Year One

I stand where I am and survey the landscape.  My landscape.

The ground had grown around me and become my roots, roots that hold me down, keep me still; mired in muck.

Around the roots are the marshes, closing in on me, swaying in tandem with my body, closing in on me when I try to escape.

Each reed in my marsh land holds meaning, some sweet, some sour, some joyful, some filled with sorrow, some courageous and some fearful, some weak and some strong.

I can not spring from this landscape.  I can not catapult my self to freedom.  I can not ignore the pull of the roots and the tenacity of each reed.

I need to see each reed, understand each blade, acknowledge each weed.

Some I might challenge, perhaps bend, maybe break.

Others might stay, unchanged but seen; understood, hated and loved.

Some will remain forever, altering my course; others will die so that I might live.

I will wade through and pray I don’t sink.  I will pull up my roots and drag them with me.

I will push and pull, cry and laugh, whisper and shout, confess and release,  reveal and submerge,  acknowledge and accept

To create a new landscape.

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