The real story

A poem of thanksgiving, inspired by Duvall, Washington

There’s a signature frenzy to a family-owned business having an unexpectedly good day.  The stress of all the hot apple cider sold out less than an hour after opening and having to stir up a new batch.  The last three cookies on the baking sheet an hour before closing with a queue stretching out the front door.  When heart and soul go into a wood-fired pizza and the kitchen staff prepping for dinner reassure a panicked chef, ‘don’t worry chef, we’ll figure it out..’

One, two, three countless cars with trees tied down to their roofs pass by, families heading home to erect, light and decorate the firs in their living rooms as we approach the coldest, darkest days of the year.  A universal desire to connect with nature realized.

Finding space to breathe, looking out at flooded fields across the valley, distant hills dusted with fog and an inescapable silent serenity offered freely to all who enter the park for a wander.

Assurance, not from a newscaster, economist or politician, that everything’s gonna be alright.  Because it’s just us here living, people wrinkled, weathered, limping, from great-grandparents who have seen it all and carried on to teens who have seen more loss and struggle than their young faces let on.  Our eyes, mouths, hands connect us to the most powerful worldwide network, no batteries required.

Hope is not far away.  It’s with everyone around us, sometimes hidden behind sunglasses or buried under a bit of wreckage.  Actual reality, actual intelligence, actual life.  We just step outside our home, our car, whatever structures enclose us and we’re there without a word.

The real story.