Gray Is The Color

Gray is my hair – turned by time,

Gray is my robe – trimmed in rain,

Gray is my heart – tried by need,

Gray is my art – light and dark tied,

To them, those whose names I carried inward,

I say, “Thou art not mine,

“No, indeed, for I am truly thine.

I am thy servant – priestess to thee all,

But for all that, I speak now of a fall,

A falling failing of the light once in your eyes,

I summon thee not, but if thou wouldst come?

Then to thy guard posts of America, again?”

This I voice, standing ‘neath the sod,

And before the Stone – cup in hand and light,

I feel the wind, hear hooves of horses!

I shut my eyes and turn about,

To Walk once more from inward to out!

In my footsteps, how many do tread?

Shall they be a force for evil to dread?

 

 

 

Gratitude? August 26

rockedI am mysteriously grateful? Grateful for mystery and distraction?  I think?  I walked the Labyrinth last evening, and went out again this morning to be sure I was not imagining things.

My yard is fenced and the only gate into the back is very difficult to open from the outside.  So it isn’t as if strangers can just walk onto the Labyrinth, you see.  My sons have not been out there doing anything either.

So, note, in the photo of the counting beads atop the central monument?  A small stone — a wee bit more than one inch in diameter has been carefully set upon the monument.  By whom?  By what??

I suspect the crows.  Once upon a time, when I did counting bead strands one hundred beads at a time, the crows used to steal the shiny loops — leaving my count lackingly discoverable at cleaning times.  I restrung all beads in loops of 200 to make them too heavy for a crow to easily make off with and the problem ceased.  Perhaps the crows decided to give me something back?

Gratitude August 6th

photo copy 2I am grateful I found the courage to re-open my Walk of the Fallen Memorial Labyrinth to the public.  It was not without awkwardness.  I asked my husband to write the invitation that would be put out at the Tacoma Veterans’ Center.  He wrote a long, rambling three page paeon to the building of the Walk, and I edited all of it away.  Because the Labyrinth is not about me/us; it is about those who died to be so memorialized.  It is about what peace it can offer to any who come to walk there.

It is entirely possible nobody at all will come.  And that is alright, too.