Saturday, February 25, 2012

Some things I write


Some things I write, I couldn’t say aloud without giving way to tears. And so the writing of them is weeping of a kind.

This morning, at about four, I started from a dream in which I found my mother in the entryway of an old church. I’d climbed the stone steps unaware of her presence, yet looking for, or expecting, to find something, or someone. She was alone, and looked so lost and afraid, that I immediately rushed to her side to comfort her. I felt her weight against my shoulder, and as she sighed, and again sighed, allowing me to support her, her burden passed into me in waves of relief and gratitude. As I guided her into a safer light — the first steps toward home, I thought — I was glad I’d arrived in time. And yet I was also so sad that I still haven’t recovered, and am not sure I will, or even care to. And that, by its own light and peculiar warmth, also gives me joy.


13 comments:

Akeith Walters said...

How very moving.

Jonathan Chant said...

Yes, very beautiful...

Theanne said...

yes!

temporal rooms said...

to take the pain of others is a gift where there might never be a recovery. but how we learn and live better for it is such a reward.
a very beautiful piece William.

~robert

Jan said...

So touching, and beautiful, that I cried enough tears for us both~~~

-K- said...

Anyone who appreciates this would certainly enjoy William's book, "The Painting of You."

(FYI - this is a totally unsolicted response; I only know William through his writings.)

nouvelles couleurs - vienna atelier said...

I'm going sentimental with this... Ps: i agree with -k-

Tàne Mar said...

"her burden passed into me in waves of relief and gratitude" -
that the chemistry of carrying for each other! profound!!!
thank you, William

William Michaelian said...

I thank each and every one of you — Gray; Jonathan; Theanne; Robert; Jan; Kevin; Laura; and Tanya — for your kind reception and understanding. You are each, in your own way, a beautiful illustration of my good fortune.

Conrad DiDiodato said...

William,

I sometimes wonder if things don't sometimes write us...

William Michaelian said...

Conrad, I feel they do. And I feel that the things we write most definitely do; we are as much a record of what we write as what we write is a record of us.

Aleks said...

:) and again I felt like a little frog sitting outside of your open window, listening....
how tender and so familiar....


here again I must prove Im not a robot :) I really am not,honestly :)

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, dear Aleks.