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Nursing it to Ourselves

“Sometimes when he was young it had seemed to Murray that misery was all he had.  He would nurse it to himself, not daring to let go for fear of losing himself….”  I was reading this in Louise Welsh’s book Naming The Bones.  Hugging a familiar desolate emotion is not a strange notion to most of us.  Yet it would seem to be the very opposite of what it is that would be most helpful to us at these times.  In hugging and holding the isolation of bleakness, we recognise something in ourselves which is familiar, in the false conviction that that familiarity will offer us some consolation.  That familiarity we mistake for identity. It is not identity – it is merely a state we recognise.  We say…”I know you,  you have dimmed my world before.”  We would be better to get our heads out into the sunlight.


Face of November