The river knows your name.
Holland V.
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I sit on my back porch, hoping for change. I’ve always wondered if the universe knows me. Does it hear my voice? Does it listen? Does it even care? I see the stone statue of the angel lying in the lavender bush, her hands grasped together, her lips partly open in prayer. Does she speak of me? Does she bless the gardens? Does she hope for rain or for the almond tree to grow? I sit in front of her, my hands together, replicating her permanent position. I notice that even in the boiling heat of the valley, the grass that lies around the angel remains green. I feel the sun warm my body and I hear the song of a bird calling to its friend. I whisper words that only the angel and the Earth can hear. I believe she listens. I believe the universe knows.
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Creativity is self-expression. I’ve never been able to say how I feel in a song or painting. But when I write, I feel a connection to my soul, and the words of my subconscious flow. That feeling is a gift I am thankful for every day.
