Our Kids Are In Trouble

Our kids are in trouble

They killing each other

In an organized – thought out sorta way

And it’s all over

Cold hallway bloodbath

Dropn like flies

While we so smug

Hold onto our rights

I hold my ground

You hold yours

And now they’re gone

My right to choose any gun I like without a question

My right to watch what I wanna watch, without exception

Our kids at risk since a positive test

Their protection way down on the list

Both left and right

Responsible for this

And now they’re gone

Our kids are in trouble

We’re killing each other

In an organized – thought out sorta way

And it’s all over

Cold hallway bloodbath

Dropn like flies

While we so smug

Hold onto our rights

I hold my ground

You hold yours

And now they’re gone

by Lisa Boyl-Davis

Written Feb 22, 2018

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Lovers of God are Better Lovers

The dance with God is a dance with the invisible.  It’s like I’m up in my room, house empty but for the dog, and I’m folding towels. The giant trees out below my window along greenbelt are heavy under the weight of rain that won’t slow.  I hear it strong on the roof above me, and against the windowpane.  The giant mound of laundry.  The relentless rain.  The bowing trees.  And I sting to the bone with the goodness of God.  There between the bed and the bookcase, me and the white towel, we dance.  We dance with God.  It’s a celebration of all that is.  And I know He is.  I’m alive with God, celebrating the gift of the laundry, the rain, the bowing trees – the song playing in my veins. 

God and I could be different.  I could be mad I’m stuck with all these chores.  I could be mad about the carving across my neck, twice.  Or my missing breast.  I could be giving him a list of what isn’t right with my life and what I want from him.  But I have.  I have been mad and angry and said four letter words – and yes, said them to God.  But last time I couldn’t pray – for days – … I had no strength and couldn’t think a clear thought, He prayed for me, and let me lean without words, didn’t offer up a thing.  And so this is how our relationship has become much more.  I’ve learned to receive. 

Yes, I know if I love God I will do x, y and z.  However, I’m not sure that matters as much to God as my receiving his love.  And so this round of cancer has been just goofy.  Neck all swollen from ear and down across the front like a crime scene, I’ve been singing every chance I get.  Compiling every good jazz standard I can find, fighting the dead numb slab of left face-crazy feeling of wanting to crawl out of skin, I am learning lyrics.  Reading stories of the writers, most of them immigrants.  Old movies.  Talks with friends.  Gluing wooden flowers with one.  Coloring with another.  Dutch Blitz with the kids.  Holding my adored husband close.  Up much too late talking.  Exploring who might be hanging from my family tree and his.  Laughing about my latest cooking attempts.  Just being together.  And taking in these kindnesses of God. 

If I have to do some horrid repeat three times, it means I’m suppose to be learning something.  The thing I’m learning third time round is that my love for God, really loving anyone is so much more about receiving … take in the beauty, the presence, the treasure of another more than anything else.  And no, receiving is not being a selfish taker.  That’s different, and for another blog.  

C.S. Lewis once said:

“…you must have a capacity to receive,

or even omnipotence can’t give.”

The rain, it comes.  The heaviness – bending the life beneath it.  And in the bowing there is a receiving.  God gifts, they come sometimes in a rugged downpour.  It’s just right that I give nothing much and lean.  Just right to just lean.  And so I do.

Slice My Throat Silent

slice my throat silent

knife on neck

you block my tones

a ‘wanna be’

the song

i’ve always wanted to sing

stifled with

the cut

the drains

and

staples

they tear away my hope

that one day

i’d

sing

for

you

a stupid wish

with no place to fit

body would have never needed

to create the cancer

a reason for the preventative rip

 

slice my throat silent

knife on neck

your brow

and shaming

it blocks my truth

my story

the thing that happened

with no words

and no place to put them

the slice

it

shuts

me

up

and becomes

all the story I need to tell

slice my throat silent

knife on neck

you win.

NOT

you didn’t know

when plans you made

that my song

find

its

ways

through

SCAR

TISSUE.

never thought it through, did you,

that my story

is still as real

when

buried

by

a

fresh

wound

as it ever was before.

slice my throat

yes you may

and I sing

just the same.

my song

has

never

been

housed

in

vocal

cords

alone

cut me down silent

And

still

I

sing.

