hearts and lungs

10:30 at night in the lobby of Duke University Medical Center, a security guard sat at a shiny, black piano and tickled the keys quietly to himself. hidden by the lit christmas tree beside him and the sterile odor of sickness, procedure, and loneliness, i believe i may have been the only one who even noticed his notes or the way he bowed his head to his chest slightly as he played. i stepped off the visitor's elevator on the 8th floor and headed to the wing where its' sickest patients lie fighting for their next seconds, some consciously but most of them not. she emerged from the heavy double doors with tired eyes, blue scrubs, and a mask draped loosely around her ears, for she is the one who fights with them and for them. she grinds through 12 blood and fluid-filled hours so that they may experience even just 12 more pain-free seconds in this world. and though i didnt know exactly how capable my heart was, in that moment it let go a tad bit more. if the sick can trust her with their weakened, diseased hearts, then i can open my slightly battered one.

back down in the lobby, the tired pianist gone, the silence gave way to the late night hours, the doors parted, and i greeted the cold air. i could see my own breath hanging in clouds against the chill and noted how very different the simple act of my own breathing was compared to the belabored, manufactured breaths of ventillators in the world i left her with upstairs. i knew that in a few hours she would be able to go home regardless of how many of the sick weren't saved, and we would would feel every bit of the weight that luck carries with it.

passenger seat

he's a pulpit preacher. he slaps bibles and reaches out to shake an entire congregation's hands every sunday morning and it is clear by that alone just how far apart our two worlds reside. most of our conversations could follow a checklist they are so surface level and predicted, for in our opposing worlds ignorance is more blissful than the collisions they could create. often when we visit one another he is so consumed with thoughts of his next sermon or church obligation that all other tangibles seem to whiz right by unnoticed.

sometimes though, on his way home alone in his car, he will call me because he says he was just thinking about me. he will ask me about my day and it is then that he isn't a preacher anymore, he's my daddy. in those moments he's the silly, affectionate man that i remember would play tricks on me while we were driving to the store, me his little co-pilot in the passenger seat. i would be looking out the window lost in my own thought and imagination and out of nowhere as an oncoming car began to pass by he would grab my hand, hold it up in the air, and shake it wildly as if i were waving to the car myself. i'd follow that up with a "daaaadddy!", crossing my arms in fake irriation, but i loved every second of it. even now at 29 years old, a slightly older co-pilot, i sit in anticipation waiting for him to grab my hand to wave it, and he will gladly oblige. we'll both chuckle emphatically as if i'm still six years old and falling for it for the first time, and as if it's still the best trick in the book.

this is how i know that regardless of the number of sermons he gives, or the number i don't attend, he'll always be my daddy and i'll always be the little girl in that passenger seat.

other side of the world

it's a tuesday night, not unlike any other. tonight, though, i delayed pressing the power button on the tv remote for a reason i wasn't quite sure of until i found myself sitting quietly on my front stoop in the dark. the lone street light in front of my house illuminated the two rows of neighboring lives, presiding over the routines and evening activities each house contained inside. tvs flickered inside shade-drawn windows, dogs barked in fenced-in backyards, and cars rushed by on their routes home from work. home to catch dinner before it got cold, or to embrace children and spouses at front doors. as i sat, i took note of how crisp and cool the air felt as faint chills crept slowly upon the skin on my arms and i warmed them back and forth with my palms. the electricity of a September evening such as this showed evidence of one season's quiet exiting and its' replacement having its own, different energy. at the train station several blocks away, the boxcars passing through sounded their whistle of hello, as if they also noticed the air's crispness and were calling out to it. i thought of places and far off lands and then remembered the times as a little girl when i would ride my bike all around what felt like the entire globe to such a tiny view-finder, yet was probably only 2 or 3 streets. after my explorations, i'd park my bike at the end of our cul-de-sac and sit on its' red rubber seat dreaming of the little girl on the other side of the world i was so sure was doing the exact same thing at that very moment. i would talk to her as if she were merely sitting across from me indian-style, not continents away. even then, i seemed to understand the idea that we are all so connected as humans that our individual moments could collectively collide at precisely the same time. at least i hoped they did from time to time. the truth in that thought less important, of course, than perhaps the necessary belief in connections outside ourselves. that is, afterall, what it means to believe in something, worldly or other-worldly, spiritual or non-spiritual. food for thought, as the night crickets chirped like the hands of a clock sounding down the day which was nearing closer to the next.

