Seeds of Life

The fire has raged across the landscape of my world, wreaking destruction without regard to the desires or needs of the living. Charred remains of the life I knew are all that's left... cinders black and brittle, of a love and a life I once carried beneath my heart.  Glowing embers sparkling with tempting light, wait to be fanned into full blown flames, that will not be satisfied until there are no remnants of life remaining. I tend to breathe very carefully these days, for every breath carries the scent of smoke and carries risk. Every breath could be the one that fans the flames of the past and incinerates the last tiny spark of life within me.

Yet, even with soot clogging my nostrils with every inhale,  and ashes all around me, life remains. Buried deep beneath the surface, willing to grow and flourish if only given the chance. Determined to spread its tendrils, whether it's wanted or not, it creeps forth leaving dots of green across the desolate landscape where once a forest grew. There is life after destruction. Always.

I see it in my grandsons' eyes. I hear it in their voices. I feel it in his touch. The lives in their futures need to be oblivious of the pain within me. Their lives are to be nurtured, cherished, handled with care. Their lives deserve to be acknowledged in their own right for their unique beauty and potential without being compared to an entire forest.

But who can look at the aftermath of a forest fire without mourning the loss of the grandness which once was? How do you look at a seedling without wishing you could climb the tree that once stood in it's place? How do you scatter ashes with your footsteps without longing for the carpet of leaves and twigs representing years and years of growth? 

I don't deny the life still within me, but I am faced with the knowledge I will never again be sheltered by the forest where once my heart was safe. Instead, I stand exposed amongst sprouts that will become the forest of my grandchildren's lives, hoping they will live safe and secure, embraced by love growing from seeds planted by the lives that came before them. They never knew the forest, so they will never long for it. They will only know the stories and fairy tales we weave from our memories.

This is why I make myself smile. Get out of bed. Pretend. I cannot alter my own intense desire to also be consumed by the flames rather than stay and mourn the passing of the forest.  I can however, sincerely hope for the innocent lives around me to remain protected from the burn of the remaining embers.

I will not fan the embers voluntarily.

Slowwwwwly I breathe.