I cry. Evryone cries sometimes. It doesn’t mean I’m not a man, it just means that I feel. My people, they cried. They cried for loss; they cried for joy, they cried to to feel. Let me stand, let me sing, let me Cry. I feel. I love. I cry. And they fly to heaven on the wings of tear.
Because without that base, without two feet down, without somewhere to start, you can’t go. You can’t explore. You can’t shout to the heavens and leap for joy. You must be grounded, firmly, drastically, then– then the sky is yours. Then the race can begin. You must be– grounded.
That’s the scent that bring Christmas home
the wreath on the door
the centerpiece on the table
the fireplace as it heats up for the oak logs to follow
and it’s the scent of spring
first trips to the woods
to bring out the naturalist
in each of us.