I want to sing a song.
A beautiful song.
A sad song.
A fitting song.
Something like “Angel,”
By Sarah MacLaclan.
For the sweet. Innocent. Dead.
Could have grown up,
To be geniuses.
Like Amy Winehouse.
We’ll never know now.
All that potential.
All that talent.
I want to sing,
A song for them.
But the words,
The beautiful words.
Will only come out,
Maybe it’s better this way, Amy.
You know that I’m no good.
Curse these stages I’m going through,
Wonder if it’s the same for you,
Sometimes I find I question why,
Then I try to deny it’s true,
Then anger comes and I lash out,
My pain and hurt I write about,
I know in time it will subside,
Then I’ll hide and just want to pout,
I’ll muse, and my thoughts rearrange,
Looking for something I could change,
Trying to rework the equation,
Of a situation that feels strange,
I’ll work things through and with new eyes,
In time will come to realise,
That our chance has both come and passed,
It didn’t last – we’ve said goodbyes.
Today’s word is a feeling. It’s similar to sadness but it has a different quality. Sadness is fleeting and shallow and easy to overcome. Tripping into a mud puddle while walking home in a downpour with no umbrella might make you sad. But a hot bath and a steaming mug of hot chocolate is all it takes to make your sadness disappear.
Sorrow, on the other hand, is not like tripping into a mud puddle.
Sorrow is like sinking into a deep inky black ocean. Its blackness envelops you as it pulls you down, down, down to the bottom.
The expression “drowning in sorrow” is a fairly accurate description of what it feels like. Often it takes a fully-mounted rescue operation to pull you out of it. But just remember that when you emerge from that deep ocean of pure sorrow, you’ll have a greater understanding and appreciation of pure joy.
“Sorrow is tranquillity remembered in emotion.”
This poem was found among some cards and letters Kate had saved over the years. She had copied it down in her handwriting so it’s safe to assume that it meant a great deal to her. Since her burial is tomorrow, I thought I would honor the day with something she found so compelling.
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave bereft
I am not there. I have not left.