| Jayne Kennelly...on
Depression: ÒI did everything I could to heal, grieve and move on after my marriage broke up. I looked at myself in the mirror, went to workshops, did classes, seminars. I learned meditation, did yoga, found a counselor. I did everything I could to combat the depression. The thing that really worked for me was writing, journaling, telling my story. I share these poems with you.Ó ø Jayne Kennelly, Minneapolis, Minnesota The Observer I was always watching her, always by her side, She didnÕt know it. She didnÕt feel me, she thought she was alone. I saw her leave the brambles of the forest, and descend into the arms of Mother Earth. Into the depths of her soul, her being; Into the granite, the firelayers, the crust of the earth. She looked frail, small, her body covered by a large black cloak. She looked like a child. She was a child. She kept her eyes down. She didnÕt look up. Into the arms of the Mother Earth, she felt love, nurtured, cared for. She felt safe there, a place to cry, grieve, and heal. She did her work, looked at herself in the mirror, Embracing her shadow and her long lost self. Down in the bowls of the earth, she had helpers, Others who had been there before. Others who could show her the way. She began to grow strong, to say goodbye to shame, guilt, her constant companions. She practiced forgiveness, accepted her codependency. She learned compassion. Occasionally I saw her poke her head up, To look around, feel the warmth of the sun, To marvel at the blue sky, the flowers. But she was not ready to feel the vibrancy of the sun, the chill of the wind. She slid back again where it was safe and warm. There, she began to acknowledge her power. She learned she was wonderful She grew herself up, told her story. She strengthened and healed her body. She learned to love, first herself, then the others. Two years later, I watched her emerge. This time she climbed, pulled herself up from the ground. She didnÕt hesitate. Even I could feel her power, her confidence, her presence. A beautiful red dress clung to her lean strong body. She stopped, put flowers in her hair, and reentered the world. She liked who she was. She danced. I cried. Grace ÒMeditate on grace,Ó my yoga teacher said. I lying there on my mat, serene, almost dead. A word used in many religions, cultures and races. I wonder what images will come to my head. Grace, what an interesting word. Numerous meanings come from Mr. Webster, honor, virtue coming from God. I add my own: goodness, compassion and of course, love. Like someone looking at us, from below or above. Grace, what an appealing word. James Galloway, playing the flute, Joan Baez singing the song. A vision of ballerinas with their limbs strong and long, dying swans dancing to the music of Swan Lake, their bodies, fluid and flowing, makes my own ache. Grace, what an enchanting word. Grandchildren with hair the color of the sun, eyes blue as cornflowers on a summer day. Grace was the name of my third granddaughter, she turned out to be grandson number 1. Grace, what a wonderful word. A sense of peace, as being held in someoneÕs arms. Mercy, forgiveness, letting go of the conflict, the strife, not having to ask, but feeling the help. It is belonging. The acceptance of the struggle of life. Grace, what a peaceful word. As I lie there, letting my breath do what it will, after years of losing myself, a toxic marriage, I have had my fill. I finally hear it. It whispers in my ear. ÒLearn to flow.Ó ÒLearn to flow.Ó Grace, what a healing word. |
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Feb 2004 |
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