beauty in the equation

life is short. i hope i've just stated the obvious. a tad less obvious, however, is the divine chaos it all contains. chaos because alot of what life throws in our direction is uncontrollable by us, seeming random at best and largely frenetic at worst. divine, though, because there has to be some larger reason for it all that exists outside just what is visible. personally speaking, i'd much rather believe that busted moments and bruised spirits happen for a reason other than "just because." i'm able to wrap my mind around injustice and pain a little easier if it seems they are just tiny stops along a much more purposed journey. especially when unexplainable heartache finds its way to very good-hearted, beautiful people. otherwise, the only question that can ever be asked is "why?", with empty justifications to follow. and that, to me, is just not good enough.

life is indeed chaotic; it's unfair, confusing, and much of it is blind. but it is also the sum of all its parts and we live each day because of the simple, crucial hope that in the end there has been more beauty in the equation than anything else.

the silence after the song

there's that near-invisible moment when a song ends that i am absolutely convinced is time standing still, knee deep in the silence. not everyone can hear it, and not everyone who can does. if you have music flowing through your blood that moment is similar to that of a heartbeat, a delicate pulse between exiting and entering. it's where the translation occurs.

it's where i will look to find the recognition that you heard in it everything i wanted to say and didn't quite know how.

primary colors

in sixth grade, i lost my best friend. not to mortality, a new address, or anything else that comes to mind. i lost her to race. it hung frozen in the balance between fragile seconds and centuries worth of ideals, the moment batanya told me her parents no longer would allow her to be friends with me because i was white and she was black. apparently, despite it being the 20th century, little black girls weren't supposed to have sleepovers and form "secret" clubs with little white girls. and those little white girls weren't supposed to want them to. i felt as if someone had kicked me swiftly in the gut while i was standing blinded in a dark tunnel, her voice sounding distant and muffled to my confused ears as it tripped through some weak explanation she most certainly didn't even understand herself. carlotta poston would be her new best friend, she said. "oh, and by the way, i think she wants to beat you up." as if it were not enough to have lost in one single statement the blissful ignorance that i wasn't just like everyone else, i also had the threat of having my ass beaten for no other reason than because of it. the moment unveiled an ugly truth this world fights and ebbs against every waking minute it spins round on its' axis. love is love and, sure, it's both universal and free to behold - but why doesn't everyone see it? why does it have to wear different covers and faces? with batanya, i saw my first glimpse of what it would mean to walk the fine line of too many "not enough's" and not enough "too's" (as in too white, not black enough, too gay, not feminine enough, or not enough money at the end of the month). we can all see love when it's before our faces, and feel it from time to time, but aren't we missing some of the landscape of life if we don't ever wear the same pair of glasses long enough to get used to them? to have an open heart means more than just dolling out kindness and warmth when it's convenient or when we remember to. it means more than just a shift in consciousness or perspective; it means action. it means living consciously every moment what we believe in our hearts to be true and choosing that every single time without fail or option. it's not about potential, it's about what is. love isn't perfect, nor is it associated with such judgemental terms as right or wrong. but, as my 12 year old heart found out, love has to be the canvas or all the beautiful hues of grey will be lost among such a primary sea of black and white. i'm of the belief that since we discovered the world isn't flat, our vision of it shouldn't be either.

closer

emerson hart is trying to tell me something. "there's more to love than we'll ever know. sometimes you're closer when you're letting go," he croons to my hope-hungry ears. clearly, though, he does not know me well. if he did, he would know that i hold on to things as if i were grasping them with the strength of an iron claw. and while i get better with age at forgiveness, i never forget. you see, to me the act of letting go feels less like a release and more like i failed at keeping something precious in tact. there is no peace in letting something fall by the wayside where it may, regardless of the need to move in a forward direction. i get it, i do. letting go is less for the thing you are releasing than it is merely a way to cut the tie to what specifically keeps you in one place. the link to the past. the hope that it, whatever "it" may be, could ever be any different. (thank you, oprah.)

i know emerson is right, and that everyone else who continue to reinforce his idea to me are as well. but i dont want to let this go, god dammit. i am terrified that if i allow this to slip from my white-knuckled fingers the picture of what the rest of my life will look like may get blurry, shifting to appear more out of focus than it is in. like the withering and wearing of time, i can't let the picture fade. i'm sorry, but there is nothing "closer" in that.

