The Sky is the Limit

Catch pieces of sun
then run toward the cup
of acceptance,
even with a residue of fear.

Ask for the power of flight
because it is fresh.
Undulate joy.
Heaven is a doorway
where your moondance hides.

Prosperity is nestled
in each cloud.
Please, clap like a child
who is equal
and deserving.

Guernica and the Trauma of War

Tomorrow is the 71st anniversary of the bombing of Guernica, Spain, during the Spanish Civil War.

My father was 8 years old, living in Valencia, when this happened. His uncle was killed by soldiers in Benimamet, a small villlage outside of Valencia where the family was taking refuge. I believe that we carry trauma in our DNA, and that it is passed on from one generation to the next.

I think of the Iraqi children who will carry trauma for a lifetime, and inevitably pass it on to their children--if they live long enough to have children. May we find the strength to stop the horror.

Here is an excerpt from the original news article that shared the news with the world below.

from www.pattismith.net
Bombing of Guernica:
Original Times report from 1937

This article by George Steer of The Times brought to the world news of the massacre by German pilots of more than 1,000 civilians in the Basque town. The outrage inspired Pablo Picasso's masterwork, and Steer has now been honored for the piece:

The Tragedy of Guernica

BILBAO, April 27,1937

Guernica, the most ancient town of the Basques and the centre of their cultural tradition, was completely destroyed yesterday afternoon by insurgent air raiders. The bombardment of this open town far behind the lines occupied precisely three hours and a quarter, during which a powerful fleet of aeroplanes consisting of three German types, Junkers and Heinkel bombers and Heinkel fighters, did not cease unloading on the town bombs weighing from 1,000lb. downwards and, it is calculated, more than 3,000 two-pounder aluminium incendiary projectiles. The fighters, meanwhile, plunged low from above the centre of the town to machine- gun those of the civilian population who had taken refuge in. the fields.

The whole of Guernica was soon in flames except the historic Casa de Jontas with its rich archives of the Basque race, where the ancient Basque Parliament used to sit. The famous oak of Guernica, the dried old stump of 600 years and the young new shoots of this century, was also untouched. Here the kings of Spain used to take the oath to respect the democratic rights (fueros) of Vizcaya and in return received a promise of allegiance as suzerains with the democratic title of Senor, not Rey Vizcaya. The noble parish, church of Santa Maria was also undamaged except for the beautiful chapter house, which was struck by an incendiary bomb.

At 2 am today when I visited the town the whole of it was a horrible sight, flaming from end to end. The reflection of the flames could be seen in the clouds of smoke above the mountains from 10 miles away. Throughout the night houses were falling until the streets became long heaps of red impenetrable debris.

Many of the civilian survivors took the long trek from Guernica to Bilbao in antique solid-wheeled Basque farmcarts drawn by oxen. Carts piled high with such household possessions as could be saved from the conflagration clogged the roads all night. Other survivors were evacuated in Government lorries, but many were forced to remain round the burning town lying on mattresses or looking for lost relatives and children, while units of the fire brigades and the Basque motorized police under the personal direction of the Minister of the Interior, Senor Monzon, and his wife continued rescue work till dawn.

Church Bell Alarm

In the form of its execution and the scale of the destruction it wrought, no less than in the selection of its objective, the raid on Guernica is unparalleled in military history. Guernica was not a military objective. A factory producing war material lay outside the town and was untouched. So were two barracks some distance from the town. The town lay far behind the lines. The object of the bombardment was seemingly the demoralization of the civil population and the destruction of the cradle of the Basque race. Every fact bears out this appreciation, beginning with the day when the deed was done.

Peter Brady and the Mermaid

Now why would I have a dream about eating dinner with Peter Brady? On the beach in California? I realized how immature he is (in this dream.) The Brady Bunch is still affecting my unconscious.... I don't know what that says about me. Of course there was more to the dream than Peter, but his being in the dream cracks me up so much I can barely interpret the rest of it.

This slowing down in the morning brings tears. Grief and joy are comingling as I allow dreams to come to the surface. I sit with a cup of jasmine tea and begin to absorb my recent journey. What is coming to the surface is undeniable exhaustion, the body's sadness with this, and the mind's surreal waves.

