I read a poem recently in my yoga class. A girl came up to me after and kind of batted her eyes, "That poem was so sad. Ugh." She was in a little fight with herself not to feel any sadness. "It was beautiful though, wasn't it?" I asked her. "Yes," she said, "but sad."
This past weekend, a woman in my workshop hesitated to read something out loud because, as she explained with a mouthful of guilt, "It's sad?"
She said it as a question, as if I'd have to give her permission to share this sadness, as if her own sadness would be powerful enough to corrupt our perfect, happy, flawless lives.
Life is sad.
Life is sad, I would have said, and it's also awesome and f*cked up and whimsical and has moments of joy and pain and laughter. But it's sad sometimes.
I wonder why we bury that so much.
By the way, here is the poem I read:
"Touch...
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