Do you sing to your babies?

I sat on our front patio this evening. It was the first time I had been in the quiet of the outside alone in over a week. Little bubby was in bed, my husband inside on the couch, I sat in my metal cafe chair, ginger tea in hand, and I read. What I read does not matter, it’s not worth mentioning, the joy of being alone with my book and tea and the sunset and the birdsong – that is what matters tonight.

There are things I do not understand right now. How we could question another person’s lived experience as if they are not the sole expert on their own life.. How we are still standing outside of our humanity telling ourselves their is comfort here in the ignorance and darkness.. How we are still sick and dying everyday from disease and violence yet we rush back into the open stores and restaurants as if this reality is not real.. I do not understand the willful blindness after everything we have been through. How have our sleepy eyes with their imperfect vision of the world not been pried permanently open? How are we not changed? How are our hearts not softened? How are we not able to now, after it all, finally say ENOUGH?

Enough to it all. Enough on all levels.

I am enough, me made of Love, made to Love. I am enough which means those stores and restaurants hold nothing inside that I need. Everything I need is inside of me already.

Enough denying the Truth of oppression and pain and generational trauma, the blood of which is still staining our very hands.

Enough talking with our empty words and untruths.


I sat in the silence tonight listening to the birds sing their final songs of the day. I imagined them, those mother and father birds, sitting at the bedside of their babies, singing them to sleep just as I do mine every night before he leaves this day behind. I sing to him a song I made up, a song where he is the center of the story and the love. I thought of all the mothers, the fathers, who long to sing that last song of the day to their murdered babies. I thought of the children who will never hear that last song of the day spill off the tongues of their murdered parents. We created this brokenness by ignoring and denying its existence. We did this. The question is, will we continue? And if not, then what? How will you stop it? What will your part be? What will be mine?

These are the thoughts and questions that weigh heavy on my heart. These questions will not go unanswered.

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