I have left one job and am moving into another, a private practice. How glorious. But I am still dragging the tiredness around. Is there a way to shed it? For now, I'm going to allow myself to be in recovery mode. For me that means moving slowly for the next couple of weeks, particularly in the morning. It means scrupulous self-care. It means meditation, mindfulness, yoga practice, and sleep. Maybe it means sitting with my dog for many moments as he sleeps on my lap. There is much to learn from him and his ability to utterly be himself and to love unconditionally. What a combination.

Imagining I am a mermaid, I see myself swishing gracefully in and out of the water of my dreams. There are emotions washing up--I feel them on my face and in my chest. I face my heart without any words. This is a time to let go of descriptions and merely allow.

The sky and ocean meet inside my mind and I can feel the odd peace. Yes.

Thank You Yoga

This morning, in my semi-conscious state upon awakening, I reflected on what yoga has done for me. The yoga classes I have attended faithfully (or let's say as much as I could) since November 2007 have brought me unexpected benefits.

I turned to yoga once again in the midst of crisis. My mother had been seriously ill for many months, and my uncle had just collapsed and died of a brain hemorrhage. I was at one of many breaking points. My body was giving out after months of caffeine abuse, insomnia and worry. I had abandoned most self-care habits. I was at the end of the line with my job but didn't know how to move on. Once again I was left with myself, and didn't like me very much. I didn't like being so lost--again.

When I discovered a yoga studio had opened close to my house, and it was a style of yoga that I fell in love with the year before, I made that difficult decision--just show up and see what happens. What happened was that I was cursing the teacher under my breath for making me stretch. "Why is she making me do this?" How ready I was to blame anyone for my pain. My body hurt that badly.

But once a week I kept showing up, mostly because my body had nowhere else to go. Eventually, the pain got better. My mind and spirit became restitched to my body and I had moments of feeling whole, that indescribable state of being that brings spirit to the forefront. Like anything else, I have to practice yoga. I have to show up, even when I don't feel like it, if I want to heal.

What I didn't expect was how yoga would help to heal my emotional body.

After years of suffering from adrenal fatigue, I have learned (the hard, stubborn way) what I can't do: jog, run, use the elliptical, or do any intense, competitive exercise; stay up late; indulge in caffeine, sugar, or much alcohol. My body crashes and cries and eventually can't get up if I push it in those ways. The grief over what I can't do has stayed with me, caused me to compare myself with others, and caused me to label myself in all kinds of derogatory ways.

I watched for what seemed like a long time as some of my yoga classmates did the wheel pose. I told myself I couldn't do it, that I wasn't strong enough, that I would hit my head on the floor, and best of all---I don't really want to do it anyway.

Within three months, I found myself in a different mood. A mood that said, let's try this one. Let's experiment. The second time I tried wheel, I found myself in the pose, struggling but amazed to be in this backbend. I remember thinking, I didn't know I could do this.

Tears creep into my eyes at the thought of this change: I didn't know I could do this. I didn't know that I could show up somewhere and just be where I am. I didn't know that I don't have to push constantly, and can still make beautiful progress.

That's the emotional healing that yoga has brought me--a self-acceptance that allows me to be present and grow at my own pace, no matter how slow that pace feels. I am thankful for yoga's ancient wisdom. I am thankful for my teacher Kimberly, who without knowing it, lovingly inspires me and brings me back to the mat time and time again. I can do this.

Change

There is an angel who brushes by me. I feel the silk of her wings. I hear the language she speaks and even understand her foreign words. She is pure joy. She reminds me that I can live with my spirit on the outside for all to see, bruise free and bold. To grab change with both hands and spin around. Yes.

Peace in the Mess of Life

I don't know where to start. I don't ever feel like writing. My energy has been taken up by caregiving for my mom, handling her bills, her surgeries, her medications for the last five months. Between my job and caregiving, my body is spent. My level of exhaustion is such that I don't want to do anything and some days can't do more than bring a cup of tea to my lips. I pushed myself by indulging in caffeine for many months, and finally my adrenals couldn't take any more. I have started a new medication and sworn off caffeine, but progress feels slow.

Last Sunday, my uncle collapsed from a brain aneurism and was in a coma. His brain filled with blood and there was no hope. I had to tell my mom and sit with the shock and tears we both shared. He was disconnected from life support Tuesday morning, the day before my mom's surgery. He is the first of my mother's eight siblings to die. Now I'm afraid I will lose other aunts and uncles, as well as mom, without having the chance to say goodbye. The last conversation really can be the last.

