Friday, August 15, 2014

Colors are the wounds of light

William Blake

I must have had a difficult dream life last night as I slept, because I woke feeling bruised and worn, hot behind the eyes. I woke just before dawn when it was still dark, watched the sun come up through the blinds on the door. Yesterday, I bought myself some tiny pink roses and put them in a vase and put the vase on my bedroom dresser. Under the vase, I put a white piece of notepaper on which was written the names and numbers of the people at Sophie's school who are supposed to be helping us. So much of my energy is directed toward the hostile, toward difficulty. I thought I'd let the colors do the work.

Does that make sense?


  1. Oh yes and absolutely. I have done something very like this many times.

  2. May your pink roses do the job. Should they need augmentation, remember that boring old advocacy mantra of document, document, document, generously cc'ing all email correspondence to the superior's superior's superior. The echoes cut a swath...

  3. Perfect sense. It sounds like a version of Anne Lamott's God box.

  4. Not only does it make sense, it seems very wise.

  5. I almost want to ask if it worked. Here's to small things of beauty.

  6. Wow, this is another good one. I would add all the neuros and doctors too. When I brought my disabled girl out of the severely disabled special education classes I feel like I reclaimed my own daughter. Now, two years later and after weaning her from 10 pills a day for seizures and using marijuana oil instead, I once again feel like I have had to reclaim my own daughter from the medical establishment. Ahhh, this post is beautiful.



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