tiny blue flower
There is still beauty in the midst of all the ugliness of this world. I have to keep on reminding myself of that. There is a voice in my head that hisses how pointless it is to take a picture of that tiny blue flower growing among the weeds in a vacant lot in Church Hill. That pure cerulean blue cannot erase the red blood of brown bodies spilled. Again. Pools of it. The silent prayer of that flower as it pushed its way up into the light cannot drown out the wailing of another mother whose son or daughter was executed, murdered, by the cops or some other hate monger. But today in this moment it is all I have. That flower in the tangle of ropey stems got my attention. And I have to believe that somehow it was a message from whatever or whomever created it. I call that God, but that’s just shorthand for the indescribable mystery of all that it is. And when I see it, when it causes me to catch my breath, it does not turn me from the grieving, the dying, the dead. This is what it means to be human; to hold it all somehow in our hearts. Not to create some either/or. I do not understand how that is possible, how I can weep with the mothers and fathers, the sisters and brothers and lovers, and children. I want to gather them all as if I were the great mother. I want to bind up their wounds. I want to whisper that it will be all right all the while not knowing if it will ever be. I want to fall down and roll onto my back and gaze at the sky to hold out my arms to receive some blessing that I can then pass on. I want so much. Let me just be a tiny brilliant flower. Just that. Let it be enough.
I am a writer, storyteller, and singer/musician, part-time chaplain, recovering people-pleaser. I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister and I suspect an old soul or least I like to hang out with them....