“Is a rainbow really just light and water?” asked bear.
“And magic,” replied fox. “Always magic.”
Thoughts while making
They say she stole them. Picked them right out of a September sky. Tucking stars like secrets under her pillow.
They say she hid them. Locked in a metal box, stashing smoke + fire like memories beneath her bed.
They say, but I knew better. Because I was there when thunder split her heart open, tears like raindrops puddling at her feet. I was there when the last ounce of hope drained, leaving her hollow of reason or of why.
And yet, she persisted, rising to remember that one thing. Slipping rainbows into her pockets, fireflies in her coat. Catching lightning between fingers, meteors like change jingling in a cluttered purse.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, they say. But she always knew there was something more.
“I am of stardust, as are my mothers and my mothers’ mothers. Of matter, dark and deep, am I. A billion suns blazing, a gravity beyond my control.”
“I am the moon, and the sky. I am the sun, and the earth. And this is why I will always rise. I will always rise.”
And she did. She always does. Just as you always will. To meet the new day. Again and again.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what we’re made of lately, literally and figuratively. Other than the basics of oxygen and carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and calcium, and phosphorus, what’s one element you’d like add to your humanity? Mine is more awe, in every cell.