Taking the Hands by Robert Bly
I was talking to S. last night about work—well, the perils of a creative life, really, and how being here, and doing this, puts us in a position where the measure of success is not quite so clear-cut (possibly un-quantifiable). I said, shit, maybe the irony of our life is that we are freer than most people yet more prone to self-doubt because of the uncertainty that surrounds us. I said, we have to be stronger. I said, let’s be each other’s spiritual cheerleaders.
I wasn’t sure if I was making sense (possibly deranged). Am maybe too hyped up by the idea that I can actually do this now, again (possibly cuckolded). But this is the time that I can be (must be) brave.
Taking the Hands
Taking the hands of someone you love,
You see they are delicate cages…
Tiny birds are singing
In the secluded prairies
And in the deep valleys of the hand.