The Moth I Saw on Friday

Man, I woke up this morning and felt so incredibly lucky. I am not inclined to hold a grudge and declarations of anger seem to fade fast. The fact is, I am damn lucky…I have gotten to meet more interesting people and hear more stories of humanity than most folks ever have the opportunity to.

I have – up until now – shelved my own special brand of humanity…sharp with memory and scenery and bewildered bravery.

My family – though it is true that they often overlook my potential and misunderstand my intent – is amazing…they raised me well and as bravely as they could…when I was 13, we were all angry. My family torn with the land we tried to protect and in the end…it is still there…under all those houses…perhaps there will be some reclamation of the clear wind in our eyes and a celebration of all we loved before it was lost. The most important thing, however – is that they taught me mindfulness.

Damn, I am so glad to be who I am.

Still, there is so much to find!
This moth was a work of remarkable precision.
There are no accidents in nature.

If you read this weblog with any comprehension, you will know I am stubborn in my resolution to make the best of what I have to work with…

…I am one lucky girl, damn straight. I have enough stories to feed us forever, I just have to figure out how to spin them into something that we can hold in our hands.

And my children – with their eyes that are darker than brackish and their own special intelligences…well, they will be raised more mindfully through the telling of these old stories of old places and misunderstood kin. I will not, and do not discuss with them any state of crisis I have experienced. I am really quite well in my walking and talkingness with them. They like that I sing more and loop yarn and can fix the sink and lift up a sandboat onto the roof of a chicken coop. They like that I am theirs…and I hope that they will learn how vital it is that they eventually become their own…

I feel believed in this morning. Buoyed, perhaps by good old salty Florida. Poor Florida. If ever there was a misunderstood spit of substance – it is Florida…poor Old Florida…not the necessarily customs, but the land and it’s people in their heart of salty hearts….

How did such a tangled and buzzing wildness become so slick with luxury and oil?

I am lucky enough to get to go downstairs and make my children breakfast and to trim the branches away from my home and to have a mind and heart that are stubborn when they have to be.

Usually, I am happy to simply comply.

However, I think so stubbornness is required at this point.

Is there really anything to say?

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