One year reflection

~ The Pulse of Orlando~ June 12th, 2016
(Read as a lead in to spoken word for Maxbeth in light of the tragedy that befell Orlando, FLA, and the world as a whole)
I want to be singing from the mountaintops, from the rooftops, from the hilltops; to pull out all the stops, let the beat drop, and from these stair tops proclaim in the name of all that is good and endures that this land is your land, though, out east in Orlando someone took many more than a few shots as a harbinger of hate; which is what it wants, for us to get caught up as it flaunts fears misguided, and taunts, intended to be divisive. 

       It wants us to give up and be caught off guard, to be sawed off the right arm from the body perceived right. Like a thief in the night, it comes to take the hopes, dreams, and love we have in our hearts for both our friends and our counterparts, for ones with good intents, and who need a helping start.            

      For, in the end we amount to hearts that live and breathe, and strive to dream. So I stand atop these stairs like the side of a Babylonian stream.

       This land is OUR land, and hate can’t take it away. We’re on the same team. With you, I choose to play. I know you could be not far off, at the Reno Arch dark, or at a vigil on Wells tonight, this very day. You may have the sudden urge to help but not know how quite, or in what way.

        Fifty known dead. Fifty three more injured. That’s five times the size of this cast to a head, a void in the destroyed universe that’s disturbed.

          We stand as a band, trying to understand how we can forever make and equate love being stronger than fear, and hope being stronger than hate.

           So before we dim the lights and display this play to show the unending metaphysical cycle of violence; I’d solemnly ask, on this gray Sunday, that we bow our heads in a moment of silence.
~ Checking our pulse ~ June 12th, 2017
I can’t believe it’s already been a year,

Since the senseless and intense mess of tragedy befell F-L-A, and by virtue of that the whole world: the whole earth.

Even if I leave the TV off, and the cache is clear,

I still can’t wrap my head around the little boys and little girls, now and here, trying to learn, amidst so much dying discern, their goals, values, and worth.

Lin Manuel, so very warmly, perhaps using Meredith’s sixteen line form, he shared a sonnet at the Tony’s after he won it proclaiming that Love is Love is Love is Love!

And I don’t dare disagree. For this love that we share now in remembrance will truly set us free. 

This love may not make all who were slain walk this way ever again. It may be far too soon for the families, loved ones, and friends who never intentioned, mentioned, or intended for this fifty plus wrenching from life to have happened. 

It’s just trying to find a new normal, or next to it, or near it again. But, if we let go of our love, then fear will win. I was not there but I hear them. The voices urging, amidst the anniversary of the most horrifically disturbing turning of events, to take the lessons that are more than history’s polite suggestions, to choose to love. To choose to give. To live but once, and love to live.

The voices urging to be allies, urging to support, to communicate, to provide safe space that erases hate. And, to love as truly, absolutely, and even at times as unruly as we can. That’s the plan. Try to understand the wept. To understand the height, width, and depth of love. The might and strength of all who have leapt in love.

   So, on this solemn anniversary, I suggest a moment of silence again. But then, I suggest we name not the hate but the love, and reverse the curse to give a little extra on this day. We will still say their names in our homes, and when we roam, to acknowledge that loss, to ourselves, that is felt. We may each get those books down from the shelves when we’re going through those personal hells. But these wells will fill, and we’ll tell it still. Only love can make the monster knelt. Only love can make hate melt. Keep your loving fingers on the pulse. Love.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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