There will come a time
When one must slow down
To release the reigns
Not only feel the wind
But stop & smell what it brings
A shift in season
Seeing that change brings suffering
Yet also beauty
As the autumn brings death
With glory in its leaves.
Tag: hardship
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Active shooter
Drop my work
Drive like mad
Where are my children?
Where is my niece?
Please God, not us
Bring peace, please, bring peace.
Two families left standing
When the rest have filed out
Where are their children?
Still lying in a pew
Their last breath now gone
Oh God. Please, no.
Add us to the list
Communities torn by love
Of America’s Gun.
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Sometimes I can feel the rage in my bones
The ancient wound separate and seep
Generations of anger as ghosts
Haunting my days
I desperately attempt to escape
It is not something that I can outrun
I have tried.
These are spirits I must face
Battle with kindness, gentleness, nuance
When all I desire is war.
War on those who dare keep up this charade
Who have not been cracked from their little bubble.
My limited capacity is what I fear the most
Will I be able to confront such malice with humility and justice?
Only a greater force could allow me this.
It is only by that strength I will carry this torch
Towards a different future.
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She finds herself standing in an open field. A small, country road behind her, a vast space in front of her, filled with corn stalks recently harvested. The remaining short stubs jut up in rows, a sad reminder of their former glory. The soybeans have not yet been taken up, their light brown fronds swaying in the cool October air. They are nearly dry, calling to be removed and allowed to sink back into the earth.
A murder of crows caws loudly above, breaking the stillness. In some way the birds feel like an omen, a reminder that she cannot outrun this place or it’s memories. She no longer wants to run. She longs to rediscover some identity that has been lost- the girl who grew up in this place. She cannot have the good memories without the bad. The beauty and hurt of this place swirls around her.
She remembers something a yoga instructor said about feeling your feet plant into the ground. She pushes the soles of her feet into the soil and closes her eyes. An ache in her chest grows and she outstretches her arms and cranes her neck to face the sky. Maybe if she feels the soft, wet earth under her and the breeze flowing through her finger tips, listen to the branches swaying – she will find that girl again.
