I cannot really pray in the belly of a church, walls made by the hands of men, surrounded by white-costumed, noose-necked 12-year-old boys marching to the beat of The Drum.
Give me the sky, and the wind, mountains, bees and birdsong. With wild grasses in my fingers, there I find my maker, and weep in sweet loving arms.
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2 comments:
beautiful you....
I introduced Monica to my blogging world to help her understand how we've all connected now.
...You just happened to have written this beautiful entry...
Monica and I read this together, and we both said, "Mmmm..."
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