I always reach for words like a security blanket

To add substance and certainty to what often feels fragile

But maybe I don’t have them

Not because I lost them but because I wasn’t given them

For a long time I misunderstood the Christmas season. The anticipation felt like it was for the festivities itself.

When leaves drop to the ground

Do they think they are falling or flying/

How beautiful that they flutter in the wind

And dance all the way to the ground

Our ideal place was once in a garden

A beautiful and perfect place

And then there was another garden

One that was cloaked in sorrow

A place of waiting and contending

The thing about loss is that experiencing one does not really make the next one easier to manage. They all are different and significant.

Sometimes suffering and trial disorients us

We wander from home

From where we belong

We set up camp in desolate places where the enemy lives

Autumn is falling leaves, and apples, and sadness

It smells like cider on the stove. bales of hay, and melancholy

The memories are bitter and sweet and nostalgic

But in actuality to exist is to be needy. So I tried to make myself smaller and smaller until I no longer had need, or demanded attention, or really inconvenienced anyone at all. And it seems so noble and humble. But it really is just selfish.

At times failure feels

like it is written in the sky

And whispered in the innermost being

But failure can’t define you

if accomplishing something on your own was never asked

When you see the shine of tears in another’s eyes

Reach out your hands to receive it

Because there is no pain more lonely

Than tears unshed