Monday, January 9, 2012

Promise

Someone else’s pain has no place here, in the space where my breath catches. Most people’s pain doesn’t make it that far—I’m good at leaving it with its owner.

Yours, though.

Each time I see it, I draw that frozen knot into me for the smallest moment, even knowing there’s nothing I can do for it. I hold it close, hoping one heartbeat, the warmth of one indrawn breath might melt it.

But it’s full enough in here already, I know that, and there’s no room. I let it go on the out breath.

Still, if you’ll let me, I’ll touch it softly each time it comes up, in the only way a friend can: I’ll place my hand quietly on your heart and witness from the outside. I won’t expect to be the one to transform anything. I’ll sit with you for as long as it takes, listening patiently for the sharp cracks and gentle dripping of the thaw.

12 comments:

  1. Like a silent prayer from a stranger - only better because you have offered friendship.
    I think a good lesson here for me is the letting go part. It took me a long time to realize that is part of the total healing process. Thank you for the lovely way you expressed this thought.

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  2. Thanks, Amy. I was worried I was bringing the tone down with my last post... turns out there's something gentle and precious down there... xox

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  3. That's beautiful and makes me think of the word "abide."

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  4. The only kind of promise I ever want a friend to make - just stay close and wait.

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  5. Good lord but you're a good writer. As good a writer as a friend, Amy, and you are the platinum at being a friend. The are not enough superlatives or even poetry for what kind of friend you - except maybe the one you just wrote. holy shamoley you can write, woman.

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  6. Oh, and I say that because you capture the essence of things so well, but your capacity to catch the essence of a mature thing, a still and quiet thing, and catch it's vibrancy and remind us that the univse never stops moving even in the stillest of stillness... That's talent.

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  7. That last paragraph is so delicate and accurate. Gives me an image of pain like a heartbeat, receding and pushing again at awareness -- and the only way to be with someone through it. Minimally, gracefully said.

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