A hug for my soul

A journey of grieving and healing after child loss

The Mist







Traditional Chinese poetry was one of my very few favorites during my school days. Poems are like Bergamot, both so down to watch and higher than high. They stay with and stroke the very vivid, acute pain yet penetrate through all levels of past clutter and future illusions, and give me a split second Now pleasure.

While we are driving, this poem came to my mind. ‘I traveled to the mountains to visit a well-respected mentor, his pupil told me he has gone off to collect herbs. The pupil also said he knows Shifu is right in the mountains where we are at the moment, he must be somewhere just behind that thick mist.’

It was just a light-hearted, elementary level poem which every Chinese pupil knows by heart until this moment. However, it unfolds in front of this pupil of life so gracefully, still same simple, yet taking more than one life and one mind’s attempt to comprehend, to be courageous and to surrender.

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