Thursday, June 21, 2018
The Junk Yard vs. Poetry Beach
There's been a lot of sorrow.
I try not to think about it...but every tiny act of mothering is a reminder.
Tonight I clipped my child's fingernails.
I wondered who clips the nails of the children in cages.
Does anyone notice when their nails are too long...or too dirty.
Yesterday, my 12 year old daughter asked me to braid her hair.
It's a rare treat these days so I seized on the moment to brush and tend and love her via her hair.
I wove her hair with a heart that is tattered...I saw the tiny stripes the sun has tinted in her hair already...I knew the area on her head where the braid always gets bumpy...I smoothed and tightened and thought of all the young girls with no one to fix their hair.
Children are being taken and separated from their families.
The government is working to bring the most pain to bear on immigrants.
It's working to harm the youngest and most vulnerable.
I can hardly believe this nightmare is true.
A few days ago, I was moving my daughter up to Portland.
Despondent over these babies and mothers I went for a walk along the Willamette River.
I tried to lose myself in that new place...tried to notice something new with each step...
a wildflower here...a tiny bird there.
It felt good to walk along a river and notice the current that never falters...always moving forward.
Lost in my thoughts I abruptly hit the end of the path...
a dead end with a junk yard attached.
How cosmically perfect.
Gross - Dead - Polluted - Junk
Might as well be describing our government...or my mood.
It felt maddening and sickeningly spot on.
What could I do but turn around?
I literally made an about face to begin walking back and discovered a path called Poetry at the Beach.
I marveled at this mystery.
What was going on?
How could there be poetry at the beach?
Literally, two of my favorite things embedded in some sort of spiritual mash up...what??
I should head back...I had chores to begin...and commitments to attend to...but I knew that wouldn't be happening.
I had to walk the path...
I discovered stones that had the words of children...the poems that children created carved into them...voices of Native American children who pondered the Willamette River and what it
meant to them - felt to them - inspired in them.
Here are their hearts etched into stone: