A Certain Light

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.

I have noticed that when all the lights are on, people tend to talk about what they are doing – their outer lives. Sitting round in candlelight or firelight, people start to talk about how they are feeling – their inner lives. They speak subjectively, they argue less, there are longer pauses. To sit alone without any electric light is curiously creative. I have my best ideas at dawn or at nightfall, but not if I switch on the lights – then I start thinking about projects, deadlines, demands, and the shadows and shapes of the house become objects, not suggestions, things that need to done, not a background to thought.

In some older versions of Persephone’s story, she was a young woman, not a young girl, and instead of accidentally wandering away, she had gone deliberately adventuring, when she fell, or was lured, or was kidnapped into Hell. Here Persephone’s adventurous spirit leads her into difficulty, instead of her being a passive victim of the wickedness of others. Her relationship with her mother gives her the courage to explore her world, and when events take a bad turn, their relationship gives her the strength to survive. In a still older version, Persephone heard the despairing cries of the dead and chose freely to go into the Underworld to comfort them. Hades does not appear at all, in this version. Here Persephone’s descent to hell illustrates inclusiveness for every being, whether in the Underworld or in our present one, and shows that mercy is integral to her nature. In the most ancient layer of myth, Persephone’s name means “She Who Destroys The Light.” She was the powerful Goddess of the Underworld long before anyone knew of Hades. Like the Indian Kali, the Irish Morrigan, and the Sumerian Ereshkegal, she was the Goddess of Death.

here’s something they don’t teach you in high school - life is too short to waste it on trying to make things work. stop trying to fit into a pair of jeans you bought 5 years ago; give them to a charity. stop trying to make yourself listen to classical music; mozart is just not your thing. stop trying to like celery, no one likes it, it’s all a huge grown-up conspiracy. and most importantly, for the love of god, stop trying to stick around hoping people will ‘become’. he will not become kinder to you; she will not become funnier; they will not become warmer. stop trying to change people. either accept them and love them for who they are, or just let go and say your goodbyes. there just isn’t enough time.

Where do I start the poem? By putting my thumb on a bruise? From where the ache is just out of reach?