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Little Buckeye in a Big Forest

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Who am I?

I sometimes ask myself that question and I have many answers that are logical, spiritual and truthful, but sometimes when I answer that question, I want something more.

What more could I want than to answer who I am? Well, I think it is more about answering who I am not. More often than not I think of all the things I am not due to change or growth. For example, I am no longer a child even though I would like to keep my child-like curiosity. It is much easier said than done. Then there are times when I am reminded that I am neither here nor there and I suppose those are the hardest answers.

Who am I? Am I a nationality or do I not belong anywhere because I have been too many places? Have I seen too much of the good and bad from different countries to not belong in one place? Sometimes I wish I could have my ignorance back, because it can feel lonely. I know I am a daughter of God, but I am talking about this earthly realm, not the kingdom that awaits. Who am I when I understand things but am still kept at a distance? Who am I when I visit my hometown and feel like a foreigner? Who am I when I go to new countries and love it but also am logically aware of social standards and discrimination that I cannot see unless I live there?

Who am I?

This past weekend I met a lovely couple from my home State, who taught me many things, but the biggest thing they taught me? It came from one sentence as we were departing;

“I need to give my little buckeye a hug.”

I am a Buckeye. It had to take someone I had just met to remind me that I will always have my roots. It doesn’t matter how tall I grow, my roots will be just as big. I had forgotten that I had such significant, underground growings, and that they are still nourished each day. Perhaps it was because they are hidden or perhaps it was because it is hard to see them when other things are so confronting. Either way, I see my roots now, thanks to these people, and it makes me miss home a little less and a little more, but I think it is a good thing, because for that moment that I was reminded of who I am, I felt like I belonged.

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I Speak for the Trees

Tell me your secrets,

that hide within.

Tell me your troubles,

that burn inside.

Tell me, old one,

what have you seen?

Reality slips as I see

what once was

and now is.

Shall we lose your beauty?

Shall we regret

what has been done?

Shall we even remember?

Speak!

I want to hear your voice!

I want to hear your anger,

your sadness,

your story.

Speak,

and I will listen.

Speak,

and I will tell others

of the wonders and wars

you have seen!

Speak,

because no one can hear you.

 

Can you speak?

Yes.

Can we hear?

We are deaf to your language.

We lost your trust.

You will not speak

to us

anymore.

 
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Posted by on October 19, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

 

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