stacegens

Hold the question, until you live into the answer ~ Rilke


Leave a comment

Working with Trauma, “Tickled Pink” by Kevin Kling

I recently heard an interview/podcast with Kevin Kling on Krista Tippet’s radio show.  He shared a poem he wrote called “Tickled Pink.”  If you are recovering from Trauma or dealing with PTSD you know how difficult it can be to express what is happening in your mind and body.  It’s best dealt with creatively.  This is evident in Dan Rhema’s artistry “I close my eyes to see.”  The left brain creates and expresses what the right brain fumbles to explain, reason, judge, make excuses for, down play, bury, or deny.  Words can’t usually touch the depth of dealing with loss and trauma.  However, Kevin Kling’s Poem comes closer than anything I’ve ever read.

Kevin says…when you were feeling your best, my mom would say, “You’re in the pink,” which meant that your insides were pink. And so this poem is called…..

“Tickled Pink”

“At times in our pink innocence, we lie fallow, composting waiting to grow. And other times we rush headlong like so many of our ancestors. But rush headlong or lie fallow, it doesn’t matter.

One day you’ll round a corner, your path is shifted. In a blink, something is missing. It’s stolen, misplaced, it’s gone. Your heart, a memory, a limb, a promise…… a person. Your innocence is gone, and now your journey has changed. Your path, as though channeled through a spectrum, is refracted and has left you pointed in a new direction. Some won’t approve. Some will want the other you. And some will cry that you’ve left it all. But what has happened, has happened, and cannot be undone.

 We pay for our laughter. We pay to weep. Knowledge is not cheap. To survive we must return to our senses, touch, taste, smell, sight, sound. We must let our spirit guide us, our spirit that lives in breath. With each breath we inhale, we exhale. We inspire, we expire. Every breath has a possibility of a laugh, a cry, a story, a song. Every conversation is an exchange of spirit, the words flowing bitter or sweet over the tongue. Every scar is a monument to a battle survived.

 Now when you’re born into loss, you grow from it. But when you experience loss later in life, you grow toward it. A slow move to an embrace, an embrace that leaves you holding tight the beauty wrapped in the grotesque, an embrace that becomes a dance, a new dance, a dance of pink.”

Advertisements


Leave a comment

Winter

Winter

Winter spirit, prolonged night, muted speaks

Walks with burden along her barren path

Wrapped in warm gray, while the ridged branch creaks

Blows bitter air about, releasing wrath

Transformed solemn worship song rising

Labor for fertile grounds desired change

Requests for her blessed authorizing

Silences, returned from eternal range

For her wisdom seeks but trust, less is lost

Replace evicted presence of peace sought

Reflect, to muse, to co-create the cost

Veiled souls landscape no longer distraught

Emerging threshold, world of between-ness

Coarse and tender, Winter Guardian bless.

 ~Anastasia