May 6 by The Running Son
I just returned from a blog. On it, a poet, a mother, was pouring her heart out as clear-minded and direct as I have seen in a day or two, absolutely lost.
I felt so strongly, of course I commented. Even left a link to a particular post, which I have done 2 times today without question of whether it was “right” or appropriate. OK, a small question, but questions are dangerous sometimes. Heart-wrenching questions are worked out in poetry every night. Easy to find. Look in the WordPress tag search. Just look up “poetry” or “poem”.
Some kill me inside. They have few or no likes, but way more alarming, no love felt. There are images drawn of talented and responsible people, in beautiful parts of the world, but so full of questions and conflict, being worked out with determination or hopelessness, hopefully toward union, and answers, and feeling better and being able to cook and clean. Or be nice to our children and not take our sadness out on them.
Not easy. I wanted so much to do something. So I did. I entered the blog and the life of this blogger as I can know her, and I read the poem line by line, and felt sadness, but at the same time, I felt community. I wasn’t alone. When she sees the like, I hope she knows, I was there. And I hope the comment gave her a hand-out. Stretched. As genuine as I could make it, to her. Wherever she lives and whoever she is.
No picture of her? No matter. I didn’t care. Because I saw her, or enough of her to know that there is a parallel frequency we have been on each of us, and within that frequency, many separate human emotions from separate people with separate lives, become mutually familiar.
That is to say, a small but priceless union can be made.
Like and comment. It may come back to you a hundred-fold when your next lonely night comes around. And it probably will. For all of us.
Peace and lots of midnight love.