomama for her post Before, and after for bringing to us so vividly the bitter and the sweet of indulging dreams.

 

Remember to nominate your favourites by the 14th of every month--thanks to all of you for participating! And as always, let's do what we can to find and acknowledge new voices and friends.

August's glowing nominees were, in random order:

Tara at Finding Cohen for The hardest part

Angie at Bring the Rain for Letter to my daughter

Julia at Life After Infertility and Loss for Apples and oranges

Mrs. Spit at Mrs. Spit Spouts Off for Fear

Maddie's Mom at Trapped Under Ice for Just thinking

Carly at The Wonders From My Sleepless Nights for Christian

Kymberli at I'm a Smart One for Glow

Debbie at It's Just Me for To Maya

Gwendomama for When children die: what to do. or say. or not

Loribeth at The Road Less Travelled for The end... and the beginning


K@lakly at This Is Not What I Had Planned for You'll be there

 

insanity, perhaps

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Then, Kathy, a scientist, told me a ghost story. Her bravery in sharing this story touched me. Five years after Meaghan's death, shortly after settling into a new home, Kathy awoke in the middle of the night. In the darkness she saw the apparition of a curly haired girl who looked under the bed, into the closet, and then vanished. The girl was about the age her daughter would have been.

"One thought ran through my mind," Kathy said, "I though, My God, Maeghan's with us all along. We had moved and she was checking out the new digs."

Did Kathy really see the ghost? I think she did, yet I don't know. But I will tell you this: In the middle of the night, I watch.

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