Mud

Barren soul-desert,
neglected, parched
scabby heart
clean, dry cracks of once-mud


somehow, flowers:
still sun-hungry,
persistent roots
in search of Water


I pick up my shovel - 
the work is refreshing.


Only now
comes the sound of Rain.

miscellaneous

I've written that word on a lot of boxes in the past few days.  My family is moving from the Bay Area back to Provo, and that means dawn-till-dusk packing this week with my Mom and Dad.  (Ben and Joe are at scout camp and Coby mostly reads a book about Greek Myths.)  It's fun, hard work, with lots of built-in nostalgia.  I found all my old journals in my bedroom and got a kick out of flipping through.  My mom unearthed an awesome and nonsensical story my little brothers and I had written three summers ago, each of us adding a word at a time, as well as a gorgeous poem she wrote soon after we arrived in Livermore.  She's a brilliant poet, if you didn't know.  Maybe I'll type up those treasures in a later post.

I've been thinking about this time of year, four years ago, when we made the reverse move, from Utah to CA.  It seems like a lifetime ago.  I was about to enter my Junior year of high school.  For me, the move represented very tangibly a transition we all experience: leaving behind the happy, safe world of childhood.  Life becomes harder-darker-scarier, more complicated, less carefree.

And, I optimistically maintain, more beautiful.  Difficulty, while it makes living less comfortable, makes it more meaningful.  The contrast gained from "opposition in all things" makes the light brighter, or at least more recognizable or more significant.  I have a lot of my heart tied up in this concept, but I don't have the time or the desire to pick apart my heart right now.  Plus, there are bathrooms that need to be boxed up.

P.S.   Guess how many boxes it took to pack up the kitchen?  Twenty five!  Twenty Five!!!