i do sometimes

remember when you asked me if i ever get lonely? i do. sometimes. only i wear it around my shoulders like a familiar, worn-in sweater so often i didn't know it had a name.

fragment

awoken by glass breaking
fumbling in the dark finding
shards of uneven fragments.
even without light with which to see
fingers tripped upon her reflection in each piece

should recall
can't remember
strangely unfamiliar
everything but the pricking sting of distance
memory left behind in mirrors.

time's attention

the warmth from the engine pressed against our backs as we lay,
stars slipping their cover across our skin.
it was only you and me in the field of hay and dandelion mile markers
but we whispered like we would hurt mother nature's feelings
if we spoke too loud.

you stretched your second finger up to the sky and when you did
the scent from your t-shirt willingly followed.
see that star right there? you said. the one that flickers with wild abandon?
i want that one to be mine. i love how she dances all night and never sleeps.

i waited then asked, so which one am i?
and as the words escaped my lips i wanted so badly the hope i felt
to pull your answer along into as wide a forever as the night sky.
aw that's easy, love. that one wayyy over there.
you pointed to one faint star way off in the distance above our heads
that hung sweetly beside the moon's halo.

but that one's the dimmest star in the sky, i said softly.
i felt the warmth from your hand cradle my chest and you whispered,
see, that one there it gives its' light to all the other stars without even knowing.
the way i see it, the night wouldn't have one single guide without the light from your eyes.

the chirp of cricket messengers and grass blades blowing in the breeze
faded suddenly against the quiet ticking inside my chest,
as if bringing the moment to time's attention.
your hand never left its' spot, and it was then that i knew never would i.

nooks and crannies

sitting on the front stoop of the man who was to be my modern-day savior of sorts, i gazed out at all the different buildings canvasing my surroundings, all which served as concrete or brick-laiden reminders of what it means to survive in the often cruel reality of this world. social services. housing authorities. health departments. law enforcement offices. court houses. bus stops, train stations, and inner-city transit systems. yet nestled quite humbly in the midst of these was also a church. it was less irony and more just the juxtaposition of necessity. the wax to so much wane. all around me lay symbolic evidence of varying kinds of choices, those we can be forced into by sheer ill luck or those we seek out in favor of. whether by grand design or simple circumstance, we are presented with tiny little moments, and thus an opportunity of choice that accompanies each one. split second decisions that define what truly lies inside us all and often can define what lies just around the bend as well. not only that, we carry with us a great deal of responsibility to seize, and give back to, those moments for that is what it means to live our best, authentic lives. it's in the nooks, crannies, corners, bends, breaks, alleyways and halls of our lives that the heart of active living lies. one tiny or momentous decision at a time. so if life is the school teacher and we the humbled pupil, the first step in paying attention is to show up. that may be, in fact, the most crucial test there is.

vacant

it had been two years since i last saw him. my father had been telling me, but without laying eyes on him myself i pushed it all away as unfamiliar impossibilities. when i walked in, he sat at the dining room table in his blue pajama set, which my dad says he now lives in. the buttons of his shirt were done halfway, exposing the same huge, alabaster belly i used to pretend was a punching bag when i was a little girl and he'd prop me up on his lap. what little gray, wiry hair he has left atop his head was visibly disheveled and unbrushed and you could see straight through to his freckled scalp. breadcrumbs peeked from the corners of his mouth and traces of stained dirt showed from underneath his fingernails. i leaned over to hug him and immediately smelled the odor of someone who has resisted bathing for a few days. a task my dad also said he neglects lately. this is my grandfather. but he is not the same man i remember, that the small town of upper north carolina remembers, who owned the town's one and only car dealership. back then, he was always extremely polished right down to his wingtip shoes and blue blazers. always a blue blazer. and always an extended hand ready for any handshake as he talked up the men and women of the town, both old and young. he was mr. personality, mr. class. mr. davidson. he was not this unbathed, frail-minded man before me. so there he sat, serving as the reality check i've been missing that..god, oh god...life does go on. we grow, and we grow up. even more, we grow old. we start life as dependent entities and we end it in much the same way. and it's the reality that nothing in life stops in it's tracks for us to catch up to it. instead, it pulls us forth with speeds relative to a locomotive...only on this train there are no loud horns signaling each stop, just the scenery whizzing by in a blur.

