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Poetry
by Cornelia Hoogland
SAINT MARION IN THE FOREST
You’d be surprised at what you’re saying right now. All of you. You’re all close to where you are going.
The sun has picked a perfect place to fall. There, behind you.
Marion is talking. She leans on her walker, it’s hard work. We’re in the guest lounge of the seniors’ residence in which she lives; she believes she’s employed here. My work as a Jungian analyst, she continues, is to bring to expression a niggle, an idea my client doesn’t want to believe or accept. More and more, people start to cry. They send them to me, my job is to get them to speak. Once they’ve fled to the bathroom and locked themselves in, you can forget it. It’s harder for men than women. Women get into their pretty clothes, they tell their story. It doesn’t happen overnight. We meet for six weeks, two hours in the morning. By that time there’s an opening. Something is always opening. McCormick Home tries to bring out the best in people. It can happen at any moment. Don’t be afraid, fear is a construct from outside. Relate your feelings to what’s in front of you
(the sun
lighting on, what are those flowers, the ones behind you?) Once we move into the forest and don’t have much to say to each other, we hold hands.
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[Distillate © HA&L + Cornelia Hoogland | {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]
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