Today we return to Eastern Standard Time, so it will become dark quickly this evening. I dread the dark and cold, but in one way I welcome it for matching my mood. On Friday I had my hair darkened to match this period of exhaustion and mourning. It is closer to my original color and somehow very comforting when I look in the mirror.

I've had two dreams about being pregnant. In one dream I was pregnant with triplets. In another dream I was struggling to explain to a supervisor that I didn't realize I was pregnant and I had no symptoms that alerted me. I could tell she thought I was an idiot. I suppose it's possible that my subconscious is leaping toward rebirth, even while I feel stuck in death, slowly creeping toward transformation.

What would help is organizing my home: putting away laundry, clearing things out. When I look at the mess I imagine it represents the biggest struggle of my life that I can't seem to overcome. Grief steals my energy and slashes my motivation, and I know that I have to find a balance between sitting with it and doing a few things to help myself. But this week I have let grief have its way with me and for right now I can only be in this place. May there be peace in the midst of the mess of life.

Surreal at the Wheel

I dream of creating foul odors and leave others to draw their own conclusions. I feel ashamed and then I wake up. I am led to writer C.M. Mayo's website and just reading about her books rekindles my longing for Mexico. I question myself, of course: there is often somewhere else I'd rather be than where I am. I ache for a clean, organized desk and free time to write. But time to write, for most of us, comes in spurts, small in-between-the-rest-of-life chunks that can easily float by if not used.

Yes, I know I am jumping around. My mind moves like that, and am I am afraid that I could sit for hours this way, caught up in the imaginative life in my head. The surreal has always been real to me; dreams are my reality. These hours awake---what are they, really? And what does it mean to make the most of them, as though worthiness only comes from producing something?

There are those of who are being, and those of us who are doing. I fall into the cracks between the two, going in and out of both worlds, but mostly feeling sad that I don't do enough. I am scared that I don't know how to rise above my weaknesses of procrastination and lack of confidence. If not now, when? Yes, I tell myself that, and since I am a counselor who works with grief and loss, you would think I had fully absorbed the lesson that we only have today. But I am stuck, floating, unable to process enough to move myself.

I could blame my difficulty writing, my difficulty getting to a yoga class, my difficulty meditating, on my mother being so ill. But these difficulties existed before she landed in the hospital more than a month ago. They are not new.

The sun has returned and this morning I feel safer accompanied by a blue sky. I still resist the day. I remember the dream I had a few days ago where an alligator in my house terrorized me. When I looked up the meaning of this, I understood: "Feelings or fears of being attacked or overwhelmed, possibly from within oneself, or by a powerful mother, i.e., one's internal dependence upon mother."

What Sleep Might Bring

I started this blog two years ago, right before my mother went into the hospital for knee replacement surgery. Given her health challenges, that surgery and its aftermath made for a difficult journey.

At the beginning of this month, my mother was admitted to the hospital with a life-threatening infection that caused her knee to swell and forced the surgeon to remove her knee replacement. After two weeks, she went to rehab in a nursing home. Two nights ago she returned to the ER with mental status changes. They discovered she had taken too much pain medication, and then found blood clots in her lungs and legs. These blood clots are life-threatening but they were found, and a filter was inserted in her leg to catch the blood clots.

As of this evening, her mental status is almost completely back to normal. She escaped death again. The truth is that if it hadn't been for the pain meds causing mental status changes, the blood clots would not have been caught.

Taking care of myself during this time has been a challenge. I've had insomnia for several months, and today I decided that I couldn't exist with this exhaustion any more and function well enough to work full-time, spend time at the hospital, and manage my life. It's time to return to sleep medication. I gave it the good fight, sticking to natural supplements, but nothing has worked. When I don't sleep well for a long period of time, it's hard to like much about myself or my life. Pulling out in front of a school bus while driving was a sign that I had to do something.

With my new prescription of Ambien in hand, I am excited at the thought of sleeping tonight. I am excited to see what the world will bring to my well-rested mind and body. I don't really remember what that feels like--to feel good in the morning.

Sleep makes it possible, as does good health, to engage in life, love, stargazing, smiling. I don't take health for granted--anyone's health. I tell my friends and family members I love them. That might help me sleep, too.

Still Here and Grateful

I've been consumed by my new job as a grief counselor. Two and a half months seem like two and a half years because of all that has happened. As I walk this path I learn to release the feeling of never doing enough over and over again. Yesterday I went against my better judgment and got a flu shot. My body is reacting unhappily.

