I grew up near the corn,

a state,

where they slap you on the back,

celebrating their “whiteness”,

imagining,

their superiority.

It is only by His mercy,

that I could see through,

their confederate banner waving,

monsters lived in their hearts,

while the Klan lived with the fire,

of hatred burning,

waiting for their turn,

 searching for a voice,

It is only by His mercy,

that I saw the truth of a mountain,

the peace of the woods,

His love, in creation,

and people,

cultures from around the world,

began speaking,

a young heart wandering in the desert,

to this day, I love India.

It is only by His mercy,

that I’m in my right mind,

loving,

instead of hating,

It’s only by His mercy.

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2015, nicodemasplusthree

Blessings to everyone, and peace!

“If you love nature, you will love people.”

I’ve been reading Anne Lamott again. Her book, Bird by Bird, is my favorite writing book of all time. If you haven’t read it, go to your local library and check it out today.

But right now, I’m reading Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope, and Repair. In it, Ms. Lamott talks a lot about rituals and routines:

“Daily rituals, especially walks, even forced marches around the neighborhood, and schedules, whether work or meals with non-awful people, can be the knots you hold on to when you’ve run out of rope.”

When I think of difficult times, such as after the loss of a loved one, I agree that daily rituals have been “knots” that have allowed me to hang on. I think of doing the work of caring for my son after the death of my beloved uncle. The daily rituals with my son—morning, noon, and night–helped me…