Suffering is my child.
mine to carry and mine to soothe,
mine to loathe and mine to choose.
No one can cause me to suffer.
They can bring me harm, pain,
even tear at my body, heart and mind,
but to suffer is a choice I make.
To act out of that suffering is my choice.
To let it consume me is my choice too.
Suffering is a baby.
She doesn’t know yet.
She is learning.
She’s been shooed away,
left out of the party,
she is lonely.
So she cries for attention,
and when no one comes,
she transforms,
into a dark cloud of fear,
into a red ball of fire,
into anxiety that builds
castles of catastrophe!
But when I give her
my loving attention,
time, space and breath
she opens up
and shows me everything
she’s been carrying.
She writes my poems.
She offers her gifts
of tenderness and truth.
She is generous.
She is innocent,
sweet, and trustworthy.
And as I cradle her,
I see my own little ones,
their eyes, their voices,
their soft, wordless asking.
They don’t need anything more
than this same loving attention.
In that gentle presence,
I come home to myself
and to the shape of love
that was there all along.
