I have since forever writing and composing on clouds and water and leading a blissfully ignorant life, unscathed as it were by the vicissitudes of life, despite having gone through much.
However now, as a mother I feel responsible and more earth drawn. The Boston Marathon Bombing and its aftermath have made me understand that not everything is a poetic spool of expressions. Here I was with my child at the Doctor’s office 5 minutes away from the crime scene on Monday, suddenly feeling a far-reaching transformation within.
It is not that I have forgotten summer’s recognition of blossoms or light on the reeds . . . I am just closer to finding a meaning between the elasticity of reality and dreams, between a mythic island and a real one.
I know we will rise above this. I just hope we don’t forget about this. It makes me think of birds called the rain doves, birds painted with rain. The sight of a bunch of these birds dancing over a large green field, used to make me feel that the world is still so good. I feel I hear their doleful cries now, predicting rain. Clear drops that will be as a caress causing an unfailing feeling to be gently washed by an almost elegiac sunrise, where our children will smile unmarred by what has happened or what could happen.
I feel a relational world. I understand the chasm between the cognitive and the intuitive. I see Joan of Arc, coming out of another light from the deepest core of my memories when as a child my dad would narrate stories of her courage and grit. I would only hear stories then, now in the wake of these events and the final outcome I feel like Joan of Arc exhaling breathing and absorbing the Universe just as I would like my child to be conscious and feel safe in. I wouldn’t trade places with anyone to be here in: Cambridge, Massachusetts.