I’ve been digging since I was a little girl.
My heart flutters like a fragile bird.
The soft beating
beneath my small chest.
My hand trusting the earth
as it moves deeper into it: trusting, believing
I’ll find a place to call home.
To find a sense of belonging, somewhere.
I’ve learned that I must dig hard if I want to believe I’m safe.
Safe inside, my earth. My warmth.
Because I’ve learned that sometimes the most beautiful things have a broken feel to them. The things you think you can trust in are the most harsh, in the end.
And I have never truly belonged here, have I?
I have to dig hard.
No matter the weather.
I have to find my place, and the earth has a stable, true feel to it where I can plant myself. I want to believe my bent spine can hold me like a strong tree where all kinds of flying creatures can sleep in and fly from, like my thoughts.
I want to hold all kinds of hearts in my branches.
I want to cradle humanity.
So I have to be true. And make a strong home inside. For me and you.
The fragile bird breathes gently, painfully inside me.
Its soft wings digging so hard.
(Funny how a bird should dig hard craving a bit of earth to sleep in instead of looking towards the sky.)
For now, I let the bird dig.
and in the end, I am my own home.
I’ve dug enough now.