There were people(s) who knew intimately the spirit of the land because it was inside them. They were not separate from the beauty or terror of nature but revered it. Their stories have been rewritten, if not entirely erased but there are vestiges left behind. They are still with us. It is not yet too late.
Bug bitten, blistered, sun burned, scratched. Ash on my clothes, dirt under my fingernails. Dressed in spider webs and fragments of grass and petals, little souvenirs to carry with me for awhile.
This weekend was maybe one of the hardest since quarantine. I felt emotional at the grocery store, suspicious of people getting too close to me, anxious that they weren’t wearing a mask, that I was touching mine too often.
Dark and light. Joy and pain. Windchimes and bullet holes. They both sing in the breeze.
Presence. Every year, I choose a word to be my focal point. To guide and ground me through whatever life gives, and takes. I’ve done this for a decade. Long enough to know that all aspects of the word will be honed in on, the light and the dark. Life has a way of doing that, taking our intentions and lovingly developing a curriculum that will challenge and grow us in ways unexpected.
My journey with nursing has been a long one. I was fourteen the first time I ever worked in a hospital and I can still remember the way it smelled. Like industrial cleaners and cafeteria food and stale bodies.