When you are weak, stand with me. I’ll lend you strength.

I’ll hand you a crumpled paper bag.

You’ll open it to find a scrap of heart, still beating.

I’ll reveal the scars that criss cross a back.

They will not diminish us.

I’ll offer you a photograph.

Allow the images to speak.

You’ll sense a glance, familiar. A posture, strong. A smile so endearing, your heart cracks. Turn the photo. A penciled notation is fashioned in perfect script. Evidence of loss and struggle amidst beauty.

I’ll reach for your hand.

You’ll reach back.

It’s impossible to separate our souls, our stories.

Our ancestors do not leave us, rather, they gather to bear witness, to stand alongside.

Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

~Long ago I learned to make friends with silence.

“Listen, Child.

Remember who we are: daughters of strong limbed women with imperfect hearts, makers and givers of life. Suffering to our dreams. Forming circles of comfort, sweet tea and honey. We cooked because we had to. Who else fed the children? Believers on a crooked path to a better life- a place where every other step didn’t involve a battle. Give it all up, lay it all down. Sacrifice is all we knew.

Sacrifice. This is your power. You don’t have to win. You don’t have to have all the answers. Grit your teeth and bear it. Turn suffering into beauty. Be a true hero. Fight for more than just your own heart. Have the courage to let some things go. You are victorious for the decisions you have made. They can not steal memories. Brave one, this is who we are. “

~Her Truth

Beauty surrounds us. It’s a found nest, tossed from the trunk of an old oak. It’s innocence and a lack of sophistication. It’s crocus shoots breaking through frosted hardpan or a child’s scribbled note. It’s a falling star and the crush of rose. It’s kisses and rain, the words of a poet.

It’s simple and magnificent as most true things are.

The succulent, dressed in a paper bag. The discarded nest, a home for moss covered bulbs. Titanium snow and Magenta blossoms. It’s birdsong at dawn and the scribbled note you framed. It’s the hive of memories you keep.

~I See Flowers And Smile