stick season

In New England this is "stick season" where everything is laid bare and we wait for the dark of winter to settle. It's a season where garden beds are cut down and blanketed with mulch. When farmers spread manure on their fields. We close our windows and doors and light the fires. Pull blankets and sweaters out of cedar trunks. But it's also a planting time. Roots still grow. Bulbs are tucked in with the promise that spring always comes back. And, because the leaves are gone, we can see more sky. 

voiceless

Feeling heartbroken, hopeless, worried, voiceless this morning. And also so grateful. So aware of the sheltered privilege of my life. Grateful that the color of my skin is not a life threatening condition.  That my family doesn't have to put our lives on the line to keep the peace in a world that seems hell bent on destroying itself. With these privileges, there must be a responsibility, but I feel ill-equipped and naive. I don't want to cause more hurt or offense, but I am aware that silence and inaction do just that.  

And so, I'll speak. Clumsy and fumbling and hoping that my heart is understood. 

Black lives matter. 

Thank you to the peace-keeping officers who do their jobs with bravery and integrity. 

The two thoughts don't cancel each other out. They go hand in hand - just like we all should.