Posts on grief

I was thinking yesterday of how nothing in life is wasted—none of our wandering, none of our pain. It is, as a wise person (though I can't remember who) once told me, "all grist." Or maybe that's just how writers and other artistic sorts (and bloggers!) console themselves with the hard stuff in life. "At least this experience will be good for a story/song/poem/painting or two..."

At bedtime I happened to read this poem, which seemed perfect for that line of thought:
 

Alchemy

I lift my heart as spring lifts up
     A yellow daisy to the rain;
My heart will be a lovely cup
     Altho' it holds but pain.

For I shall learn from flower and leaf
     That color every drop they hold,
To change the lifeless wine of grief
     To living gold.

—Sara Teasdale, 1915