‘What is compassion?’ I blurt out one morning, not expecting an answer. I don’t mean to speak. I’m a cliff-side with old gnarled pines. The question falls from me like dislodged stone. ‘It’s love, but it has hurt in it,’ my child says calmly, pausing in their preparation for the day ahead, as if describing how to mix a paint colour: it’s forest-green, with a bit of neon blue.
Exquisite, Kirstie. Words and images wrought from love with hurt in it, to accompany and deepen understanding.
Thank you Penelope. I want to dive under the tree canopy at the word: exquisite. And I thank you.
Hand on my heart, Kirstie, I thank you. x
Yes, hearts and hands. Poetry and art. These things matter in the same way as leaves. Thank you Claire for your fine, beautiful work.
Thanks Kirstie. This is brave, beautiful truth-telling. I love the gems of conversation here, your child, artist, poet, ocean. Accumulations.
Thank you my friend.