Old pain is buried pain—pain we haven’t dealt with. When the hurt happened, we didn’t know what to do, so we put it in the basement. It howls and rages down there. All it wants is the lights on, clear seeing, our thoughtless attention, the silent fortitude of love.
Ours was not a happy home. My father was violent and hyper-religious. He beat me with his belt while I lay draped across what was always a perfectly made bed, pants and underwear puddled around my ankles. Two of my three siblings, a brother and a sister, killed themselves.
A voice said, “Call the angels.” And angels came—angels enough to revivify William Blake, angels seen and unseen, women angels, men angels, child angels, a whole dance of them.
Does a man live who is more loved?