Ann, My Blind Roommate

Ann was my blind roommate.  Not blind.  Just set-up.  You know, like a blind date. I think I might have met her once, for about a minute in some cafeteria in Upper State New York a summer before, but that story is for another time.  Other than that, I’m sure we were complete strangers.  Her sister Barbara was a friend of mine (still is!).  I’d been to Barb’s apartment before and remember thinking ‘wow, how amazing to live in such a nice place’.  It was a second story flat set back off the street, above a shaded grassy patch and home to a large tree or two (ok, I’m not a details person).  The apartment was just across the street from the Walla Walla College campus where I attended.  If you could have seen the apartment I was “wow-ing’, you’d chuckle, but for a college kid who had lived in some motley places, you’d understand.  One spring day while I was visiting Barb at her apartment she asked me if I’d like to live there, and room with her sister Ann the following year.  Barb was leaving/graduating, and Ann needed a roommate.  Barbara was one of those people super easy to be around – and I imagined her sister to be the same, so took the chance and said I’d do it.  With no small amount of anxiety, I agreed, knowing sisters can be as different as night and day.

What I don’t think I told Barbara was that I was holding my breath – hoping everything would work out.  Not just regarding Ann, but due to my own situation.  Although I wanted to live in a normal apartment with a pre-arranged roommate, and make plans for the year ahead, my actual life never looked like that.  Every quarter I’d find myself sitting in the financial aid office an hour or two waiting my turn, hoping and praying that Cassie or Doug  – the two persons managing the financial aid office – would pull out of a hat some random grant or loan, making it possible for me to attend college yet one more Quarter.  Every nickel I made working on grounds, vacuuming the halls of the girls dorm, and all other income went to paying for college.  I didn’t make enough to afford it, so every Quarter they let me in felt like a giant miracle from God.  Housing and roommates came last.  

Over the summer, I remember looking at my things, a few ratty Norman Rockwell pictures torn out of a calendar for the walls, some black-bottomed pans, a thinned cotton bedspread but white and cheerful enough, no dresser but a mattress for the floor, … I wondered how Barbara’s sister would feel about moving in with Miss Nobody. 

For no particular reason Cassy or Doug, I don’t remember which, decided they had the money for me to attend, and that I’d be fine in that nice apartment, and so there I was unpacking my few well worn things when Ann arrived.  I don’t remember our first words, or even remember when she arrived, but one of the first sweet things she said to me was exclaiming how much she loved the (thumbtacked) Norman Rockwell pictures on the wall.  I couldn’t believe it.  She could enjoy simple unconventional ways of decorating, of being, and could find beauty all over the place in things that didn’t cost a dime.  The relief nearly suffocated me.  To be accepted is one thing, but to be enjoyed as is, now that’s another.

The blind roommate turned out to be a very good one.  Not only did she not care one bit about my worn out things, she enjoyed my ability to make something out of nothing in the kitchen.  I enjoyed her ability to read a recipe and bake.  She was adventurous, was willing to do crazy things like camp out last minute on some country church grounds (because it sat beside a river).  I think the sprinklers came on, and she was a good sport about that too.   

Ann loved having friends over, and was quite the host.  Because of her, our apartment was filled to overflowing with friends and friends of friends and a few others.  Engineering guys from across the street would smell the chili in the crock pot and meander across the road, up the stairs to see what’s cooking.  Students whose parents had been missionaries – Ann had grown up in Bangladesh.  Her former classmates from a college in England she’d attended.  Ole friends from Blue Mountain Academy in Pennsylvania.  I added my collection of grounds worker pals, class mates, a few friends from Mount Ellis (Bozeman, Montana)….  Between the two of us, our apartment was a preverbal zoo!

Ann was an unusual mix of fun and studious.  I struggled with college, good grades did not come easy for me.  I had to read and re-read anything I took in.  I had already decided that I couldn’t have fun and do well in college at the same time.  This was due to that fact that the students I’d known up to this point were either fun or or did well in school, but never both.  Not Ann.  She knew how to shift gears from fun times to getting things done, and back to fun again – as needed.  I was inspired.  Ann did need less sleep then I, but she was always respectful about her sleepyhead roommate and studied late into the night without disturbing my rest.  Ann was also more tidy than I, and was just gracious as I struggled to keep things up, as we had to – we had company morning to night. 

