In the deep midwinter

Sylvia Plath once wrote of feeling like the dull, still 'eye' of the tornado, 

surrounded on all sides by turmoil and chaos.

I can relate.

(well, substitute political shitshow for tornado

 and the metaphor is apt.)

It's winter and, if not built for outright hibernation,

my body and soul are at least built for stillness,

for quiet reflection,

for time hunkered down by a fire,

thinking deep thoughts.

Trying to carve out space for that

while the 24/7/365 national nightmare 

plays itself out on our very airwaves

is challenging, to say the least.

But I'm here.

 Still being provided with opportunities to learn more about how to parent adult children;

still wondering when it will get easier;

still being reminded that there's work to be done for those without a voice

and acknowledging that MY time to be that voice is limited.

My energies are scattered,

dabbling in housework, cleaning, laundry, 

reading, playing with my camera

and painting.

everything -

and nothing of significance.

Oddly, it all feels like a form of healing -

and I can certainly use more of that.

A friends image of the blood moon on the reservation moved me to tears this week -

it feels like looking at the worlds veins.

It reminded me of a prayer by Jan Richardson

For all things rising

out of the hiddenness of shadows

out of the weight of despair

out of the constrictions of compliance

out of the rigidity of stereotypes

out of the prison of prejudice;

for all things rising

into life, into hope

into healing, into power

into freedom, into justice;

we pray, O God,

for all things rising.

It's winter

and not time for the rising yet.

But there's hope it will come.