It's not going to be an easy visit. She's gone from being a woman who ran an entire surgery center with a staff of ten people to being an invalid. I don't know what to do for her, except pray. She's lost her job. She's filing for disability. And it doesn't look like she's ever going to come home.
The whole situation keeps me awake at night sometimes. Fills my days with worry.
Saint Marty finds a little comfort in the poem below.
I Am in Need of Music
by: Elizabeth Bishop
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
|Yes, that is comforting|