The year I met my husband and fell in love, I was rooming with Ann.  She listen to all my star eye’d feelings months on end.  We listened to each other.  She was gracious when the guy I was in love with reciprocated.  Didn’t matter what the challenge in life was, when things were going well for me, and not for her, she was gracious.  That’s a great word for Ann.  Gracious.  Just a gracious and dear friend. 

Thirty some years have passed.  Ann is more dear to me then before.  She has been the best auntie to our kids, though not a blood aunt.  She’s been in our lives a couple times a year their entire lives.  Although she eventually moved to Cambodia, she flies in to see her folks, sisters and brother and comes to see us – and often.  Which means the kids have years of memories with Auntie Ann. 

I would have never picked Ann out myself.  We are as optimist as two persons can be.  She has traveled all over the world her entire life.  I’ve been nowhere other than the US, Canada, Hawaii and Tijuana, but mostly stay home.  Book learning comes easy to her.  She flies through books and tests well.  I struggle to get through part of a book.  I test poorly.  She likes numbers.  I like words.  Not true.  She likes words too… and reads more books in a year than I will in a lifetime.  She bakes.  I dump cook.  She is single.  I’m married with four kid.  She is a saver.  I’m a squanderer.  She reads music.  I play by ear.  She’s Adventist.  I’m not. 

How does one choose a roommate?  Although Ann and I are as as different as wind and sea, the things that matter most we have in common.  Ann gets how much I love God, how much I hate pretension, how much I value simple hospitality, how much I love vulnerability and authenticity.  We both love to grow our spirits and shrink the ever-toxic “self”.  We both love family and friends, love something from nothing, both love learning and exploring new ideas, love color, love to laugh, love a spontaneous adventure.  I have a memory of one of my very grown up kids being talked into a shopping cart by Auntie Ann, her pushing said child speed of light through a parking lot, both howling with laughter.  

My blind roommate.  I think I was the blind one.  Would never have thought she’d consider a friendship with me as she was traveled, smart and capable.  You know, I’ve never seen my face, and you haven’t seen yours.  Only a reflection.  If the reflectant is warped, all that is seen is a twisted view of ourselves.  That makes each-other that very important mirror.  Ann has been one of the kindest mirrors I’ve ever looked into.  A mirror that smiles at my burnt attempts at soup.  Listens when I’m miserable and self-centered.  Is able to separate her own opinions from her heart – a heart that cares for me more than cares to be right or have the last word.  

Ann

The wind and sea.

Which one are you?

Which one is me?

My blind roommate.

A kindly mirror.

Thank you gracious friend

I see.

 

Why I Don’t Write About ‘The 10 Best Ways To …..’

To put the cards out on the table, I’ll say out loud that some of you struggle with the floating essence of this blog and others like it, and are just straight up frustrated when you don’t get ‘The 10 Best Ways To ….’  Althought that’s what’s expected for an article to be sucessful, I want my readers to know why many writers are not able to live up to that expectation.  Here’s what’s going on.  

When an essay writer forms a thought, a poem, a blog – any sort of sharing – what is being offered up is a partial piece of something.  The writing might represent a feeling that comes up now and again, but not always the primary thought, and definitely not the only thought.  It is a form of writing that catches the random fleeting experiences that are rarely spoken of, and yet real, which if given words, might become important and pivotal heart things.  This form of writing is far removed from, say, cell phone manuals and the heavily digested step by step ‘how to’s.  The reason essay writing comes across to many as ‘fingernails on chalkboard’.  Mistrust the grays?  You won’t wish to hear thoughts at the parimeter, and are right now saying to yourself “What is she talking about?” 

A parable has the capability of easily being twisted and turned – morphed into hideous suggestions on how to live, if taken in by someone who resists the wider scope of things.  A parable is only a part of the story and still Jesus himself used this form of communication.  As important as noticing the way he delivered information is to notice how he did not say things.  He did not give the outlined dissertation on faith, prayer and woman in leadership.  Why?  Because it is The Listener, The Curious, The Pondering Soul that is open, and from this, all of life becomes a teacher.    In other words, the simple big picture, if noticed, changes us.  I like Jesus’ style.  I also like the ways of poets, musicians and essay creators.  Speaking to the things rarely noticed awakes my fixated existence and gives me a toehold of hope and direction. 

And so for the one who wonders why I write on cancer when I am clearly not on my last breath, I say to you, cancer is not a destination, it is a hovering roommate –  moves in uninvited and shows up at will.  Leaves remote and occasional internal experiences that are less harmful when shared.

