I am held in the stories that come and go like water. Standing still, watching and feeling.
Challenge. Suffering. Challenge. Suffering. Weakness. Strength. Humor. Hope. Grace.
Coming and going.
I stand still within the stories that are layered and nuanced, subtle and unsubtle, that scream and cry, that whimper and whisper, that beg and demand, that rip out the heart and then slap on the laughter.
Mama's face looks paler every day. There is the pain that is her constant companion, but mostly there is her heart that feels it all.
"I have lived through wars, and a Great Depression, I have lived through ugly politics and soldiers coming home to have no jobs. But this, this is crazy. It has never been quite so bad and quite so crazy and I don't understand this crazy."
Mama's story this day will be followed by five or six, or ten more that all are held in suffering, in seeking, in not so often, understanding.
I only know how to reach out my hand. I only know how to reach out my heart. I can steady with my hand and wrap them all up in my heart.
I can listen.
I can honor each one and its storybringer. I can one day, write them.
I look for a flash of the iridescent, the glimmer that signals the wings where the quiet quiet quiet giggle rides piggyback with the quiet quiet quiet hope, where for a moment the suffering will ease, the story will change and where the page will turn.
I stand still
I am held
in the stories that come and go like water.