(Last Thursday I went to the Mumford & Sons concert. It was amazing and I’m still working through some of what it brought up. This is a bit of my processing here.)


These days, the pain that I experienced
stays buried,
like a poisonous treasure,
waiting to eat through the protective covering
to bring sickness and death.

It doesn’t hurt like it did,
when it was fresh
and oozed into every crack and crevice of my life.
In those days, it was impossible to ignore,
impossible to avoid.

So I scrubbed and cleaned and purged.
I waded through the disease to find health.
I didn’t cure it, but I contained it.
I covered it.

And when I did, I buried other things.
Value. Worth. Use.

And then.
A man with a guitar steps on a stage.
He sings a song whose words I knew,
but whose message I had forgotten.
He sings with a passion that I had felt,
but whose vibrance I had buried.

Right beside the pain, right beside the poison.

Digging up one could break what holds the other.

But perhaps it contains the remedy.

  • Makeda

    This was beautiful. Your words resonated some place deep within me. Love you friend.

  • pastordt

    Wonderful, Alise. Thank you.

  • Monika Jankun-Kelly

    More great stuff to put in the coffee maker of the mind and let percolate a while. This post questions. It tells me to look for the answers, talk to those who have been hurt, and buried the pain. What helped? What didn’t? How does one heal, maybe with scars, but without festering infection deep within? What can we do to help those hurting? That’s some dark, strong coffee.