Of Privilege and Pain

I haven't opened this blog for a long time, but tonight I felt a stirring to share something I wrote last month. It's deeply personal and won't be understood by those who don't know me--like for real know me--but that's not the point. Maybe there is something here that will speak to you. If not, maybe just the revealing of something on my heart will give you the permission you didn't know you needed to shed some of the burden you didn't realize you were carrying. This is a piece of my 2020. 

I feel the warm June breeze on my face as I pedal along the empty street
past people rocking and grasses swaying
past a woman sweeping, a truck turning
past squirrels darting, including one with half a tail,
down the hill to a pond just beyond the part of the street that circles a grassy knoll.

I follow the circle around and around
spying geese in fellowship
smelling blossoms of what-I’m not sure
wondering about these mystery neighbors--
one with a yard sign like mine and another that says NO.

I squint my eyes, quiet my thoughts and let myself be transported to 1983:
Riding atop my banana-seat bike now
soaring beneath the oak and pine branches
sliding along the dusty paths of my rural childhood home, 
I begin to re-member.

I can almost feel what it felt like to be the child me
when my mind was clear
when my heart was free
when I trusted my world and the whole, wide world
and I didn’t know how easy I had it as a white kid in America.

The resident lump in my throat swells again as I ride up the hill to return home in 2020:
Past the still busy squirrels and now empty porches, beneath the darkening sky
getting closer, I hear the wood thrush calling
almost there, my chest is tightening
my son is crying
I can’t breathe

Boardwalk for the Atlantic Coast Pipeline on family land (photo taken 12/2019)