The truth of my being here

I’m lying in the overgrown lawn,

neglected by the mover for over a year.

It’s gone to seed and follows the gestures of the wind.

In this thick grass, in this thick moment new life is establishing itself,

growing leaves and roots in the cool shaded understory,

under what first meets the eye.

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I realize I get to feel safe right now– on this stolen land

while black bodies are under attack

while fires burn in the name of George Floyd,

while fires burn everywhere.

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I’m noticing the sound of semis on 9 mile

bellowing above the birds.

That constant rumble of a society on autopilot,

careening forward,

texting while driving, 

desperately fighting off the persistent loneliness.

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I’m noticing the way the world has shaped me

I’m noticing the amnesia of whiteness

I’m noticing the land has a memory of its own, 

and when I sit with it and listen my body does too.

I’m noticing how messy and awkward this is,

this reconnection. 

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I’m noticing that the more I lean into the messy places,

the more I inspect and crack apart the truth of my being here,

the more steady and considered each breath and each step might be.

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This text was written in early June 2020