Everyone should sit
in the place
where there is
no better and worse.
It’s hard to feel anchored as the year turns, as the rain returns, as the unexpected snow disappears.
The past tells a story we remake again and again. We tell it today to help ease our pain.
Even if the past rhymes and we remake it into something helpful, it still stings.
What you didn’t get. Howl that with me: I didn’t get what I needed, did you?
Oh, I still got what I needed. In time I took from myself what I needed.
What do you need?
I need an anchor on this gray-green earth, to laugh with me as I dip near the hard, brittle bone, then hold me as a sob.
Can we make a blanket of this earth? Where is that tree that speaks your name with no words? The one you climb up in as well as your rusty bones will let you travel. There are no words there. Thankfully, there are no words as you slide yourself into that sacred space. There’s room to just be.
The year is beginning to turn. If there’s no light, the moss waits. Wait with it. In silence. It’s a slippery anchor, but it’s green and holds water well.