Robinson Jeffers was strong. He had been a wrestler and knew how to balance rocks so he could bring even a 400 pound rock up from the beach to form his home and Hawk tower. I am with that strength this morning, that balance, and the power and strength of his character and poetry as I adjust to life back home. This return feels slow. I believe I am carrying the weight of years. My grandmother died when I was 13, and the missing of her still is strong.
From a book by Lou Andreas-Salome called You Alone Are Real To Me: Remembering Rainer Maria Rilke:
Mourning is not as singular a state of emotional preoccupation as is commonly thought: it is, more precisely, an incessant discourse with the departed one, on order to draw him nearer. For death entails not merely a disappearance but rather a transformation into a new realm of visibility. Something is not just taken away but is gained, in a way never before experienced. In the moment when the flowing lines of a figure's constant change and effect become paralyzed for us, we are imbued for the first time with its essence: something which is never captured or fully realized in the normal course of lived existence.
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