This upstream sojourn along the river sticks and stones, wading through a nation’s contentions to discover reconciliation.
The sweat and discipline it takes to listen down deep into our shared potential when all around us is the white noise of proud boys for whom black lives don’t matter.
This continual struggle and change, the change and struggle, when dementia‘ed history keeps forgetting itself, then repeating the same questions, wondering if mercy and forgiveness will ever be a part of our lexicon.
Some gather weapons while others build mighty monuments from the wounds of those who’ve suffered in the name of uplift.
Some sing in the key of flowers while others sing in the key of bombs;
it all depends upon how your hearts and voices have been trained.
Those who truly know, know deep in their souls:
gunsmoke is not an incense to burn in cathedrals of peace.