I once wrote a poem about myself as a river. It was convincing, I think. And I felt it. Powerfully.
Maybe it’s smaller, like a brook. A small meandering gentle flowing place to dip my toes and wash my blues away.
Smooth river stones. Winking diamond reflections as the water moseys by.
I feel small. I feel herded, funneled, mined by corporations who only know me by what I buy, watch, listen to.
I just want to float. I want to feel free enough to catch the rays as I float on by all of the glut and greed. I only need enough. Enough love. Enough money. Enough creativity. Just … enough to sustain my spirit and body. Enough to help the people who need it.
I need rest. I haven’t had rest in months. I haven’t had a vacation of any kind in years. I need rest before my spirit gives up. Before my body gives out.
I also need to find out where I dropped my faith and hope. They are stones in the brook, somewhere. I’ll keep looking, before it’s too late.