Why write about faith?  Because holy sightings of the unknown are brought to focus best when expressed. 

For the person who wonders why I write about parenting and marriage when I’m clearly still searching to know more, it’s because I learn most from the placement of writen word.  I share because we learn from each others mistakes and struggles.  I write with the hope that, in turn, you will share yourself.

Why write about burning dinner, as I would never write 10 Best Ways To Burn Dinner, although now that I think about it, I’ve got at least 100.  I say ‘tell me what you’re most ashamed of – we will find a closeness we’ve not known’. 

This is writing for me. 

A process of vulnerabilities,

of incomplete ideas,

of the unspoken. 

The choice I made when I started blogging. 

That great exchange. 

‘What Will Others Think’

verses

‘Wholeness’.  

There are no ’10 Best Ways’ for that.

And so I meander.  

 

Talking is Not Unloading.

I was at my little bank today. Just through the doors and up to the counter when the banker who knows me well told me all about people who tell her all about themselves.  She tells me she’d never tell her banker all about her life.  She wonders why people walk in the door and just unload.  I sit there listening to the banker unload about others unloading on her, and I wonder why it strange to unload as the banker was unloading and I was just fine to have her unload the load she’d been handed – burdened by all the many people coming to do their banking with more than banking on their minds.  And as she counts the money, I think how nice it is that she knows me well enough to tell me all this.  And how rare it is to know anyone at all.  I think about the many trips to town, not recognizing a soul, and how special it is to know someone and to be known. 

Why do we call talking dumping, anyway?  I drive east over the mountains to a small town where family live.  People stand on the sidewalk in inclement weather, talking to each other about the weather, just for the sake of talking, and it’s such a friendly interaction, really about nothing at all.  A state or two south where my husband grew up is a lazy town.  Middle of road, often seen, a pickup that has once been heading one direction – comes across a recognizable someone, and they both stop right where they are, pause, windows down, flanneled elbows hanging out the windows, cap tips too, just saying hello, without horns a-honking behind them, there is no hurry.  And I wonder how we’ve lost all of that to education and careers. 

I suppose to get through college a person must be hyper-focused.  Must be headed a direction without delay.  Some people in small towns have attended college. And I wouldn’t say small town folk don’t get things done.  Maybe their timeframe is different from ours.  I haven’t figured it out.  I hope to one day.

In the meantime, my 8 year old is begging me to play a game and I didn’t hear a word she said until she’d said it like 4 times.  Oh dear, off to play a game:)

Cancer – A Lonely Hike

Cancer

A hike alone

With watchers on

too far away –

I guess

I

want

them 

them

all 

that

way.

Cancer

An ugly hike

Cat Scan today

along my neck

of nodes

where they will carve

..and help themselves

to what is there,

and shouldn’t be.

Cancer,

a lonely hike

to doctors

techs

and nursing staff

that care

I’m sure,

then hurry fast

to sit in traffic

headed home –

a home without the cancer-ed ones.

Do

repulse 

them

fast

away?

Cancer

a lonely hike

and yet somehow

the flowers

brighter

than

before

between the naps

and numbing lips

numb tong

and

deadened

finger

tips.

The ridge on lonely cancer hike

jagged

still

all brilliant blue

with

what’s beyond,

will

I

come

through? 

Will lonely cancer

strip away

the song

I sing

on laundry day,

Will carve of knife

now help itself

to softened hands

that

I

now

hold?

This

dust

to

dust

on

Cancer

trec

My lonely hike

to who knows where.

And though I don’t know where I go

one foot to next

and

I

hike

on.

 

How to Treat The Fat Person In Your Life

Disclaimer:  Our culture has a distorted view of beauty.  That topic is for another blog.  Here I address the actual need for weight loss and how one might treat a person who is overweight.

 

This morning I slipped into some jeans I’ve not been able to wear for 3 years.  Thyroid cancer made my life miserable.  And still, with help from God and the people in my life, I figured out what I needed to do, and here I am, where I wanted to be.  It’s the most amazing feeling to wear pants that fit the structure of my body.  While soaking in the comfort of the thing, I knew I had to write.  Here are a few tips, in case you didn’t know, on how to treat the fat person in your life. 

Fat people know they are fat. 

You don’t have to tell them, remind them, or point it out. 

Fat people know the difference between good food and bad food. 

Telling them will not help. 

Fat people know that being overweight is bad on their health. 

