It might be that the blood in my veins carry a blessing and a curse. Perhaps, I should start to look at it as a blessing because I’ve done looking at it as a curse. My blood carries the artistic blood of deep emotional feelers- poets, singers, painters. With that comes the burden of depression. I had no choice in the matter, I was born depressed and I will die depressed. My mother, and her mother’s mother, my great grandmother, have all carried in their eyes the sad glare of deep and emotional pain. Mother tells us, my siblings and I, stories of how my great Grandmother, the woman I am named after, would cry by the river and weep. She was an orphan child at a young age and felt no home or comfort and so she wept, as she washed clothes by the river. Much like a willow tree and its leaves of trails, dropping from its eyes, so are we. My grandmother, my mother, my sister and brother, we feel too much, for the ant which carries its brother or the baby bird orphaned by its mother.
I see them and I see myself in them, in their sad depressing ways and our world, a sea of emotions, each ruled by the hoot of an owl, and the howl of a wolf. We are all seekers of the moon, and have all wept by the river. But with it came a grace and compassion unmatched. With a single touch, or glare, a slight-movement, a glaze or caress, one can see the works of Manet and Degas, in them. It is the ‘real thing.’ Even in their peaceful voices alone, there is grace. Our grace, has been passed down like a torch from generation after generation. I’ve been told I have it too and I know because I can feel it, I feel it all too well. The pain of a monarch butterfly with a crippled wing, or the dandelion shattered by the wind.