Monday, 30 December 2013


From the moment my Dad was killed, I felt I had died. I used to say, "A half of me is gone. And the rest is only blackness." What has really been occurring and what gifted me with the treasure that is meeting Glen Flett, Sherry Edmunds-Flett, Victoria, and dare I say myself, is the voice of Creativity speaking. The language of living life as the poem I write, a la the Poet/Mystic Bokonon, and too, Eric Ashford.  And the writing has never stopped. Not even on days when fear has been so potent that to breathe seemed the greatest talent I possessed. The writing both literal and figurative has been contoured in a knowing that no matter the pain, the loss, the brutalities that I have caused or experienced, I am alive. Alive. Alive. And I surrender to the call to life. To the call to reach out when pain and loss are present. And to afford the space for others to know that they can reach out to me when they feel crushed. Crucified. The call of the Creative, the answer to the Creative, is living a justice that refuses to be anything but present, real. Present and real with guilt, fear, shame. And joy, surrender, and hope. The Creative call and answer that is living justice one moment at a time is Sawbonna's terrain. In this new falling year, 2014, Sawbonna will continue to teach me. To reach me. And I will answer. Perhaps you will too.

1 comment:

  1. "The language of living life as the poem I write...." such beautiful, inspiring words that remind me that art comes from the crucible of our lives, our lives filled with pain, joy, disappointment, and aching beauty.