Fat people don’t need to be made fun of behind the back or to their face. 

Fat people need acceptance.  They need to know they are adored, AS IS.  Adored in public and private.  Adored while eating.  Adored while walking.  While sitting down watching a show.  Adored.  Because fat is A WALL, FOLKS.  Fat acts as a barrier between the fat person and ALL THE DANGEROUS UNKIND JUDGMENTAL VULTURES out there.  Feelings of anxiety and feelings of hunger land in the very same spot on the body.  Each time anxiety is awakened, so is hunger, and vise versa.  Giving a fat person more anxiety gives them more hunger. Each time you point out how fat your “loved one” is, you’ve given them more reason to pack on the fat.  Did you take that in?  You might be the very reason your loved one is fat in the first place.  

Fat gives DISTANCE between the vulnerable one and yourself.   Fat prevents a whole host of activities, including love-making which by the way requires TRUST and INTIMACY.  Trust and intimacy can not be established alongside SHAME.  Not possible.  You might be blaming a lousy love life on the obese person in your life.  Lovers are made to love.  Bodies are built to heal.  The fat person has work to do, no doubt.  However if the fat person is living with an unsafe person, the fat will remain or return. 

Fat manages vulnerability.  And therefore every time you find it necessary to identify how fat he or she is (yes, it goes both ways) you are causing stress in which, even if your loved one wanted to, couldn’t release the weight.  Seriously, how many times have you known someone who found a lifestyle for healing and lost all their weight only to put it on again?  Have you ever wondered why he or she was almost driven to pack it back on, when they loved the weight loss so much?  Of course there are medical and life reasons weight returns, such as surgery, childbirth, thyroid issues etc…  When there are no good reasons and still the body reactively drives toward weight gain, that is when it’s time to start noticing how anxiety producing thinness is, and how comfortable obesity feels.  Either way, if there is weight to release, there is call for a healthy environment in which weight loss will be a good thing for all parties involved.  It’s the obese person’s job to learn to manage his or her vulnerability, however you can sure make it easier. 

Here are some things you can do and say:

Write down things you have done and said that were not safe.

Ask God to change your heart toward the heavy person in your life.

Tell her you have been an unsafe person.

Tell him you are done pointing out, criticizing, correcting and suggesting.

Tell her about your fears, that you don’t want anything to happen to her, that you are worried.  

Tell him you have decided to work on your health, including your emotional health, and want to be a safe person (please see the book Safe People by Henry Cloud and John Townsend)

Tell her often all the things you love about her, and what attracts you to her.  If you can think of nothing, you have grown a very hard heart.  Attraction is something we build  and work on, not something that hits us sideways from outer space.  No wonder she doesn’t feel safe.  Pray.  I will guarantee you, God will give you a very long list of things to desire and enjoy about the other person.  Because that’s how God sees us – our proud papa.  We are his adored children.  Prejudice, bigotry, and judgmental abuse cloaked in joking and jabs is a hard habit to break.  If not that overt, still, we our bodies are made to pick up subtle disregard and disgust.  What will change you is to have a good hard look at who you are.  You will notice what is ugly about you, and how God loves you anyway, and this will change your heart about the people in your life.

Remember, if your loved one has been harmed by you over and over throughout the years, he or she will have a hard time believing you are for real.  Allow time for distance, anger and sadness.  Yes, anger, and lots of it, toward you.  Grief takes time.  Trust comes along much later.  Time.  Let this healing take time. 

My family and the family I married into who are the worst about this issue.  I somehow managed to marry a man who, though not perfect, gets it.  He often tells me I need to eat more, that the reason I’m heavy is because my body is starving.  When I’m eating something not great for me, he tells me to enjoy it.  When I work hard at getting healthy, he tells me I look just as beautiful to him as I did before.  I’ve been obese (see picture) and thin ( now about 12 sizes smaller), and loved both ways.  I would have never lost weight if he had rejected me as a heavy woman.  He made it safe for me to get healthy and strong.  And I won’t ever take that for granted, because I know my situation is not the norm.

By the way, the body gravitates towards thin.  Make a safe-haven.  Learn to love the one you’re with.  Making these changes will make you both stronger and more healthy.  I guarantee it.  

