Sunday, 25 June 2017



It is called mourning. Grief that comes from out the loss, intimate loss, and though we seek to deflect it, deny, or in anger, fail to accept it, still, in the end, it is loss, it is love. A love that demands the truth of our sincerity, a sincerity in the grace of that loss.

Those deep bonds of love, the intimate vulnerability of the heart, where trust is an absolute, leave us open to the truth of the deepest sorrow, just as they have allowed for the greatest joy. They gnaw upon the marrow, as easily as the ecstasy they employ.

When we lose those we have loved, the depths they have dug into the fathomless oceans of our heart, swallows us, until we too, crushed in the darkness of that infinite blue... become those depths.

But this is not a sign of failure or weakness, abnormality or affliction, rather, it lends it's colours to the truth of the love we have shared, the trust and the care, the infinite womb in the oceans of our mutual tenderness.

How can one who has ever lost and loved ever come to a place of forgiveness, acceptance, or the dawn of renewed hope once more, except through the door that leads through the dark night of the soul? One who has lost, in love, and grieved not, loved not.

Grief is a room where all fear to follow, for it is dark and hollow, holding nothing but the sea's that we swallow; still, it is a room with two doors.

On the outside of one, written in large dark script, is the word, 'Loss'. On the inside of the other, written in equally dark script, is the word, 'Hope'. Only, In that darkened place, the sanctum in the sorrow of that infinite space, it is hard to read the writing, without a light.

© Richard Michael Parker 2017

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