One reason for doing the work
Beautiful, Nellie. Grateful for the work you're doing and the time you're taking to share your insights with us.
SO glad to have read these words. Thank you for sharing them with the substack world.
Thank you for reading!!
So good to read about this work you are doing - loss is all around us.
When you quoted about how clay is malleable but when cold it hardens and becomes stuck I was immediately reminded of the poem:
Rebus by Jane Hirshfield
You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness going on after.
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.
Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live,
each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table.
There are honeys so bitter
no one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,
honey of cruelty, fear.
This rebus—slip and stubbornness,
bottom of river, my own consumed life—
when will I learn to read it
plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?
Not to understand it, only to see.
As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
Each yes, each no continues,
this one a ladder, that one an anvil or cup.
The ladder leans into its darkness.
The anvil leans into its silence.
The cup sits empty.
How can I enter this question the clay has asked?
So beautiful, thanks so much for sharing this Anne <3
This is exquisite.
♥️
Beautiful, Nellie. Grateful for the work you're doing and the time you're taking to share your insights with us.
SO glad to have read these words. Thank you for sharing them with the substack world.
Thank you for reading!!
So good to read about this work you are doing - loss is all around us.
When you quoted about how clay is malleable but when cold it hardens and becomes stuck I was immediately reminded of the poem:
Rebus by Jane Hirshfield
You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness going on after.
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.
Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live,
each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table.
There are honeys so bitter
no one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,
honey of cruelty, fear.
This rebus—slip and stubbornness,
bottom of river, my own consumed life—
when will I learn to read it
plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?
Not to understand it, only to see.
As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
Each yes, each no continues,
this one a ladder, that one an anvil or cup.
The ladder leans into its darkness.
The anvil leans into its silence.
The cup sits empty.
How can I enter this question the clay has asked?
So beautiful, thanks so much for sharing this Anne <3
This is exquisite.
♥️