Mysterious Healing

Another sleepless night, at least until about six. Then I got up at 9:30, having dreamt nonsensical things. Now I have a cup of chai beside me as I bang out these words. I am banging softly, thanks to my Mac keyboard, which I love. I paid extra for the longer one. What I don’t love is that on their new Pages software, they keep substituting my words for theirs. I have to stop and change them back.

I suppose that is a bit like real life. Things you intend to say come out differently than you had planned. The word birds fly out of your mouth and you cannot “un-fly” them. My penchant for honesty has deeply wounded those I love the most. (Pages wanted me to write the word “would” for “wound.”)

The depth I have for sorrow is uncharted and many have drowned in its stormy seas. Joy is the shallow end of the pool for me. I see children there, many of them in adult bodies. I envy them their ability to be carefree, for I am a careful person.

Now and again I meet someone that sees the hilarity in my sorrow, my unrestrained ability to fall apart in helpless laughter. Those people, too, are broken, and I am able to let them see my sturdy sorrow. I can show it to them without fear of reprisal.

Leonard Cohen is my muse. He sees you when you’re sleepin’, even from his tower of song. We need to feel looked after in our sorrows and he is one shepherd that cannot help but do this, even in death. I have felt his gentle presence in a few dreams. So have others. There is no magic in ordering new shoes from amazon. Only in the ineffable do we have a chance to claim our share of mysterious healing.

Vicki Woodyard

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