It”s been a tough week. Last Sunday I had a fever and was trying to fight a cold. Last Monday my daughter, Maggie, came down with the fever and cold, which led to several nights this week when nobody slept well at all. Wednesday: I finally went to the doctor because I could not hear out of my right ear; infection. A round of antibiotics. Thursday: my husband comes down with the cold. Friday: We cancel a much anticipated trip to Chicago to visit our wonderful friends and Maggie”s god-parents.
All this is by way of begging your forgiveness, for you see I have not a brilliant reflection, a well-thought out analysis, or even a charming anecdote. Today I have only the words of a woman to share. That woman is 20th century poet Anne Sexton. She began writing as a form of therapy after experiencing severe postpartum depression. Her poetry took on what is called a “confessional” nature. She talked about things that one does not talk about. She wrote about her experience as a woman, as a mother, who felt trapped by mental illness.
After many years of writing, and even more years of illness and pain, she committed suicide in 1974. As you can imagine, her poems are often dark, drawing the reader into her world, choosing language rich with emotion. I hope it doesn”t shock you when I say I want to write like she did. With passion, with truth, unafraid to address those important things which too often go unsaid.
All this is by way of sharing with online casino all of you one of her poems. It is my favorite one of hers, because it is so different from the others. Rather than being dark, emotion drenched, or depressing, it”s confessional nature is more akin to a friendly chat than a baring of the soul.
I like to imagine sitting, steaming coffee mug in hand, with Anne Sexton at her kitchen table, talking about the ups and downs of life as a wife and mother. I like to imagine for a moment that clouds of her sorrow lifted and this poem was born from a true experience of God”s peace. I pray I always remember the joy in all.
There is joy in all:
In the hair I brush each morning,
In the Cannon towel, newly washed,
That I rub my body with each morning,
In the chapel of eggs I cook each morning,
In the outcry from the kettle
That heats my coffee each morning,
In the spoon and the chair
That cry “hello there, Anne”
In the godhead of the table
That I set my silver, plate, cup upon
All this is God,
Right here in my pea-green house
And I mean, though often forget,
To give thanks,
To faint down by the kitchen table in
A prayer of rejoicing
As the holy birds at the kitchen window
Peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
Let me paint a thank-you on my palm
For this God, this laughter of the morning,
Lest it go unspoken.
The joy that isn”t shared, I”ve heard, dies young.