Pain is the braking of the shell that encloses
My understanding. Just as the stone of the fruit
Must break open so that its heart stands in the sun,
I must know pain. Can this be true for everyone?
How can the depth of my sorrow feel so acute?
Agony is the truth that my heart exposes.
Yet, if I knew not my pain, could I know wonder
In my life of the daily miracles that bring
Me much joy? And would I accept the seasons of
My heart, even as I’ve accepted those I love?
Through the winters of my grief, my awakening
With serenity shall not be cast asunder.
Much of my pain is self-chosen. The physician
Within me prepares a bitter potion to heal
My sickness. I drink this remedy in silence
And tranquility. The healer’s grip is immense,
But it’s guided by what the unseen can’t reveal
To the healer or my self-imposed condition.
The hand is hard and heavy. The cup that is brought
To my lips, though it burns, has been fashioned of the
Clay which the Potter has moistened with sacred tears.
Can there soon be an ending to what now appears
To be hopeless? It depends a lot upon me.
I accept the lesson that my living has taught.