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Not Unraveling . . . Yet

This morning . . . we have the sun rising on a new day.  And a pile of unruly blue knitting that is beginning to wear me out.

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It's the kind of pattern that leaves much to be desired in the construction-and-instruction department . . . and you can't really try the unruly thing on during the making . . . and I'm nearing the finish . . . and keeping my fingers crossed . . . that it all turns out in the blocking. 

But it's been decent and mindless pandemic knitting, so there is that.

Let's have a poem instead!

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The Cure
Albert Huffstickler

We think we get over things.
We don't get over things.
Or say, we get over the measles
but not a broken heart.
We need to make that distinction.
The things that become part of our experience
never become less a part of our experience.
How can I say it?
The way to "get over" a life is to die.
Short of that, you move with it,
let the pain be pain,
not in the hope that it will vanish,
but in the faith that it will fit in,
find its place in the shape of things
and be then not any less pain but true to form.
Because anything natural has an inherent shape
and will flow towards it.
And a life is as natural as a leaf.
That's what we're looking for:
not the end of a thing but the shape of it.
Wisdom is seeing the shape of your life
without obliterating (getting over) a single
instant of it.

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April is National Poetry Month, and each year, in April, I celebrate poetry here on my blog.  Hoping to win over some converts to the beauty and peace and accessibility of poetry.  Sharing something that brings me joy.

Today's poem was published in Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, 2017, Grayson Books, and edited by Phyllis Cole-Dar and Ruby R. Wilson.  Information about the author can be found here.

 

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