A healing place for all, Healing Hamlet is an exploration of healing and art. Your journey toward peace begins here, through the healing power of art, stories, books, poetry, and music. Please read about our mission. You are invited to browse through our pages to discover beauty, hope, and joy and to share your own healing inspiration. Welcome to your hamlet of healing!
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
More about Margaret Atwood
Installation of Forever Bicycles at the Nuit Blanche Event in Toronto, October 2013, using 3,144 interconnected bicycles.
We have to give our opinion, we have to say something, or we are a part of it. As an artist I am forced to say something. –Ai Weiwei
Learn more about Ai Weiwei
When Mr. Sulaiman from Jordan play he pipe and the band join in – two musicians from Liverpool, a’ Egyptian beatin’ drums with he hands, a German drummer, and a German guitarist – I thought about children in a’ open-land, running wild and free.
Me an’ Bhoy, assistant to Fazal (gardener-tree-trimmer-grass-cutter), examine the ground. Every crack was a thirsty mouth.
“Look, eh, you would never think so much rain did fall…” Bhoy say in he slow-w-w-w way.
“Yeah, four an’ a half months o’ rain and now look!”
Fazal say he does have to finish work soon before the sun blister he.
Every day, the heat rise, if you coulda hear it, you woulda hear a scream in the sky, I swear.
I don’t know if it was the heat or me, but I been feeling like a desert too. All me words been panting like them flowers, h-h-h-h.
Read the full post on Guyana Gyal’s Blog
What gave me hope in the midst of my pain and loss was not another antidepressant or another hour in my therapist’s office, but the smiles and giggles and hugs of five precious little girls.
Find The Invisible Girls
Visit Sarah Thebarge’s Website
Everyone I know is looking for protection
Trying to pull your hometown ‘cross a telephone wire
‘Cause that was the real you standing there in the shape of your body
Fear don’ know no love when we’re all the same
That was the real you looking back across the water
Tears falling like rain, drops rippling against the shame
That was the real you singing hallelujah, looking down a barrel
Hey brother, we’re all learning to love again
Hey brother, we’re all learning to love again
More music from Mat Kearney
Youtube Post by Papa Pallas
Julie Hill Alger
At least I’ve learned this much:
Life doesn’t have to be
all poetry and roses. Life
can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks,
electric bills, dishwashing,
chapped lips, dull stubby pencils
with the erasers chewed off,
cheap radios played too loud,
the rank smell of stale coffee
yet still glow
with the inner fire of an opal,
still taste like honey.
More poems by Julie Hill Alger
Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love. –Claude Monet
She was almost past our house when she suddenly stopped and stared. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open, and as she moved towards our table of rejects, I could see the longing in her eyes.
My mother had a keen wit, a love of good books, reading, languages, and life-long learning, and a generally impeccable sense of justice. She had a number of faults too of course, and one of them was a perverse talent for unwittingly picking the last thing in the world you would want as a gift. Having grown up in the age before plastics were widely used, my mother never got over her fascination for Mellmac, Tupperware, and just about any other plastic product you could mention. “It never wears out!” she used to say, when I expressed my loathing for polyester. “You can drop it and it won’t chip or break,” she would say when I longed to eat off china instead of Tupperware. “Termites can’t eat it!” was her standard line when I wondered why we couldn’t buy more furniture made of wood. Over the years, she never quite learned what I liked, so I accumulated a collection of things I could never use or develop an aesthetic appreciation for.
Read the full post at ResidentAlien
We have focused only on the negatives, and not enough on incredible stories of the human spirit and of rebirth and rebuilding. That’s equally important as the tragedy. –Steve Perry (singer, songwriter, musician)