Gentle Words
Here you’ll find a collection of poetry and words that speak to grief, hope and healing.
You’re welcome to visit this page any time you need some comfort or perspective.
The peace of wild things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
The Thing Is
The bits of you that are broken,
the bits of you that are damaged,
do not see them that way.
Instead see them as slowly being filled with beautiful experiences and truths you have learned from the damage,
the equivalent of lacquered gold.
I want you to remember, you are not a broken thing,
Instead, you are a human full of incredible and wonderful experience, made of the same things swords and diamonds are made of.
You are a survivor, my darling,
and I salute you for everything you have been through,
and for making the universe so proud,
so very proud of what you have become.
— Nikita Gill
I’m in the rain
I’m in the rain,
I’m in the pain,
I’m in the blood within your veins.
I’m in the air,
My favourite chair,
I’m in the soulful way you care.
I’m in the night
I’m in your sight,
I’m in your heart and holding tight.
I’m in the skies,
The children’s eyes,
I’m in your sobs and in your sighs.
I’m in your life,
The cause of strife,
And that thought cuts me like a knife.
My darling one,
My moon, my sun,
Please don’t let all I was become,
Your daily sadness,
Source of madness,
I used to be a font of gladness.
If you can hear,
When I am near,
Please let me take away the fear,
And bring back love,
I’m not above,
I’m close around you like a glove.
So breath me in,
Let life begin,
Loss will fade but love must win.
— Donna Ashworth
Grief is love bleeding
When we cut our skin, we bleed. We know this. The blood shows us that we are hurting and that the bleeding area needs our attention. Blood plays a key role in cleaning the wound, preventing infection.
Grief is like that. It shows us that we are hurting and that the wound needs our attention. That our heart has been broken open and all the love it contains, for who or what we have lost, has begun to bleed out of us, cleansing the wound. And as we tend to it with our full attention, allowing all of our emotions and our tears, it will very slowly begin to heal. And over time the wound will close and eventually become a scar. A precious, beautiful scar.
And all that love that we bleed isn’t lost. It is in fact the healing balm for the wound. Almost like the last precious gift from our loved ones. To expand our capacity for love.
Deeper still …
And if you look really closely, you will see that your tears are in fact simply liquid drops of love. How beautiful.
Grief is love bleeding.
It shows that who or what we have lost matters. And sometimes that’s even a part of ourselves.
It is not the price we pay for live.
Grief IS love.
So let your beautiful broken heart bleed.
— Donna Lancaster
The laughing heart
Your life is your life
Don't let it be clubbed into dank submission.
Be on the watch.
There are ways out.
There is a light somewhere.
It may not be much light but it beats the darkness.
Be on the watch.
The gods will offer you chances.
Know them.
Take them.
You can't beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes.
And the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be. Your life is your life.
Know it while you have it.
You are marvellous.
The gods wait to delight in you.
— Charles Bukowski
The Journey
One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice—though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles.
"Mend my life!" each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible.
It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones.
But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognised as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do—determined to save the only life you could save.
— Mary Oliver