god sees the light
do you feel?
today is the day
I wonder, what does belongs to us? What can we take from this life and from the chance given to us at birth to hold, to keep, to call our own? Can we claim towns, call them our home? Can we claim churches and God given to us at birth? Can we claim the sky above or the trees in our backyards?
My fellow Foreign Service, Civil Service, military, and other government colleagues are some of the most hardworking, loyal, intelligent, individuals you will ever meet. We dutifully serve any administration that comes in, representing their new policy whims and decisions, reserving our personal opinions, and faithfully carry them out.
I read poetry to heal and to find kindred souls to learn and adorn and adore. I read poetry to convince myself we are still human because sometimes it doesn’t seem so.
I do wonder, how come these memories are often the most vivid ones. I wish I could remember my babies' smiles when they were little as vividly as I remember my childhood embarrassing moments.
If I could invent something, I would create a pill that would erase the sinking feeling beneath the surface during these moments of extreme vulnerability.
I cannot help but think of the soldiers who carried out his orders, blindly killing helpless, unarmed boys and men lying on the ground, soaking the earth of the country that gave them life, the same country that gave life to the soldiers carrying out the murders; the same mother, the same soil that fed the grains they harvested and ate.
I may not be a fan of the President, but he may be right about one thing, media has become a channel for sensational, and it only focuses on the stories that feed the minds of those interested in how a story fortifies their belief system, whether liberal or more conservative.
Life is unpredictable because we are wolves to each other.
People like to share stories. Anthropologists tell us that this is how humans make sense of the world around us and how we always feel the urge to share the meaning of our existence with other people close to us.
There is this school, a large yellow Titanic in the middle of a town. It was a church school once. Now it’s cracked in half. One-half of this school a witness to bold creatures traveling its painted walls, painted with hope, painted with mischief, and a notion that they were meant to do something different.
After last week’s and this week’s events, it is safe to say that there are definitely cats in America. Ordinary Fievels like me are no longer convinced that the cats are only in our war-torn countries. However, I still believe that that American heroes are fighting against the injustice every day and that the bad cats will definitely end up in a pound.
Death teaches us that a loss of a dear person is longing for the past happiness we embedded in our memories, like carvings left on the stone wall of our existence; Each carving, a timeline indicator, marking a notch on the graph showing our longevity.
America for me is everything, the land, its people, a mixture of textures and sounds and colors; it is my ability to call the community of different people my own. That is my church, so to speak.
Lately, my quaint New England town has seen a large number of black bears. Bears are popping up everywhere; bears in the yards; bears on the streets, decks. Soon the bears will be showing up for afternoon barbecues for burgers and beer. A friend of mine even saw Mr. and Mrs. Bear getting-it-on on the side of the local highway. These bears have no shame!
My childhood shell has become very thin and fragile, and no matter how much I try to protect it and save pieces that I feel I should gift to my children, they keep disappearing.
Mud caked jeans, goat yoga and more
I am not closer to gaining any answers and my anxiety increases. No one tells you when you are young that being an adult is a perpetual exercise in worrying and wondering about what each next day is going to bring. No one tells you that relationships become more intricate and that there are no real answers, but more sub-plots, theories, and conjectures, which are, of course, very hard to prove or understand.
Images of war remind me of human cruelty and greed, but they also remind me of how beautiful and strong humans can be. We never remember those kicking the victims in the pictures, we only remember those faces who exude strength and love and desperation.
We cannot fight to crush Nazi brutality abroad and condone race riots at home. Those who fan the fires of racial clashes for the purpose of making political capital here at home are taking the first step toward Nazism (Henry Wallace)