Henry’s Healing

poetry

The cool relief I felt leaning against his sandstone-cold-frame mid August. His warmth from the sun that laid prisms in the halls through his stained glass windows on a frost-bitten February morning. I felt my depression ease, his purpose take place within my own mental state.

He taught me to keep aware.

Hugged by his spiraling staircases, I felt secure within his mass. Boarded by his twelve-foot-doors, fourteen foot windows, eighteen-foot-ceilings. Comforted by his stance exuding the confidence I longed for. Proud of his intent- built for royalty – built for the “insane” actually in 1872; a time more kindly engineered than today.

He taught me to keep humble.

The smell of freshly baked peanut-butter-jelly crumb cake in his kitchens. Burgers on plates the size of your face- shoved into my face left me swollen and sleepy with an irregular heartbeat for days. The bar’s aroma wafted black licorice, ginger and mint, and over-served me like a gluttonous Queen.

He taught me to keep generous.

The many rotating faces of erratic emotion or internal dread already known or accidentally bumped into to befriend, comfort, and confront day-to-day. He held my hand through the many anxieties and animosities of social interaction and urged me to seek sincerity and authenticity instead.

He taught me to keep compassionate.

Navigating him became a subsequent flow of repetitive turns, bends, and motion. I became fluent in his language, his map, his less traveled stairwells and doors- all while making sure not to trip into an armoire or beam- one of his giant legs. Running pillows to his western corridor when I realized the broom I needed in another wing – a mile long task to complete- was waiting.

He taught me to keep patient.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s