Hi, there. Thanks for visiting. I'm starting this blog as an advocate for mental and physical health. I'm a freelance writer and also own a home based medical transcription business. I was diagnosed in 1978 with paranoid schizophrenia and started to become acutely ill three years prior to that, unmedicated, frightened, confused, and in trouble with the law. I graduated from university with distinction the year I became ill. I've never regretted learning how to think at university. I struggled with my illness for 35 years and have reached the top of the mountain now, I think, or the other side, where the grass is greener and the path easier. There's hope for all of us, the whole human race, and never think there isn't hope or joy no matter your circumstances. I'd love to hear your thoughts and experiences with mental illness in all its forms: depression, brain injury, autism, schizophrenia, bipolar, anxiety disorders, etc. and your positive experiences as well as those lies and half truths society and even therapists would have us believe about ourselves.

We are different folks, and we are beautiful. The whole human race is beautiful. Let's celebrate life.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

A poem for a friend #2

Emma's Garden
by Kenna Mary McKinnon

I slide my spade in the secret earth
looking for my mother's heart.
Look, she's there on the jet wing
silver in the stars
There is dust here in the memory
my cousins don't remember
quite the same.
They don't see us in the belt of Orion
just beyond the Dog star
Twinkling near the dawn.
All women stir like foxes
Kathleen in the north and Joyce.
I'm coming flying to you
Deep within the autumn
of the red gold noon.
Kathleen of the south
who like my mother, died.
They left me, still I search
those familiar women's faces
Kathleen is still there
Close by the Cliffs of Dover
So  long as I remember.
Motor to the west of England
looking for she who clung to me,
My mother and my Nemesis.
My parent and my fate
the music of my years
The soul of hands.
Still my spade in the place of hearts
turns up preachers, impotent men,
clamorous children, all who
will someday reach maturity
 and leave me.
Riding on the tip of centuries
I will you to remember me
I will remember you.
Still I cultivate my garden ripe with souls
Look for God
and remain faithful.
The shrill eagerness of Herod
condemning Christ
Pilate wipes his hands
What more may we do now
In this magnificent year
Than remain faithful
As I have with my spade thrust into soft
my mother's heart.
Golden on the Pleiades
And silver in the stars.

1 comment:

  1. I love this poem, Kenna. And the new look of your site!