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Sky

the door of compassion




Dear Reader,


From a Pacific Northwest morning in the Northeast,

harsh realities-


Don't say that I will depart tomorrow,

even today I am arriving.


Look deeply: every second I am

arriving


to be a bud on a branch,


to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,

learning to sing in my new nest,


to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,


to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.


I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,

to fear and to hope.


The rhythm of my heart is the birth

and death


of all that is alive.


I am the mayfly metamorphosing

on the surface of a river.


And I am the bird

that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.


I am the frog swimming happily

in the clear water of a pond.


And I am the grass-snake

that silently feeds itself on the frog.


I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,

my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.


And I am the arms merchant,

selling deadly weapons to Uganda.


I am the twelve-year-old girl,

refugee on a small boat,

who throws herself into the ocean

after being raped by a sea pirate.


And I am the pirate,

my heart not yet capable

of seeing and loving.


I am a member of politburo,

with plenty of power in my hands.


And I am the man who has to pay

his "debt of blood" to my people

dying slowly in a forced labor camp.


My joy is like Spring, so warm

it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth.


My pain is like a river of tears,

so vast it fills the four oceans.


Please call me by my true names,

so I can hear all my cries and my laughter

at once,


so I can see that my joy and pain are one.


Please call me by my true names,

so I can wake up,

and so the door of my heart

can be left open,

the door of compassion.


As an Old Testament lamb,

With integration as the catalyst,

WOP round weaving, bike rim art, street art, chalk art


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