A Quote by Patti Callahan Henry

Grief wraps around people, takes them to a place they would not go otherwise. — © Patti Callahan Henry
Grief wraps around people, takes them to a place they would not go otherwise.
All these tears shed in the world, where do they go? If one could capture all of them, they could water the parched. Then perhaps these tears would have value and all this grief would have some meaning. Otherwise, it was all a waste, just an endless cycle of birth and death; of love and loss.
I always encourage people who had a loss of any kind that you find something to focus on that takes you out of that horrific sorrow. And you have to go through it. No way out but through in the grief. But don't remain in the grief. You know, find something that you can nurture as you would that being that you loved.
A journal takes the place of a confidant, that is, of friend or wife; it becomes a substitute for production, a substitute for country and public. It is a grief-cheating device, a mode of escape and withdrawal; but, factotum as it is, though it takes the place of everything, properly speaking it represents nothing at all.
No matter what grief or loss takes place, most of life flows on all around us, as though nothing's changed. At some point in our sorrow, we each make a choice to sink or swim. There's no alternative.
We all want to have a place where we can dream and escape anything that wraps steel bands around our imagination and creativity.
If you go around a time when you're hungry, around mealtime, then you have a desperate search to find something to eat and you have this interplay between approach and avoidance. You go in a place, you smell, if it doesn't smell so good you go to the next place, you look at all the people, they're happily eating, and then you choose that place. So having to reconnoiter, having to go on a kind of treasure hunt for food is one of my favorite things.
When I'm training, I use heavier crepe for wraps, for protection - but you're not allowed to use them in competition. So when it comes to the fight, the wraps are softer.
New grief, when it came, you could feel filling the air. It took up all the room there was. The place itself, the whole place, became a reminder of the absence of the hurt or the dead or the missing one. I don't believe that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.
We can all agree that social media is an amazing platform where we can interact with and meet people and that we probably would have never had the chance to otherwise, right? However, it also has sadly become a place where some people go to share negative thoughts and comments.
I'd have no rituals, but I'm a person of compulsive habit. That's just some awful residue of a ritual. And one of the reasons for that is my living this life, which is otherwise so free of obligations. It's not at all unusual for anybody who's independently employed to crave a way of living whereby they create the structures without which their lives would otherwise start slopping around all over the place.
People would go from village to village with their books in a time of poverty and disease. They would get people around them, and for an hour, these storytellers would change people's lives. I'd always thought I was a reincarnation of that. That's who I want to be.
I'm not particularly keen on pity. Pity takes something away from grief. People think they're sharing it, but really they're just taking some. I prefer to keep my grief intact.
Everywhere you go you find readers who are interested, even though the story takes place here in this very neighborhood. It doesn't matter that it takes place locally if the intention to make it universal is there. That's what I strive to do.
I'd like to be remembered for music that moves people, that takes them some place else, that means something to them, reminds them of a good time or place, some memory, some positive moment.
In his love for the world, the greedy is like the silkworm: the more it wraps in its cocoon, the less it has of escaping from it, until it dies of grief.
I used to go from place to place by tram. A shilling would take you all around London and the suburbs.
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