Writing this blog is so damn therapeutic. I may never need to see a psychiatrist again. I’ve started to feel a lot more…complete, finished, round. I suppose I have a lot of stuff to work out – the last few years haven’t been kind. I forgot how writing is a real pleasure, a real friend to me. (Actually, I never really ‘forgot’, I suppose I just wilfully starved myself of pleasurable things for a while.)

Oh, it’s nice to sit down with lunch and poke the nose of optimism. Not feeling tearful today.


4 thoughts on “calm

  1. I am in the same kind of space…I have travelled a bit since my early posts…and it has been less than a year….you go for it! And joy awaits you, eventually!

  2. This made me think of 2 poems:

    Why do poets write? by Richard Jones

    My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
    through my reading and writing in bed,
    the half-whispered lines,
    manuscripts piled between us,

    but in the deep part of night
    when her beeper sounds
    she bolts awake to return the page
    of a patient afraid he’ll kill himself.

    She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
    listening to the anguished voice
    on the phone. She becomes
    the vessel that contains his fear,

    someone he can trust to tell
    things I would tell to a poem.

    Risk by Anais Nin

    And then the day came,
    when the risk
    to remain tight
    in a bud
    was more painful
    than the risk
    it took
    to Blossom.

    Keep writing please. xx

  3. Yes! Can’t let all those thoughts swirl and stew inside – must get them out – and here, where other people with see and react and reflect, is the best place for them.

  4. such great comments – thank you all. Great poems Jo – very fitting. x

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