Stormfront between Selves

There is a dichotomy between filling my life and the lives of others with experiences, and trying to function in a the world of environmental education and justice in a capitalist world. The two simply dont mix. Today, I am confused and hurt, and still processing in walks with friends up mountains, and in observing the behavior of a nuthatch as it bounces between my head and its spruce tree home. There is so much more to say. But today I tire, and fall into dreams. Tomorrow is full of snowshoe adventures and planting peppers for the season of growing.  Hopefully my dreams are full of those peppers.

Gitchi Gumee ways flowing between icy cliffs 
and sandy islands. 
Each story building upon what has been before like the sandstone which builds the south shore's cliffs. 
And the water which tears them apart bit by bit 
into caves and beauty. 
The storms between storytelling and sap-flowing, 
pushing between expansion and experience and back again. 
Tearing me apart. 
I cannot stand before the storm. 
I can only take shelter in past selves and could have beens. 
Empty selves shaped by the waves and silences. 
Broken by a gift of chaga 
from a child filled with wonder. 

The universe is created by division. 
The river splits in two, and the cells in my body divide 
and give rise to story and stormfronts between selves. 
And I dont know where the river flows next 
What story there is to be told 
between now and dust.