looking down at his vacant eyes, the vacancy which flickered in and out of the story that day and i imagine does every day now, he smiled up at me the smile that told me i'm still his babygirl. still the first born grandchild he used to be so proud of, though his smile now was also more childlike itself than i'd ever seen it. for in that smile i saw more than just a man, more than a childhood, i saw everything i hope my life to be and the fragility it can all contain. but, god knows, i also saw plenty of love.

seeping further

the soft spotlights waited over head, but had those been absent there would have been no need for them. where they sat, in a half-circle surrounded by stools and guitars of various types, whatever light present on that stage seemed to pour forth out of each of them into the open. much like the crisp, effortlessness that hung in the air from their breaths. they traded songs and anecdotal stories as if those of us sitting down below in our aligned rows weren't even there. individually they draw sold-out crowds of folksters, hippies, and the acutely sensitive; tonight, though, the focus was on the understood energy being passed back and forth and all places in between. periodically, heartfelt "mmm's" and whispered "damn's" escaped from those of us receiving the precious gift these four larger-than-life musicians extended, indications that no single moment or note of this evening would be lost on any of us there. the night was simple; and with it, i carried that warm, calm with me to let it seep further into the places it will.

the love study

npr recently did a series on how positive thoughts contain healing powers of sorts.  particularly, the study was in regards to how we are all connected to the world and people around us, touched by all things spiritual and physical and even those invisible.  in part 3 of the series, they explored the idea that two people who are connected by, and in, love can have very calming, positive health effects for both partners.  one particular couple had been married for ten years and were still so apparently in love that they immediately became the perfect specimen for such research.  both were hooked up to electrodes measuring blood flow and skin reactivity and told that over the next few minutes images of their partner would randomly appear on screen before them.   changes in both partners' nervous system responses were measured across each image they viewed and so the theory became gradually more and more supported with each blip of the monitors:  it is possible for two people to be so linked that the bond, and in this case love, they share is both undeniable and physically unbreakable.  

so of course this article peeled back the layers to expose the inner dreamer in me yet again, the dreamer that quite frankly i am so thankful to never have lost.  because i can hardly wait for the day i feel that powerful of a bond again with someone to where even ten years later that love is so palpable it could set all sorts of monitors and graphs afire...though it will be so evident that no doctors or researchers will need to confirm it.  and though i remain grounded in the ever-present nows of my life, i believe the love study is simply this: love is vital and, more than just existing, it thrives beyond physical boundaries when it's real.

until now

until now, i thought the fissures in the foundational walls of this heart finally had a reprieve.
they are as wide as chasms.
until now, i thought i'd cried myself to sleep for the last time.
the rain won't let up.
until now, i thought i knew you.
i've never had the chance.
until now, you were one of the few things outside of myself i could rely on.
it's just me.
until now, i looked to a red and black star to guide me.
there is vacancy where meaning once was.

funny that i've always struggled with the idea of "now", only to find that it's all there really is.

enough

the end is getting closer. this became apparent today amid discussions of to-do lists and detail loops needing to be closed within weeks. his already-fleeting attention span slipped another notch and i could tell that in the halls of his mind he's already thousands of miles away with his family and belongings. he mentioned decreasing the number of hours our sessions contain and as his scattered thoughts perforated the air i tried to push away the weighty sense of failure nudging my insides. i know in my mind the concept of failure is, to begin with, a relative one anyway...but i cannot escape the feeling that i haven't affected the change i've been hoping for. lack of time, yes...lack of focus, certainly. but then the metered lines of poetry i've been able to share with him so far jump to the forefront and relief washes over every last one. because if a man who has only ever known the grease of broken air conditioners and stopped up plumbing systems is now able to recognize the thoughts of nikki giovanni at first glance, then change did come a'knockin afterall. maybe he'll be able to feel that too...and maybe, just maybe, he'll want to read on for more.

that will have to be enough now.

simply delicious

the man on the radio talk show described various types of cheeses as if they were voluptuous women or travels unknown to exotic lands. such passion, appreciation, and even longing. it was his description of a type of monchego cheese as "excruciatingly delicious", though, that particularly caught my attention. the idea that something can be so intensely delightful that it brings about pain. so good it hurts, if you will. there are very few experiences that are that good and when they come around we'd better damn well notice them. it isn't about being able to just appreciate those as being the singular experiences they warrant; just as much, it's about taking them in and completely filling yourself with them until your cup spills over with joy. those little things that when added together separate those who truly live life and those who just meander through it in a disenchanted haze.

