and her place-based ponderings
I can’t help but marvel at how many years I’ve already spent on Earth. I know 20 isn’t old, but when you’ve never been older than a teenager, it sounds old. The age on my tongue feels older than I can possibly be. The signing makes me feel older than I can possibly be. And yet, here I am.
So, the people fighting for independence were British descendants, and they were fighting themselves … ?
Right now, your heart is heavy with the weight of the reality currently cloaking your country. Right now, tears creep their way between your eyelids. I hope they fall.
This Fathers’ Day wasn’t my first without a father to celebrate with. Not by a long shot. And it wasn’t hard. Mom and I called Grandpa, wished him a happy day. We drove back from The Apartment to The House. We didn’t talk about what we didn’t do. What there wasn’t to do. At least,… Continue reading [Father]s’ Day
It’s so easy to feel stripped of my power. Imagining that violence outside my walls, the violence outside my country, taking place on lands I’ve never seen. Learning about the violence inside my country, taking place at the fast food restaurant down the street.
As white people -- and particularly, right now, as white Americans -- we have a responsibility to confront our privilege. To sit with it. To feel uncomfortable. To stare it down and force ourselves to keep staring, even when all we want is to turn our heads and run far and fast back to the safety of the norm.
It’s so easy to look at the lines of zeroes that turn 100 into 100,000 and feel distantly devastated without grasping what death actually means: the souls gone, the people changed by loss.
On the space between acknowledging privilege and hatred in trying times.
Miracles truly do happen, even if those miracles are mushy rather than perfectly soaked.
