Said. I relate.
I have so piles of journals; that until yesterday, I was not able to read. My heart pounded in my ears. Then, fingers to keys; contorting myself however necessary to keep translating. A poem was born
and I am not sorry. I grew the thing. Carried it inside me. And if it makes someone uncomfortable to see me showing it off the way a proud mom does, I can’t be concerned.
Art accepts dirty laundry. It gives the opportunity to set down the the things we can’t quite figure out how to hold. It allows us to look, surreptitiously from the other room; to see if moves or makes a sound. It takes courage to walk up to the thing and figure out what we have to do with the other. Sometimes it gets ugly. Or angry. Or violent. But its better to put into art than to keep fumbling with our own slow death.