finally, i got so tired of words - and the way they were being used to destroy what we love and who we love and even how - that i quit them. just stopped writing. like the fury of a hundred years could be contained instead in prayer. but when the answers didn't line up and my own silence started to feel more like cowardice - i quit that too. had a run with rage. and ignorance. i found it is terrible to hate, even the haters. so I'm picking up the words again - like so many wild flower seeds - and i am throwing them into the wind. into the abominable hatred - even as it tries to oppress - i am throwing the words and the seeds and the light back in the face of the darkness and i am hoping that in the midst of all this dirt and manure - our wild flowers will grow. And they will take over all this shameful, barren bullshit with their outrageous color.
my child is poet though he hates to be called one. says every mom thinks their kid is a genius. meanwhile, he's writing lines that strip flesh from bone - about his 92 year old grandfather - about honor about home. i see that words are just a tool for him like a baseball mitt or a pencil or food. maybe he is on to something - this ambivalence towards words. skips magic pebbles across the pond while i dig around in the dark looking for the perfect stone.
today a lovely stranger collecting beauty gave me a plant. she had grown a little tree from a cutting - knowing, just like magic - how to do such things. because her manner had moved me, i brought my new friend a box of chocolates and she asked "how did you know?" i think inside every single person is a part of you breathing. you should see how alive our tree is.