She takes her crumbs seriously.

I feel myself unfolding, the story of my life pouring forth in ever-growing waves and turns. The girl is no more, who once sat in attic window staring out at rusty garden cars below skyline, feeling so old and so tired. She spent her days playing in forests, reading L.M. Montgomery and Louisa May Alcott, and keeping diligent journals on spirit and god, and life and death on the farm. She felt constricted yet infinite, connection and disconnection, joyful spirit holding all in grace.

As she grew, she became more of "i should" and "not enough", and she lost her essence and spark. She wasn't a real, writer, dancer, or musician after all, and she struggled to be a real lover and follower of Christ- which was her deepest desire.

Ejected from one small farm picture of reality, she flew into a new college soup of ideas and ways of being, taking on pieces from the costume bin and trying them on for size. Some fit more than others, and all items chosen reflected important parts of herself. But nothing fit quite right and she became ill to the touch.

Ground zero of the soul found her itching for change

Time to give up her chains and be no more restrained

So she ran and kept running not knowing the way

And bled her way back to the beginning of the page

Where she takes her crumbs seriously,

holding on in cupped hands

raising beds and watering for the toil.

Grace in the here and now.