When you and your husband only wear black

Day 23

When you and your husband only wear black:

It is insanely hard to keep your clothing from getting mixed up, especially when it comes out of the laundry. And every time you need to change, you curse a whole bunch of times because everything looks the same, and you both mostly wear t-shirts and jeans, but you are slightly different sizes.

When you and your husband only wear black:

You appear to be wearing some kind of uniform. You can see people wondering “bike gang? death metal? goth?” You feel that you look particularly militant,  and out of place when you take your kid to storytime, which is in a room that is every color of the rainbow.  And everyone is remarkably nice to you, even though you know they’re wondering. And that’s really fantastic.

When you and your husband only wear black:

You are very hot in the sun.

When you and your husband only wear black:

You are constantly reminded how much suffering is going on in the world right now, and why you’re doing this project in the first place. But because of that constant reminder, you feel heart breakingly grateful for each moment, and more empathetic to others around you, in line at the grocery store, at the park, walking down the street.

When you and your husband only wear black:

Your outward appearance finally matches the grief you’ve been carrying inside, like an ache within your bones. And it’s such a relief to finally express it.

When you and your husband only wear black:

You never forget, even in moments of great joy or sadness, that this incredible planet, and all the creatures that call it home, are worth fighting for.

Today I mourn all the indigenous people and cultures that have been lost. I grieve for all the mamas and papas who have lost their beautiful little babies, families, landbases, and entire cultures due to colonization, and slavery, violence, and the onward-fucking-march of civilization and the culture of destruction.

And to the original people of this land where I make my home,

Know that I cry rivers of salty tears for you tonight, and let those tears be an offering.

I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to set things right again,  even though it won’t bring you and your people back.

I am so sorry.

Please, please forgive me.

I thank you.

I love you.

Thank you for listening,



photo by michelle j.

photo by michelle j.

Tonight’s guest post is from my dear friend Beth W.K. Beth has the most incredible, earthy, loving heart I have ever come across. She is a mama, activist, farmer, maker, and many other wonderful things. I am honored to know her and I look up to her very much. Thank you for your words Beth. I love you.

A piece by Beth:

Before we wandered these hills, other feet stood on the rocks, walked these woods, heard the way the breezes played through the poplars, watched the sun shoot its borning rays down into the hollows.

Before the parking lots and asphalt roads. Before the houses and the malls, like a million million mushrooms gathered in every valley and on every hilltop. Before the tearing machines, the industrial fumes, the buzz and rumble of commerce.

Before the barbarians came, before the savages appeared with their guns, with hearts of stone seeking halls of gold.

This is not a new story, but somehow we keep missing the point, keep calling the wrong ones the savages, keep stepping up to the bench of divine justice, lawyers defending the mass murderer. Before the first (or not the first) one sailed the ocean blue, before him, yes, there was war here. Yes, sometimes there was famine and disease.

But before the big boats began to appear here, there were functioning and thriving societies here. Families in villages and longhouses, in townsful of people. There was hunting and fishing and foraging. There was knowledge and wisdom. There were councils and songs, dances and dreamings. There was art and society, law and leisure.

Today I will not celebrate the ending of that world. Today I will mourn for the world that was lost when “first contact” was made. I will walk in the woods with my children. I will forage for something to make into tea or supper. I will stand on these stones with my feet and re-member what stories I can.


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