I listened to you tell the story and then reread it again this afternoon. It feels eery and connected in both a sad and heart-warming way. There are so many treasures in the tragedies of the women before us. I truly love how you bring it all together.
This brings up a lot for me, like many of your posts and notes. I often fail to wrangle my mind into coherence and get some of it down in the comments, but I will say this.
First, the fantastic phrasing of your work is a delight. Second, the Granny I’ve been remembering in my Notes cared for me when my mother was institutionalised, for months, not years, when I was 18 months old. It became a cycle that worked like clockwork - every four years she would go to ‘the san’ for a few months for her medication to be altered and other therapies tried.
We visited her there, sometimes able to take her out for an hour with us, sometimes going to her room depending what floor she was on. I didn’t think she belonged there.
She was a nurse, and had had a breakdown as an exchange nurse in Denmark before she was married. She became a mental health advocate of a sort, normalising the conversation, challenging the stigma, sharing the tools that helped her. A psychiatric nurse as well as a psychiatric patient, she spoke and wrote articles from both experiences.
Quinn, thank you so much for your heartfelt and very thoughtful comments. I appreciate your willingness to share the story of your mother, who must have been an immensely courageous woman. How wonderful that, in her day, she worked to normalize the conversation about mental health—as you say, "challenging the stigma, sharing the tools that helped her." Wow. The fact that she was a psychiatric nurse as well as a patient must have made her a cherished presence in her own patients' lives. That being said, I can imagine how sad you may have felt at times, when she went away. And I appreciate all the more how important your Granny was in your life.
Your poems are beautiful. I am grateful you are bringing these stories to light. We can help heal some of the collective wounds by first acknowledging the pain. ❤️🩹
Thank you for sharing your voice, too, I enjoyed listening.
Sheila, thanks so much! I'm glad. And I'm thrilled that you can't wait for the book. Much gratitude.
I listened to you tell the story and then reread it again this afternoon. It feels eery and connected in both a sad and heart-warming way. There are so many treasures in the tragedies of the women before us. I truly love how you bring it all together.
I so appreciate you sharing that with me, Sheila. Thank you again. ❤
This brings up a lot for me, like many of your posts and notes. I often fail to wrangle my mind into coherence and get some of it down in the comments, but I will say this.
First, the fantastic phrasing of your work is a delight. Second, the Granny I’ve been remembering in my Notes cared for me when my mother was institutionalised, for months, not years, when I was 18 months old. It became a cycle that worked like clockwork - every four years she would go to ‘the san’ for a few months for her medication to be altered and other therapies tried.
We visited her there, sometimes able to take her out for an hour with us, sometimes going to her room depending what floor she was on. I didn’t think she belonged there.
She was a nurse, and had had a breakdown as an exchange nurse in Denmark before she was married. She became a mental health advocate of a sort, normalising the conversation, challenging the stigma, sharing the tools that helped her. A psychiatric nurse as well as a psychiatric patient, she spoke and wrote articles from both experiences.
I’m proud of that legacy
Quinn, thank you so much for your heartfelt and very thoughtful comments. I appreciate your willingness to share the story of your mother, who must have been an immensely courageous woman. How wonderful that, in her day, she worked to normalize the conversation about mental health—as you say, "challenging the stigma, sharing the tools that helped her." Wow. The fact that she was a psychiatric nurse as well as a patient must have made her a cherished presence in her own patients' lives. That being said, I can imagine how sad you may have felt at times, when she went away. And I appreciate all the more how important your Granny was in your life.
Thank you for hearing me. I only wish we saw her more. They lived near Timmins, and we were near Sudbury. Long drive, especially before road upgrades.
This was so beautiful, and I’m going looking for the book now. I’ve heard of generational trauma and healing and this feels like both. Thank you.
Thank you for your lovely comment, Lyns. It really touched me to discover this, and I’d be glad to send you a copy of In Green.
A beautiful laying out of generational trauma, Robin. I love listening to your reading. So many chilling, telling moments in your verse:
The child stays behind,
spins, “Look at me, Mama, I’m a windmill”
Followed later by--
Outside a windmill turns,
silent.
I can feel the stilling, the silencing of the whirling child who keeps her mother's life a secret and then,
Her legs never work right again;
she feels that she’s come far enough.
Terrible, this silencing. I am glad you have broken it.
Thank you, Robin. Your reading and response mean a lot to me.
Love all of this! Can’t wait for your book!
Your poems are beautiful. I am grateful you are bringing these stories to light. We can help heal some of the collective wounds by first acknowledging the pain. ❤️🩹
Thank you for sharing your voice, too, I enjoyed listening.
Thank you, Maria. Your response means a lot to me.
Thank you, Robin
Thank you for reading and listening, Hugh.