Ebbing and tiding comprise one of the strongest and objective, "real," constructs that help to keep our lives in place, today, as certainly as ever, the despair, the dark, drifting into lighter spaces most often being my fare during the first, into the second portion of my period of greatest lamentations. However, time and intervening factors moderated much of the loss I perceived and wept into bitterly. Seasons, as does Volume II, keep their rhythms, similarly - the everyday routines of life, so that in likeso fashion, vocabulary and themes are akin to those first, but there is a slow progression to the outward, toward light, praise, and acknowledging. Memory, softly- gently plodding, if sometimes grievously, slowly became an anchor rather than a burden, and the nature of my illness allowed friends to support more readily. Still, the hours, days, and nights processed, wandered, waited, and mourned in silence, if less often; beauty remained my constant medicinal choice, as has ever meditations, through our paths of deepest, most realization- the journey is the mountaintop, step by step; it is a giving experience, which has not instance of occurring at, or all, most times, observant. And so the rose: volume II is a record of holding, that lost while reaching, desperately, "back" to where "I once was," ironically walking into it each day. The entire process continuing, a daily self-actualization, to dress with a "sixties" expression. The words of this period describe grief, with hope, while not, consciously, benefiting from it; into loss with coming gratitude, and some suggestion of certainty began to enter, if that not of my choice. Semantics make possible the life of sentiment, and volume II of Quiet Sheba shows the emerging of this lovely, if serrated of this "truly," "real" phenomenon. Ebbing and tiding comprise one of the strongest and objective, "real," constructs that help to keep our lives in place, today, as certainly as ever, the despair, the dark, drifting into lighter spaces most often being my fare during the first, into the second portion of my period of greatest lamentations. However, time and intervening factors moderated much of the loss I perceived and wept into bitterly. Seasons, as does Volume II, keep their rhythms, similarly - the everyday routines of life, so that in likeso fashion, vocabulary and themes are akin to those first, but there is a slow progression to the outward, toward light, praise, and acknowledging. Memory, softly- gently plodding, if sometimes grievously, slowly became an anchor rather than a burden, and the nature of my illness allowed friends to support more readily. Still, the hours, days, and nights processed, wandered, waited, and mourned in silence, if less often; beauty remained my constant medicinal choice, as has ever meditations, through our paths of deepest, most realization- the journey is the mountaintop, step by step; it is a giving experience, which has not instance of occurring at, or all, most times, observant. And so the rose: volume II is a record of holding, that lost while reaching, desperately, "back" to where "I once was," ironically walking into it each day. The entire process continuing, a daily self-actualization, to dress with a "sixties" expression. The words of this period describe grief, with hope, while not, consciously, benefiting from it; into loss with coming gratitude, and some suggestion of certainty began to enter, if that not of my choice. Semantics make possible the life of sentiment, and volume II of Quiet Sheba shows the emerging of this lovely, if serrated of this "truly," "real" phenomenon.