It is Thanksgiving morning and I feel lost when I look out the window at the white sky. The approaching winter is already sucking away chunks of my soul.

To avoid despair I open Lucille Clifton's The Book of Light and find this poem:

song at midnight

...do not
send me out
among strangers
~Sonia Sanchez


brothers,
this big woman
carries much sweetness
in the folds of her flesh.
her hair
is white with wonderful.
she is
rounder than the moon
and far more faithful.
brothers,
who will hold her,
who will find her beautiful
if you do not?

***

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

Today I wonder why I write these entries and hope that they touch at least one person somewhere. This is but one form of therapy for me. We are all in therapy together, n'est-ce pas? Working to heal something every day, bravely, and then offering love to others at the same time. That may be the only way to heal.

Lucille, you have given me something to be grateful for today and without you I couldn't have found the words: come celebrate with me that everyday/something has tried to kill me/and has failed.

That is a fierce joy to be grateful for on this Thanksgiving.

Vale La Pena

I'm hoping that someone saves me from the fog of procrastination. I need to study for the national counselor's exam on Oct. 21, and have hardly begun. I worked far too many hours this week, without enough sleep, and I could barely move yesterday. I don't want to move, don't want to write, don't want to think. I hear the songs of grief in my dreams after listening to clients crying this week. This is as it should be. I am learning how to be a container for their tears and how to let go of their sobs.

There is so much to do......work long hours, take a graduate class, begin Spanish classes with a tutor so I can do counseling in Spanish. Where does my self-care such as meditation and exercise fit in? This week I was reminded that I have to stay strong so I can do this work or else risk burn out.

I miss my poems and my journal writing but I don't have the strength to hold the pen right now. The loss of sunlight feels too harsh. I have the urge to light every candle in the house and lie on the couch, under my purple comforter, motionless, until I see a burning bush full of wisdom.

I worry that there is so little money left over from my paycheck after paying my bills. I am 44 and make less money than my age. That realization seemed funny and sad last night, considering how expensive it is to live in this city. Shouldn't I make at least as much money as my age, I asked my husband? One spiritual solution for today is to admit that I can reduce my desires and appreciate that I am taken care of: warm, well fed and safe. I am actually saving money for the future and this is a new phenomenon in my life. This is a time to work hard and devote myself to my calling, and trust that all I do is worthwhile on many levels. Vale la pena. It's worth it.

New Office

My first week of work as a bereavement counselor is over. I started the week with nervousness but ended it with peace and calm as I organized my filing system, figured out which clients had fallen through the cracks and needed to be contacted, and reveled in the excitement of talking and meeting with new clients and colleagues. My office has a window and I'm grateful. If you've lived in the cubicle world, I don't need to tell you what a joy it is to have natural light streaming in during the work day. Having an office at a mental health agency, which you would think would be a must, is not that common, and therapists often have to share a space and juggle schedules so that a client can be seen in private.

Today I bought some things that are missing from the office: a small rug to make it cozy, a little coffee table for $20, some vanilla air freshener, and a Diego Rivera poster that I will get framed. My diploma is at the frame shop getting its shiny, metallic purple frame---no expensive cherry wood University frame for me.

I light a candle before a client comes in. Tissue is available. Lush green plants help to create a healing space. As I grow into this office, I'll find other ways to create sacred, safe ground.

You Are the Story

I ache to tell my story but I don't know where to start. This is how it is with writing when you face the blank page. The only way I know to cope with the blank page is to spill words across it and remind myself that I can always go back and edit. Here is what I know today.

In Cochise County, Arizona, my dear friends made a caldo de queso for me and my husband for breakfast last Sunday. There was so much love in that pot of soup that I came close to adding my tears to it out of gratitude. I am reading the recipe right now, a soup from Bloomoon, the name they gave the straw bale house they built with their own hands. Bloomoon is the most beautiful house I have ever seen. Cocoa-colored mud walls next to pumpkin, blue, bold pink, yellow, and purple enveloped me as I peacefully slept and dreamed my story.

My story is the story of many others. It is their input, their appearance, their friendship, their teachings, that make my story worth telling. Right now I am filled with the presence of the dear amigos in Tucson that I have missed for many years, and although my body is back here on the East Coast, my spirit is still dancing in the desert with theirs.

How I have missed you and the miracle of your physical presence in my life. It is as though I am grieving our lost time together, even as I appreciate the changes that have manifested during the 5 1/2 years back in my home city.

