Rage

Rage against.
Not the machine, but the tragedy.

Two choices
in my mind,
in my mind.
Devastation, or bloom.

I am exactly where I should be.

We hiked Lassen,
where wildfires are as natural
as wildflowers rising from ash.
We watched butterflies drift through the trees,
like coffee pouring through a filter.
You know the smell
the fresher the coffee, the larger the bloom.

Do we allow sorrow to wallow,
to overwhelm,
to sink us to the depths of cursing humanity?
I rage against that thought.
No.
I say no.

To blossom
to recognize the pull of sadness,
and lean into the growth
that tragedy offers.

I think of the child.
The death map.
Does it define me?
No.
It is part of me.

I am exactly where I should be.
This journey is mine alone.
Each day is its own.
We are not required to “move on” from tragedy.
We are human,
and sadness is not the enemy
it is part of our experience.

Two choices.
Devastation, or bloom.

I choose to bloom.
To accept the growth cultivated,
the resilience drawn upon,
layered and added to.
If such horror can exist,
so too can such beauty.

On earth, we are briefly gorgeous.
What a thought.

The hunger gnaws.
The insecurity swallows.
Play explodes
in, out, in, out
imperfect, off-tempo.
Fade.
Rage against the fade.

Remember.
Explore.
Transcend from belief into conviction.

See-saw.
It hurts, and it heals.

We find others who motivate,
who remind us of our why,
and how it adapts.

Vulnerability.
Share it.
Hold tight to our core wounds,
find those worthy of navigating the storm.
Warm arms to comfort us.
The rain pours,
then the sun shines.

Impact
small influences that ripple outward,
quiet and profound.

Insanity.
How do you cope?
I answer, honestly:
“I do not know.”