Friday, May 1, 2015

On The Way to Myself

It was no surprise to my friends and family that the pace of the past nine months was beginning to take a toll on me.

Sleep became a luxury that one could scarcely afford to take. The former every-twenty-eight-hours had reduced to almost one every-eight-hours. The trauma of one began to fall like bricks, the stack building a wall around me that was becoming impenetrable.

While I have not personally had the unspeakable horror of my son or daughter lying facedown in the hot sun, or slaughtered on their sofa, or eating a late-night-snack, or disoriented after an accident, or shopping for a toy, or simply opening the door, the shock to my soul felt like I could not breathe again.

My friends and I would talk about what was going on, always with our cell phones nearby for that familiar alert that another had been lynched. No, this is not 1945 or 1965, it is 2015 and the death toll has reached genocidal proportions.

Two Saturday's ago, just when I was hitting the wall, waking up to the news of one more death of another unarmed black man, another came across my newsfeed before the moon filled the night sky

I escaped to the park, sat in my car, and gazed out at the lake.

My faith was shaken.

Even as I could count the names of men and women who I worked alongside in the quest for human rights for the sunkissed people, even as my personal circle has expanded and my cadre of children has more than doubled. Planning meetings and organizations developed and quests continued, my faith was shaken.

How could there be that much hate in the soul of the winter ones?

My questions seemed to fall on death ears, flittering in the afternoon breeze, answers far away.

But sitting at that lake, looking out at the suburban families totally obvlious to the rage and pain coursing through the veins of the lady in her car, I came to myself.

This is not news.

It is not even new.

We have been here before.

But we do not have to stay here.

I put my car in gear, backed out of the parking space, drove home, greeted my family, showered, and went to bed.

The next day, I woke up to a fresh day, a page waiting for me to write the story.

And I breathed.

Where there is life, there is opportunity

And I breathed.

Again.

The work continues.

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