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His eyes were the most remarkable thing about him, not for their beauty, though they were beautiful in their way—widely spaced and black as my blackest ink—but it wasn’t that. There was a tiny fire in them, an expressiveness I could see even from where I stood. It was as if his thoughts floated in the wet, dark light of them,
“Do not leave it to fate. You must be the one who does the resurrecting. You must be Isis re-creating Osiris.”
Yaltha advising ana
The anger made me brave and the grief made me sure.
“What if the point of his sending it is to make you search yourself for the answer?”
“Don’t fear; the baby will live or it will not. We must let life be life.” No assurance, no platitude, no promise of God’s mercy. Just a stark reminder that death was part of life. She offered me nothing but a way to accept whatever came—Let life be life. There was a quiet relinquishment in the words.
No assurance, no platitude, no promise of God’s mercy. Just a stark reminder that death was part of life. She offered me nothing but a way to accept
I slept with grief and woke to it. It was always there, a black strap around my heart.
For a woman to birth something other than children and then mother it with the same sense of purpose, attention, and care came as an astonishment, even to me.
the heat had been like a viscous film coating the air,
she persisted in her waiting, saying if the pot was tended long enough, the answer would bubble to the surface.
“We will teach you about our God and you will teach us about yours, and together we’ll find the God that exists behind them.”
“What most sets you apart is the spirit in you that rebels and persists. It isn’t the largeness in you that matters most, it’s your passion to bring it forth.”
We were exhausted, devastated, wishing for the numbness of sleep, but we went on sitting there, reluctant to part, our togetherness like a refuge.
Grief shared