i planted myself near one of the window seats in Madhatters this morning and fired up the laptop, determined to get some work done for awhile. two bites into my breakfast, the pastry chef stepped out from behind his workstation long enough to sit down next to me to partake in his. the bald of his head reflected against the window, the shadows of his upturned mustache waving on either side of that reflection. his eyes caught mine and a wide smile appeared in between two chiseled cheekbones. in heavily accented English he raised his fork to me and said, "bon appetit, madame". i thanked him with a smile of my own and then we sat, strangers only two stools apart, eating together in warm, appreciative silence. minutes later, he finished the contents on his plate and again flagged down my attention. he smiled that same tooth-filled grin as before and this time departed with an "i wish you a good day". i smiled a return goodbye and wished him well, realizing that what just occurred dripped with such simple magnitude. i just had a taste of my own excruciatingly delicious, and not just the homemade granola and yogurt parfait. rather, the silent recognition that perfect moments do exist. like really good cheese and breakfasts shared with pastry chefs named Alfredo (i would later learn his name as the restaurant staff periodically called to him in playful jest). so good it hurts. this man just "gets" it, i'm convinced. it's a secret he not only knows and clearly lives, but thankfully decided to impart upon a stranger one random Monday morning. with just a few perfect phrases tucked inside a similarly perfect morning, my cup overflowed.

concise

we aren't talking much. i miss you. neither are ok. love, me.

mere hurdles

today he laughed. smiled in between stanzas, paragraphs, and word lists. even extended the bounds of the previous invitation as he offered up a few more details - a 90 year old ex-marine father, son Jake, and a love of skiing. rigidity fell further by the wayside and conscious walls relaxed to mere hurdles. he still smells of basements and soap but i imagine he always will whether here or elsewhere, for it is just as much a part of him now as anything.

more on the subject of walls to come...for i have much to think on this. for now, the cadence of night calls me to join it...and so i, too, let go.

so

sometimes standing next to you

i wanna kiss you so bad that it's right.

and as we speak, i find myself gradually

leaning into you as if you'd even 

know to meet me halfway.

you don't see it 'cause i dont let you.

i see me gently swiping away the wisps

of hair covering your eye, you see me

stepping backwards safely into my own line.

instead of your lips, i brush against your laughter in the air     which,

by itself, hangs delicately between us in a moment

that is so so, it's just right.

full spoons, full hearts

i witnessed something today that has left both eyes widened and reeling. wide because i almost missed it, reeling because though i have tried since to comprehend it, i just can't....despite feeling every ounce of significance the moment carried. as i slowed to a stoplight on one of the busiest streets in town, i saw a leathery woman with a soiled face and clothes matching the crumpled trashbag she clutched against her chest stand up from the bus stop bench on which she sat, turn around with her back facing traffic, and freely urinate on herself. it was not a mirage nor were my eyes tired; she was homeless and i was witnessing privacy stolen, stubborn pride a distant memory to daily survival. city bus stops and blacktops are now the only homes she recognizes, so when basic needs are in need of being met we probably would all do what we had to do to ensure we see the next day. as an aside, this is my second encounter of sorts in two days with someone who is homeless and while i wont be reaching too far with this post to extract some sort of grandeur (which would be, i would hope, to state the obvious), i do take from it just good 'ol fashioned gratefulness. the kind that comes bare bones from what our families instill further into our blood at an early age if we're lucky enough, as we're taught to be thankful for full spoons, full hearts, and a mended roof over head. all this to say, as far as life signs go, my eyes remain widened to them both intentional and haphazard. they will not be for naught....

