The Hidden

Yesterday, I told you about the ocotillo. The plant that looks dead most of the year.

Here’s the rest of the story.

I was the ocotillo for at least seven months. Probably longer.

I was up before sunrise. I’d forget to eat. My blood sugars were through the roof. I was talking to my Dad out loud on the trails, where hopefully nobody could hear me.

I was a mess. I’m not afraid to say it.

There was so much going on externally. Yet, within. Underneath. Underground. Something wonderful was happening that I could not see or feel.

Still, all I could do was keep walking.

That’s the part that people rarely tell you about grief or mourning.

The roots are reaching deep and wide.

Finding nourishment in the dark.

Even when you cannot feel anything except sadness.

Keep walking, friend.

Lynne Marie She Who Sings With Saguaros