photo #8066490

It happens. One minute you’re soaring. The next minute you’re grounded. Your cheek hits the floor, hard, and you taste blood. And just when you think it couldn’t be worse, the trap door springs open and you free fall into the dark abyss. Playing cautious won’t save you. Trying to be perfect won’t protect you. It’s happening, and it’s a gift. A dark, fucked up painful gift that you probably won’t see until long after it’s over. But in the middle of plunging and burning, new wings are formed, new life is forged. All that’s old and worn out burns away. And in the dark there are hands. Hands made of words, of poems, of stories. Hands made of hugs, of gestures, of grace. Hands reaching for you, always, to bring you back into the sky. And eventually, you’re out. And you’re up. And you’re not only flying, you’re soaring. It’s still you, but new. Wings formed from fire burn across the sky. There is no stopping you. Until one day you hear the cries, and ground yourself, willingly. You slow your wings and lean down to the ground, putting the ear of your soul against the trap door. And you hear them. And so you reach. Reach down your hands. The hands of your words, your stories. The hands of your poem, your art, your grace. The hands reaching down, clasping others reaching up in an arc of hope and possibility. Your hands say “yes you can” and “now is the time.” Your wings beat whispers of “The fire is not the end. It is a beginning…” And now there are more of you. The clouds blur with the shape of resurrection, there are wings, wings everywhere reaching up and hands, hands, ever reaching back, and the sky unfolds with the flight of belonging... ~ Angi Sullins