his name is David

his name is David. i was a few minutes early for our meeting, most certainly due to the nerves scurrying around like mice in the pit of my stomach. standing in the lobby of the public library, i watched the headlights of countless cars pull into the parking lot and with each pair my stomach sank a little further. quiet visitations of self doubt, i’m sure, given the task i was about to take on in less than 10 minutes. i noticed him jogging towards me with his work coat held over his head to shield the April rain, and then he stopped briefly, took out a tiny piece of paper and scanned it. my name. i bet he forgot my name, and he was checking where he had written it down so he could appropriately address me. seeing that, i recalled him saying he had a horrible time remembering names. i thought it extremely ironic that a man who has difficulty reading depends upon writing down the details of his life just to keep them clearly aligned in his mind. to think that a sense of security can come in something as small as 2x3 sheets of worn, white paper. i suppose we take it wherever we can get it. i took in a deep “now or never” breath as he approached me and we both smiled knowingly – for those two smiles were for certain tiny invitations into the most vulnerable moments of the time we will spend together over the next few weeks. once inside the library, he said he had already gone by earlier that day and reserved a tutoring room for us that would keep us from disturbing the other library-goers. an act that told me he was just as nervous about this endeavor as i was. more accurately i knew it was yet another way to shield the secret of his disability he has gotten so used to keeping hidden from the outside world. in just an instant, the walls of that tiny sound-proof room became the boundaries within which he would trust me. in both of our meetings so far, i’ve noticed he smells of the musty basements and crevices he services daily as a plumber, wearing the grind of his trade in the scent on his skin. his hands, too, are as calloused with the work as i would have imagined them to be. he began tracing each word with his soiled index finger in a determined effort equal to that of a school kid reading his first book. yet he is in his late 40’s, i am most certain. for the next hour and a half he would tentatively stumble across consonant sounds and double letters as if he just met them all for the first time. when he speaks, he tilts his head slightly to the left and closes his eyes in what looks like two squinting slants, for he knows that in them i will detect his insecurity. the very act of closing them a safe harbor of protection. so i smile warmly back in his direction, and will continue to do so as many times as needed as assurance that i, too, am a safe harbor. as we were leaving, he said he had lost my phone number, so he pulled out that same square sheet of paper from his pocket i had seen earlier, my theory confirmed. under the name he had already written down for me, he scribbled each number with purposed care and tucked the square back inside his coat with the other life nuggets. protection yet again. with a simple "see you thursday?", i sent him back out into the daylight except that now i felt more connection and responsibility for what he would find while out there.

his name is David. and he does not know that the letters "sch" in the word schedule sound like a "k" when said aloud. he does not know that i will feel a loss in only a month’s time when he moves to Colorado and i can no longer see his progress. i will be left to wonder if i have helped this man navigate his world with a little more ease than he had before, but i will never know for sure.

and he does not know that this experience, that he, will change me. the truth, rather, is that changed and humbled i already am. and so we begin.

comedy of errors

life is one freakin' comedian. and i think she thinks she's much more witty than she is in actuality. she places ironies and contradictions like tiny wildfires in our paths, i would surmise for the sheer enjoyment of seeing how we'll dance around them. to see whether we are gullible enough to ask the question which will produce the punch line - of which is almost always so obvious it's foolishly difficult. thankfully though, life is also from time to time the poet, the painter, the designer, or the musician; and that is how i think we learn to dance with the comedian's one man show of errors enough to form what is beautiful and necessary to each of us as we go along. we dance, we laugh, and we love despite those ironies and wildfires...and isn't that the point? simply, that we did. that we do. or at least that we keep trying. so in the end, i hope the joke is always on her.

how the music happens

"i sat on the bench outside of class today and talked to jon. i read to him from my journal, it was the part about the accordian player i was watching on the street last weekend. he said that an accordian is such a perfect metaphor for love, because you are always opening, and closing, shifting, and getting air, and that's how the music happens. true."

— sabrina ward harrison

this much i know is true

also known as: messages of hope to the collective "you" (part deux).

you are ok. in fact, you are better than ok * sometimes you're closer when you're letting go * no one takes something from you that you did not give of your own freedom * you do not have to travel as far as you think to find what is most empowering * in the rightful equation, love is greater than fear. love yourself with wild abandon, then spill it open into this world.

shedding the excess

driving home tonight from the bar, wipers quietly scraping the windshield, i noticed when it rains the street lamps look like they’re crying. as if each light sheds its excess in the form of tears, which soon turn to vapor the second they hit the pavement. so i slowed to a stop on one of the back roads towards my temporary home, pulling off onto the shoulder, and stepped out into the down pouring light. face turned upwards as if to say, “it’s OK, i’m here.” those four words i have heard in abundance over the last twelve days, the magnitude of which was not lost on me as i stood to catch the tears of the night on my lashes. to accept abundance when you have little or none to give in return leaves me feeling awestricken and thankful, yet truly unworthy. and as i walked rain-soaked back to the car, i felt the chill of vulnerability in my bones and it became incredibly clear in that moment why mankind learns to cry.