 

 

Canadian Geese and Ella Fitzgerald

Under the autumn sky, around the lake another time I walk.  Brisk air tossing my hair about, and I catch sight of them.  Grey and grand, they are silent above me.  Determined necks, strong wings in the bluster, they move onward.  Moving together toward a destination – built in the bones.  Just being geese, they pursue what has been etched into their beings, and they live.

For two weeks now, I’ve been working hard on “Green Dolphin Street”, “Take The A Train” and a couple other songs best sung by Ella Fitzgerald.  Geese in the currents overhead, I think about her.  Baby Ella born to a laundry girl and the shipyard boyfriend – the gene donor didn’t stay long.  She said once in an interview “… I never met him.”.  Moving from Newport News, Virginia to New York, Ella, her Momma and the current boyfriend settled in.  Life seems to have gone well for the family; a sister born, attending both school and church. 

Then things got hard.  An auto accident took the life of Ella’s mother.  Just after she died, her boyfriend treated Ella wrong.  Ella was a young teen.  Time passed.  An auntie finally came for Ella, moved her in with her family, but it was too late, Ella’s life had already begun the backward slide.  Failing grades, she skipped school and roamed about in the shadows of New York, dancing the streets of Harlem for a penny.  Ella was caught for truancy and placed in a reform school.  The reformatory was a horrible place.  The girls there were beat by male guards.   When she couldn’t take it anymore, she found a way to run. For some time she lived homeless on the streets of New York.  No year is better for living on the streets than another, except for depression years – and that’s when she was homeless.  Did all kinds of odd jobs… slept wherever she could. 

One night she decided to participate at an Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater.  Ella loved to dance, but when she saw the Edwards Sisters dance their socks off just before she was to go on, she changed her mind and decided to sing.  The crowd wasn’t pleased at the sight of her.  She looked homeless and unkempt, because she was.  But when she started to sing, the audience went silent.  The crowd was taken away.  A well known drummer in the audience realized this girl had something, and whisk her away to talk to the powers that be.  The answer was no.  They wanted a man, not a woman.  What they were really saying was that she looked like heck, and would not have her.  Well she was given another chance, she cleaned up, sang, and the rest is history.  Ella provided the world with music from age 17 to age 79.  Sold 40 million albums and won 13 grammy awards. 

Ella was a black homeless girl during the depression, on the streets of New York City, chewed up and spit out by life.  Orphaned, molested, a school dropout, thrown in juvie, a runaway, homeless.  When she was given a chance, it wasn’t for the amazing body beneath tattered misfit hand-me-down’s and dirt.  Wasn’t discovered for a startlingly unusual voice, though lovely.  Wasn’t chosen for her ability to charm musicians into choosing her.  She was too plain, too shy, and socially awkward at times.  Like the Geese that fly, no matter the weather, driven to be, she was herself – herself was just what the world needed. 

Circumstances can’t remove a core blueprint.  I wonder how she kept mind lies from stripping from us six decades of herself?  What prevented her from believing lies in her head that she is a nobody, that she has no business singing for people at an amature hour.  A brave moment.  A strong moment.  A moment of taking to the skies, doing what she was made for, just being.  She let her unique internal grid be her true north. 

At times, over the years, dark thoughts did tormented her.  There were times she felt like nothing, wanting to hide because of her failed marriages and her body size.  A person who gives the best of themselves is not the person who has no dark thoughts.  It’s is the person who doesn’t let the dark thoughts stop movement forward.  She continued to put herself out there despite the struggles. 

Frank Rich of the New York Times wrote just after Ella’s death “Here was a black woman popularizing urban songs often written by immigrant Jews to a national audience of predominantly white Christians.”  Some things have changed in our world since that day.  Some things have stayed the same.  There are still homeless overlooked, rarely given a chance to be.  Children are still being orphaned, beat, molested.  Some still see themselves as better than others.  At the same time, society has attempted to make laws and movies and music, poems and books for teaching us to accept others different from ourselves.  Ella didn’t set out to change the world.  She set out to be, despite what she lacked.  Every time a person does that, they change the world

Ella, lately you come with me when I walk under autumn skies.  I watch the Canadian Geese above me.  Your songs, they soak into my bones.  I think about the beauty of each human being.  

… the baby born to a young mother and boyfriend

…the little one raised by a step-dad

… the child living in poverty

… the orphaned child

… the molested child

… the child running the streets

… the child harmed by the system

..each one with an internal grid

for giving this sorry world something wonderful

– built into the bones, just being.  

Ella, you fly!!