“Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore, trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility”

An old, unedited snippet from my book:

She stared off into the city, pondering the presence of pain and the absence of peace. The pages of her open notebook fluttered in the wind, and the ink on her pen had almost run dry. A sparrow landed on the ground and pecked at the crumbs she had tossed in a fit of frustration earlier in the evening. She adjusted her position on the stone wall, gripping the pen and her old notebook. One last poem. She needed one last poem. She sighed and gazed into the poignant eyes of the mosaic woman, “Ahhh! We cannot escape pain. We can do our best to ignore it…but it always resurfaces!”

She threw the notebook into the dewy grass, speaking loudly and profoundly to the inanimate, sparkling statue. It stood mightily and mysteriously before her.

“One way or another, each of us carries the weight of our own pain. It is essential to our being. As we live, we gather the pain of others in addition to our own. As humans we are the reflection of our accumulated pain, constantly escaping from itself to chase peace. Perpetually in the pursuit of happiness, but the pain never fully leaves our essence. Pain is best when it settles as power. When it finds a home in art, music, or poetry. When it fuels passion and excites the masses through expression. When pain is shared and understood.”

She waved her hands theatrically, as if the rose bushes, the tea lights, the finicky sparrows and the statue were her audience. She stopped to light a cigarette before launching back into her monologue.

“I much prefer our accumulated pain to be made beautiful. I’ll admit, as much as I pray to be released from my pain, I cherish it. Welcome it. Embrace it. Dare I say, I need it.” She smashed her cigarette into the stone wall.

“Without pain, peace would be meaningless. It would be nothingness. A void.
Art would cease to speak to us. It would only reflect sameness, as if it was an empty mirror. Art without pain would no longer need to be dissected and interpreted or felt and understood. It would hang meaninglessly, transparently, and emotionless.”

The woman in the statue peered down from her granite throne, her piercing glass eyes following the girls every move. Her fingers traced the rigid edges of the statues granite base, “Yes, I believe without pain there would be nothingness, as it exists even in bliss. Pain is in love and peace. Pain is in joy and celebration. Pain is present in everything.

She stopped to stare the statue dead in the eyes.

“Pain can be your downfall, or it can be your greatest strength, depending on how you choose to face it. The choice is mine: to fall victim to my pain or prosper from it. To allow the pandemic to bring me to my knees, or to feel it all, understand it all, and use it to rise. I will rise. I will write all of it into my book. Admit it and face it…..

Pain is human.

Pain is truth.

Pain is power.

Pain is love.

Pain is hope.

Pain is happiness.

Pain is growth.

Pain is present in everything!”

She threw herself onto the grass and began to furiously write the last poem.