Funny how the world just continues to turn. While on its surface waves agitate and—though not invited—move onto sacred ground, and avalanches heave heavy earth, people and homes to grounds not yet known.
And rain falls endlessly on dry earth whose pores are so closed it can't embrace the drops, forcing the flow to move as a river—to an uncertain destiny, where arms may not be strong enough to keep it at bay. And trees fall in the forest when nobody knows and they fall in plain sight and force one to take flight.
Yet the bees still hum around resilient flowers that keep giving, while paths still carry the weight of wandering feet, resistive or not, round and round we heave and we push hoping to move through, knowing we have to.
And if we listen real close we may just come to know that a home can be built of sides that don't match, and of spaces that hold sanctity for another’s life, while the melody of song creeps deeply into its walls.
It is the past that begs us not to ignore, for it continually comes forward—lingering at our backs, begging us to be bold enough to listen so we can move—rightly and openly—toward our future path.
Yes, the past always comes forward, it speaks without voice—be it bitter or sweet. It beckons us to give just the right amount of attention and touch—so we can stand steady and strong, and with respect for how the world turns—regardless of the swells and falls.
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