Tangled Mess

O, what a tangled mess my feet have found. One step. Two steps. Three steps and it has begun.

For amidst the mire laced with string, their tread has slumped. My feet, stifled and silenced, are overcome by rampant sinews whose compelling grip cannot be reconciled with. They are unable to cry out for justice to intervene, sinking further into the cruel sludge.

Emitting a cloud of perfidy, the tangled mess confounds my trusting eyes. Lecherous and malicious, it has blinded my already empty sight. Giving way, my body slouches forward. Hands seeking effrontery thrust forward, only to find the enervating entanglement.

The tangled mess envelopes the parts of me too foolish to realize their imminent end. My knees buckle, releasing to viscous strings that smell their victory, surrounding what parts of flesh and clothing that remain unspoiled.

O, what a tangled mess my feet have found. One step. Two steps. Three steps and it has begun.

started this one a few weeks ago, needed something to do so came back and finished it tonight. 

Little Good-bye

The seasons are changing again. As the end of summer approaches so must several relationships I have fostered for over a year. A few of the boys I work with will be moving on from Prairie View and myself, thankfully because of stabilization and growth of strong foundations in their lives. I will be saying good-bye to a 5-year-old whom I have spent the most time with of all my boys in the last year. I saw him for two hours on Monday mornings to begin my week and again on Friday morning for another two hours to end my week. It has blown my mind how much has changed in his life in a year. Last fall/winter his life was characterized by chaos. The boy was so unsettled, unfocused, and hyperactive, making it difficult for him to process and express his emotions and feelings of what was going on in his life.

There was one Monday morning when I went to pick him up. Forty minutes later we were driving away as he refused to leave the house, screaming and crying that he didn't want to go. What we have stressed with parents is sticking to their guns, if they give in to the child then a pattern has been established. His mother stuck to it and gave him a chance to make a positive choice to leave with me on his own, instead she had to carry him out to the vehicle herself. Amidst the screaming and crying, she was finally able to step away and go back into the house. At times, this boy struggled immensely with separation from his family; understandable considering his father works in a town hours away to support the family, providing the boy with anxieties and fears centering around being left. We were able to drive around and as soon as the car pulled away from the house he was able to calm and wanted to do additional activities.

Skipping ahead to the spring. The same unsettled, unfocused, hyperactive boy hit his stride in preschool once he became accustomed to the safety of structure. Repetition and effort by his parents on reinforcing what Prairie View, his therapist, and myself had been instilling him was able to provide him with the support he needs. His family now is moving down to where his father works so the boy won't need to wait to see his family a few times a month.

Not enough can be said about how proud I am of this little guy.

And I suppose, vice versa. He has made it abundantly clear that he appreciates me as well, judging by how many invites I get from him to "sleep over at his house" or compliments he gives me. While swimming I handed a ball back to a little girl, which he saw and said, "That was nice of you." The fact that he was able to recognize positive behavior is proof enough he will be successful if his support system continues at home. We will have two more session together. On our last visit when I dropped him off at his home, he ran back from his house to catch up with me before I got to my pickup. He picked up a stick from the yard and handed it to me. His "walking stick" was thrust into my hand as he said I could use it to help me walk. Not sure how old he thinks I am or if I am appearing to have a limp, but the gesture was well-received. The 'walking stick' currently sits on my desk.

Come August Come

As soon as August hits, an experiment will begin. I'm going to attempt a month without television, and if it goes well, more. I originally wanted to pledge a year without it, but figured I will start small and see what benefits it will produce. I cannot remember the amount, but there is a statistic that reports how much more an individual will spend in ratio to how many hours of television they watch in a day. Sitting in front of the box, lifeless and brain-dead, we exist there only to soak in influential dribble while we are convince we are not cool enough, good-looking enough, in-shape enough, rich enough, so on and so on. What if I can go an extended period of time without a messed-up pop culture shaping me into someone who cannot find happiness? What alternate activities will consume my time? I'm thankful that I already spend very little time watching television as there is little on that is worth my time (Good-bye LOST), but cutting that bit of my evening out will surely only benefit me. For awhile, I have desired to live in a time when all that would concern me is that I had bread for my stomach. Forget everything about our culture that needs to look good on the outside to feel anything. Give me a stick, a line, and a lure and let me catch a single fish for a day's meal and I will be content. I would at least feel alive. Eagerly awaiting August.

Green Grass

Green grass withered with ease, upon the neglect of weary hands.

God, it seems to beg with plea's, to richly meet your strong demands.

It tries and tries so faithfully, but brown becomes its color depleted.

For under nature's spell so devilishly, hope's bright hues have only retreated.

Now the grass turned brown and cold, will die with each passing night.

For who shall render with hands so bold, a reversal of nature through arduous might.

It is I who gather the grass in hand, and whisper sweetly what words I know.

But my flesh, icy and callous-bland, cannot convince the grass to grow.

So gone is green as brown ensues, reaching towards its unfit rest.

And it is I who pay the required dues, as decay consumes what has been left.