You are the story, truly. It isn't mine as much as it is ours, and if I am fortunate, I can share pieces of it through the words on this page. When I left Tucson and left all of you, I was retreating from a painful relationship and grieving the unexpected death of my father. But somehow our visions collected to create the stones along my path that I have followed. Without you I tripped a few times, but you were still with me, dragging me once in a while, and keeping me faithful to my spirit without even knowing it. I wish I had a way to thank you for that.

When R and I were meeting with the Mayan shaman who was to marry us in Mexico three years ago, I confessed to this shaman that I was always attracted to the Mayan culture but knew that I, of course, was not Mayan. He corrected me and said, "The Maya believe that we are all Maya. You are Mayan." I wept at the table from his simple yet powerful acceptance. That is the acceptance that you have given me as my story has comingled with yours.

We are filled with the universe of one another and just a spirit step away from being together. If I need you I will ride the full moon to your doorstep. You can take the eastern star to mine.

Thank you Pam, Bill, Mary Ann, Alden, Niki, Jessica, Elaine, Roger and Mark for being my story.

Listen to the Mystery

When I awoke this morning I felt lost in the mystery. I have that luxury right now, a few days off before my trip to Tucson, before beginning my new job as a grief counselor after I return. I feel guilty for having time off and at the same time anxiety over all the things I need to accomplish with my time: bill paying, filing health insurance claims, an oil change, work connected to a poetry organization, and much more.

As much as I have accomplished lately, at heart I am as lazy as they come. I work hard, but when it comes to getting the clothes from the dryer into the closet, I'm useless. Even as a child, my mother's begging and scolding rarely got me to clean my room. I could never understand how any of that could trump reading a book or writing, two activities that not only came naturally but were survival skills. They were the keys to my future, that I knew.

What about those things we know we were born to do, the things we want to accomplish that are far more important than cleaning the bathroom? I promised myself that I would create at least one day of a writing retreat. My plan was to go to a coffeeshop or library, bring my notebooks, borrow my husband's laptop, and write, away from the distractions of the phone, email, the buzzsaw next door, and the work around the house. I have yet to do that.

It's easy to avoid the mystery. Avoid the childhood dreams, the talents waiting for expression, the motions that feed our soul. My dear friend J has said to me numerous times, "Time is all the time we have." I had to repeat that to myself again and again, perhaps because I didn't want to get it.

The mystery is what keeps me alive. I found that mystery the other night when I was looking for a poem by William Pitt Root, the former poet laureate of Tucson, and by all standards, an award-winning national treasure. Root's dedication to social justice and the working class in his poetry is legendary. But it's this gem that rocked the depths of my soul:

Song of Ourselves As Hives of Mystery

There is the way the moon enters the heart like a tooth while the
eye
like a gate left open
stares, at the figures supposed to be women,

and the way bones fill with air, gradually, over a lifetime,
gasp by gasp as if
to lighten the grief of years as the intricate spine is bent
like a bow to cast out the spirit,

or the way certain scents--the iodine of the sea
or the musk of a swollen belly
asleep, warm as a loaf--inhabit the hollow
skull electric with memories and longing,

for we are the hives of mystery and of flowings
inward and outward irresistible
as the moon who flew out of the sea
into the void like a spherical angel, beckoning,

and what we may divine is the light that fills us with light
as a touch
makes us known to ourselves
through another--the orbit of silence holding
through aberrations of joy and despair, the silent moon
whose brilliance we answer finally with the arching gestures of
our bones.

This poem deserves several readings because the beautiful barrage of images is almost overwhelming, so full of passion is it. To put it simply, this poem reminds me that my spirit is capable of transcending grief, capable of self-knowledge, connecting with others, and finally, being one with the universe. All of this the tender yet powerful mystery I long for. I feel my middle-aged bones reaching for the moon in the dark of night, knowing that they will reach her after reading this poem.

The moon and her mystery are calling us. May we listen and create for ourselves and for one another. We were made for this.

Death's Transformation

Rebirth. I breathe in the newness, knowing how special this feeling is. When you know the pain of endings, beginnings taste that much sweeter. I accepted a job at the agency where I'm finishing my internship and will continue to do grief counseling. I'm a little overwhelmed by the culmination of this journey--finishing grad school, and now arriving at this place where I can work as a counselor full-time.

