As young children we are replete with impressions, needs and affective responses, ( feeling states). We play in the ambiance of literal and non-literal descriptors as we find words to distinguish these images and experiences. We relay on our short history of experience and the interpretations that proximate adults and children offer to us, through
In the previous post I offered a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks. This poem is a a supplication, inviting us to gather up the parts of us that have been disinherited. The words are strong, unapologetic. The timing, the rhythm , the repetition, soothing us into ease. Her language evokes a state. It builds a place,
Infirm Everybody here Is infirm. Everybody here is infirm. Oh. Mend me. Mend me. Lord. Today I Say to them Say to them say to them, Lord: Look! I am beautiful, beautiful with My wing that is wounded My eye that is bonded Or my ear not funded Or my walk all a-wobble I’m
“Everybody here Is infirm. Everybody here is infirm. Oh. Mend me. Mend me. Lord.Today I Say to them Say to them say to them, Lord: Look! I am beautiful, beautiful with My wing that is wounded My eye that is bonded Or my ear not funded Or my walk all a-wobble I’m enough to be
Often patients come to me worried about the turmoil of the world. It seems like there is less illusion of security. So how do we find a way to bear that reality and still engage wholeheartedly in life? This is the zillion dollar question. Recently I witnessed the creation of a sand mandala by the