milk silk

The milk weed seed is wrapped in silk knowing the silk seeks light and whispers for the wind to begin again.

milk silk

Today’s story has still water filled with tears, milk silk tears. It started last week when I met a woman, grieving the loss of her mother. She shared with me that there is nothing like the ugly found stirred up in families experiencing imminent bites of death.

This stranger had the hint of a soft lisp wrapped with the sound of someone who has dug deep for peace. She shared she had found her way out from under her spouse, breaking her arm, and knows the meaning of two dollars. That was all she had in her pocket when she left. Two dollars, her dog, and the keys to her car. That was a few months ago. Since then her mother has passed away.

It was a profound story harnessed by a brief happenstance meeting. It was a story of strength. It housed a message, that ugly needs to be heard. She knows the ugly in all of us insists air time synchronized to our individual grief. She knows once ugly has found peace, another understanding of beauty will become.

milk silk tears

Today I will feel milk silk tears and know my ugly will find beauty, again.

JT Murphy signing off for shift



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