In times such as these, I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing or the right thing, but there is certain danger if I say nothing at all. I offer this poem as my attempt to stand with wobbly knees in truth that feels insufficient but true—my truth. Bending Till Broke
If only I could . . . Spin words into gauze to stop the bleeding Make an antiseptic balm—call it Gilead Mix an elixir that inoculates against hate Call down a rhyme that heals black and blue But I can’t . . . No words, no balm, no elixir, no rhyme Can’t stand my impotence, my fear As I wrap myself in armor that protects Me—disappearing you, the other Safety for some, not for others Lets me hide behind walls made for my kind Created in monochrome—my birthright is white The privilege of not looking The presumption of naming without listening Dr. King, the arc of history is too long Bending, stretching on tenterhooks Will it break? Who will be hurt? Hearts beat and people march Into the question without an answer Crawl into the light, naked and unsure Healing is not what I expect Not scripted, sanitized or prescribed Moving towards that which I seek to avoid I am the patient—healing starts with me David Fredrickson July 15, 2016
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Daily Bites and BlessingsWelcome to "Daily Bites and Blessings." Pull up a chair. I’ve set a place for you at the table. These edibles are sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet and often they are both. This is a come as you are party. I invite you to bring your compassion, courage, and curiosity as we dine together on life's bounty. May our time together give us more light and more love.
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