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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() Dear Diane, Isn’t it funny how things never go according to plan like how not all dandelion seeds will take root, but wasn’t it beautiful the way they rode the wind’s hand and landed so far away? This August,
my home was an alpine hillside, where I often sat in the cool evening grass to watch the stars go by. And I thought about dandelion seeds that never cultivated weeds and how I could be sitting on the graves of stars buried within the earth. This might’ve been what you thought last spring, Diane, when I handed you fistfuls of my hair tied neatly in pink ribbons, or when I smiled as you traced trembling fingers along the burn areas where roots once grew. Did you know then that my deforestation was a gift from God? Or that fireweed and lodgepole saplings only break the surface once the char has settled on the nape of my neck? I’ve been practicing standing at the threshold with a belly full of stories and a pocket full of dandelion seeds. It’s all a matter of transitions, you see. And it’s beautiful the way I’m riding the wind’s hand and landing so far away. But what if I don’t take root? And even if I do, what if the bouquets of life lessons and love poems wilt when I place them on your windowsill? I know just what you’ll say: “Slow down, my love, the stitches get messy when you force the fabric through.” Diane, thank you for the placard words. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve eloped with them in the night. Because it’s only by being here that I’ve realized how my ribs form a marimba that sings when I laugh. “I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention.” So I’m devouring the gospel of birdsongs footfalls flash floods. I can’t help but startle at the stutter of my own feet and the power of this dance that comes from me alone. I guess that all I’m trying to tell you, Diane, is that I catch myself smiling when the moon climbs through my window and nudges me awake. If you see my curtains open, please don’t call me foolish or try to coax me home. Just whisper me a soft wind and keep me in your sights. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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