Many months ago, another therapist told me that I'm comfortable with sadness. That's what makes working with grief a good fit for me. Several people have asked me how I can possibly do this work and said that they can't imagine dealing with death. Our brothers and sisters around the world, as well as our own soldiers, are needlessly dying every day. We are dying every day. We can't escape death or the grief of loss. It's the awareness of death that makes life precious and helps us realize that we must spend the time we have spreading love and speaking the truth.

It's not a morbid curiosity about death that intrigues me. It's knowing, from my own personal experience, that losing loved ones brings about powerful transformation. It's an honor to walk with my clients as they take this journey. It unfolds differently for each one of us but when it comes to loss, we have much in common.

Don't be afraid to reach out to someone who has experienced loss, even if you don't know what to say. Your continued presence, your hugs, your food and drink, and the look of love in your eyes are all that are needed. What you do makes a difference.

Our Stories Matter

When I think about this blog and my stacks of journals, I wonder if my story is worth telling. But if it's healing for me to tell it, if you see pieces of yourself in it, and if you realize that you are far from alone, then I have to believe that it is worth telling.

I subscribe to the thought that it is our stories that keep us alive and keep us connected. They are the vehicles that help us share ourselves with one another. What is more intimate than that?

We have found our way down this path of facing each other through this page and that is an honor.

I lovingly thank you for your presence.

Your story matters.
You matter.
We matter together.

Graduation Time Shows Up

There is headachy anger from the sugar I ate last night. A little anxiety. Final grades were posted yesterday evening, which means I have officially graduated with a 3.9 grade point average (damn that neuropsych class!) I received a voice mail regarding a job offer that will be made on Monday. I don't seem to know what to do with myself.

Am I any different than I was 24 hours ago? We expect these moments in life to be grand. This reminds me that the key is to have a grounded inner life because outer events come and go. Yet I still have to take the time to celebrate and acknowledge this achievement. A friend suggested that I create a ritual or ceremony for myself, which I am looking forward to doing.

I heard my father's voice last night, which would have said, "Why didn't you get a 4.0?" For a moment I felt 10 instead of 44 and was covered in a thin film of criticism that couldn't be shaken off. There is the memory of being beaten for not getting good grades, and getting punched and slapped for wrong answers on my homework. Returning to school was, in some sense, an act of bravery on my part, considering the psychological and financial sacrifices. But the growing I've done makes all the costs worthwhile. I keep changing into the person I'm supposed to be along my path.

On Monday evening I'll be meeting with a group of children to help them process the death of their beloved coach. At the very least, I know I'm supposed to be there. I feel as though I don't know much more than that as a beginning therapist, but I have begun to trust that I'll know what I need to do. The children I've worked with will be my guide.

My world has altered but I will only be able to take it in, perhaps, in retrospect.

Sensitive Souls in Service

Another Sunday night and the past few weeks are rushing in, flooding my mind with thoughts of how easily I get lost in my personal fog. I can write, read, think and be gone. For those of you who have astrological knowledge, I have a great deal of Aquarius in my chart, so I am caught up in the future and think with lightening speed, although it's hard for me to express it because it happens so fast. With the Sun and Venus in Pisces, well let's just say that I came out of womb a sensitive daydreamer. I can come across as sharp, thoughtful and grounded in certain settings but the real me, left to my own devices, is living on another planet.

Getting to know myself during these 44 years has in some ways been like taking a course in sensitivity. I have been told by a few wise people to accept my sensitivity and dreaminess as a gift. That has been hard. Our culture doesn't see the sensitive type as productive or assertive enough to get the right things done, so sensitivity isn't valued or rewarded. But I'm learning to accept it as a strength because many people long for someone who is sensitive, compassionate and willing to give them loving attention. I can do that. With my counseling diploma in hand next week, I'll be able to do that for a living.

With pen in hand and fingertips at these keys, I'll keep writing poems that express sensitivity. Our society isn't too interested in poetry either, but we American poets are a stubborn bunch. We can't fold into ourselves. We have no choice but to keep writing, knowing that our words have power as they push for peace, offer love and tell the truth. We are sensitive souls in service to our country.

Being sensitive has, in recent years, turned into being hypersensitive. In other words, if you're sensitive, you're overdoing it: Just get over it. Some would say that I'm hypersensitive because I have a problem with violent videogames or find gratuitous violence in TV and films unbearable. I find the atrocities our country is committing unbearable. I may be sensitive but I'm on the side of sanity and humanity.

It must be time to embrace my sensitivity with pride.