Some days are like pushing through thick, dark mud. Mud in your nose, in your mouth, and in your lungs. Thick mud in my head. Thick mud in my heart.
Wading through thick, cold mud that clings to your skin, that gets in your eyes and makes it hard to see ahead, hard to remember where you have been, who you are, who you were, and who you want to be.
Thick cold mud buries me now. Can it be washed away? Will I fly again?
Yes. I’ll dry my wings in the sun and they will lift me again into the light and warmth. Cool air will fill my lungs and the crust surrounding my heart will crack and I will heave and shudder, breathe and feel again.
I have mud in my head, mud in my mouth, mud in my lungs and mud in my heart.
I’m waiting for the rain.
September 27, 2005