Mother’s Day seems quite harmless. You invite your mother to brunch, buy flowers, maybe even some chocolates and you enjoy good times together.
But the history of this modern holiday is marked by a rampage of conflicts, controversies, and consumerism. Mother’s Day has a dark side and who other than someone like me- who doesn’t celebrate Mother’s Day- should point it out.
Every time I read another article about voter restrictions a shiver runs down my spine. I do wonder when I will fall under the restrictions? When I am old and fragile? When I no longer stand with ease? When I have the wrong friends, or belong to the wrong party? When I am still just a woman? When I have the wrong color, or freckles might be outlawed. When I am retired, or too young to die?
We have all heard that no two snowflakes are alike. Each snowflake takes the perfect form for the maximum efficiency and effectiveness for its journey. And while the universal force of gravity gives them a shared destination, the expansive space in the air gives each snowflake the opportunity to take their own path. They are on the same journey, but each takes a different path.
“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.
You wanna talk about Looting after Cold-Blooded Murder. So let’s talk.
The neighborhood was Looted Long before the windows broke Long before the tear gas was thrown Long before fire grenades flashed through the night There was Looting There has always been Looting Since land, liberty, and life was Looted from the first people to live in this neighborhood, The Looting has Continued
The more people I get to know, the more I love being by myself. The more I am by myself, the more questions I have. People have changed and I haven’t changed with them. I am stuck in a past that is long gone, and I find myself wondering where that leaves me.
I killed a spider Not a murderous brown recluse Nor even a black widow And if the truth were told this Was only a small Sort of papery spider Who should have run When I picked up the book But she didn’t And she scared me And I smashed her