i ran around the corner from my parents' house and turned up the hill to my childhood's elementary school. this hill was always terrifying to ride a bike up, but as i faced this hill, there were tears streaming down my face.
i grit my teeth.
my body was feeling the weight and the break of weeks of Trump allegations and vulgarities, my body was reliving the traumas of my life.
so: facing this hill, I put my face upwards and tilted my hips forwards.
up and up--past my first piano teacher's house, past my art teacher's house, past the place where i crashed my bike.
weeping. letting my body feel all of this place--all those stories--all those memories in this time and the times of my youth--letting the trauma seep from my eyes and be flung out with each breath, the demons trampled by the strength of my legs, the inhale and exhale of my lungs claiming a new story,
the leaves on the trees in the front yard of the house where that girl from my girl scout troop lived--they're changing: yellows, and oranges and light green. i am changing too, letting the crunch of the leaves echo the crunch of each heartbeat.
later, i'm taking the stringy pumpkin intestines to the compost pile, following the well-worn path between back door and garden. my breath--opaque in the cold--leads me and i dump out the bucket. what broken-gross-old-messiness.
and yet--
this is the brokenness that yields the best soil. this is the decay that ensures that my parents' tomatoes will grow next summer, flourishing from what seemed like the end.
my feet are aching. and my heart is happy.
i grit my teeth.
my body was feeling the weight and the break of weeks of Trump allegations and vulgarities, my body was reliving the traumas of my life.
so: facing this hill, I put my face upwards and tilted my hips forwards.
up and up--past my first piano teacher's house, past my art teacher's house, past the place where i crashed my bike.
weeping. letting my body feel all of this place--all those stories--all those memories in this time and the times of my youth--letting the trauma seep from my eyes and be flung out with each breath, the demons trampled by the strength of my legs, the inhale and exhale of my lungs claiming a new story,
the leaves on the trees in the front yard of the house where that girl from my girl scout troop lived--they're changing: yellows, and oranges and light green. i am changing too, letting the crunch of the leaves echo the crunch of each heartbeat.
later, i'm taking the stringy pumpkin intestines to the compost pile, following the well-worn path between back door and garden. my breath--opaque in the cold--leads me and i dump out the bucket. what broken-gross-old-messiness.
and yet--
this is the brokenness that yields the best soil. this is the decay that ensures that my parents' tomatoes will grow next summer, flourishing from what seemed like the end.
my feet are aching. and my heart is happy.
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