So many of us are worried about the children who have been removed from a family setting to linger in cages, tents,, etc. for the sake of something less than a law and more of a whim on the part of people who don’t know these young hearts and minds.
Childhood is a fragile time when we form our impressions of each other and ourselves. Being ripped away and locked away by strangers does not bode well for a healthy feeling about the world.
I had a rocky emotional childhood, but was never lost in the limbo of a day to day existence in a strange country with strangers. When Jesus said:”Suffer the little children to come unto me” he meant in trust and love.
Often Death is portrayed as a beautiful passage. Going towards the light is leaving darkness behind. In movies it involves final confessions, resolutions, and a music underlies it. We who have lived on this earth in all its posturings know that is not the case. Death is sad, messy, best avoided. Anthony Bourdain must have figured this out long ago. He often looked life fairly and squarely in the face. Why not hang around for the next round of wine and cheese on a sunny afternoon? He’s not here to tell us, but still we ask the question.
Summer is painted in all the shades of green here. We live in a verdant reality, closed in and touched everywhere as leaves and grasses and the start of the things that spring unbidden along the trail of summer. Green is supposed to be a calming color, but once it starts it takes on a vibrancy that drives away any thoughts of passivity. We are off on the chase for so much before the green vanishes into brown and even the solemn white of snow. We are tickled by the landscape and prodded to contribute to the rush to bloom before it is taken away.
Reading through many old favorite books to find new thoughts hiding in old pages. I am between events, just existing each day for popcorn and wine in the afternoon among the fertility of summer. We can find much to say….and even make up new words to hide the clichés. Lazy on the trail I pause for the audio and visual aspects of this world to fill me up again and push me forward.
While awaiting my husband and dog’s return from their walk I looked up at the church roof, across the weeds and gravestones of the cemetery, and saw two vultures landing on the peak of the edifice. They were just tucking in their wings, settling together, and then stroking the other’s beak with their own. Black against the white slant of the old roof, they stood out even more dramatically than the Springtime colors around them. Were they courting? resting? perched for my admiration or their own admiration of each other? One edged along the line of building a way and spread wings out again to full length. How could the other resist this proud display of self? How could I?