I don't have a pen.
There's this weird marker I found, which gives me permanent marker fumes whenever I use it
All the clothes are dirty, my washing machine blocks and worlds away
We've been waking around like strangers hungrily searching for solutions, bodies caked in dust and mud, eyes eagerly looking, looking,looking
And yet, in this foreign world, of marbled concrete floors and unexpected holes
where little children stick their half eaten fruit
I feel calm, safe, secure.
I may not have a home to call my own
I may have hundreds of things that need to fall in place before the week is through
I may have been unexpectedly uprooted, in a whirlwind process that leaves me questioning - should I, would I, could I....
But in my mind I have faith: It. Will. Be. Beautiful.
Like Avraham Aveinu we stand, our bodies physical sacrifices for a spiritual, unknown cause
Lead me, our eyebrows raise peeking at the sky above
Show us the way
In my heart I feel open.
And most of all, for some reason in this Brooklyn basement on the other side of town,
I have quiet. The air is quiet.
This, too, is for the good.
We're coming home.