SAKSHI NARULA

Welcome to my blog! I wanted my first post here to be about something I love and I am passionate about. I promise you this blog is never going to about how perfect the world is and how you need to stay positive and blah. No rose colored glasses on a pair of privileged eyes here. I am a flawed and an imperfect human being, who is weak and vulnerable, has insecurities and is just healing from things like everyone else. I may regret this later and my anxiety may make me question and doubt my decision to share my thoughts on this blog, but that is for another day 🙂 Oh and before I forget this blog is not PG 13 😉 Also, no apologies for sounding like a pity party for one sometimes, I have my good and bad days. Another disclaimer, I am never trying to glorify or glamorize pain, I leave it to you to interpret this page as you like.

So today I am sharing my most favorite poem in the world. It is hard to choose one because there are so many great poets who have led extraordinary lives and their words have changed my thinking in so many ways. But I picked this one because this one hit me deeply for more reasons than one. Her poetry is real and raw and talks about love, relationships, sexuality and eroticism in a way that is relatable to me. This is True Love by Pulitzer Prize Winner Sharon Olds.

True Love

In the middle of the night, when we get up
after making love, we look at each other in
complete friendship, we know so fully
what the other has been doing. Bound to each other
like mountaineers coming down from a mountain,
bound with the tie of the delivery-room,
we wander down the hall to the bathroom, I can
hardly walk, I hobble through the granular
shadowless air, I know where you are
with my eyes closed, we are bound to each other with huge invisible threads, our sexes
muted, exhausted, crushed, the whole
body a sex—surely this
is the most blessed time of my life,
our children asleep in their beds, each fate
like a vein of abiding mineral
not discovered yet. I sit
on the toilet in the night, you are somewhere in the room,
I open the window and snow has fallen in a
steep drift, against the pane, Ilook up, into it,
a wall of cold crystals, silent
and glistening, I quietly call to you
and you come and hold my hand and I say
I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it.

Picture Courtesy: The New York Times