A Prayer of Sorts for The American Dream
I try to understand why American life has become so hard. Why it didn’t work out, and why the promise has faded. As a people, we have done what was asked and more, but now sit stuck in a cold space, waiting for the bright future that will not be reached from our old, decaying perch. Maybe it is our fate at this time to suffer, to bruise the universe; to offer in sacrifice as our parents did and theirs before, the struggle for freedom that is inherited from one generation to another. I feel the ghosts of my ancestors holding my hand, loving me, making promises.
It seems fear and anger make our days and clog once open hearts. So, we pray every day for answers with no reply, and in the darkness of each solemn night. What creature stirred within to change us so? And what will emerge from this dark cocoon? A shriveled country of hate and regret or a great Being, so shiny and rare, burst through the sadness with an unexpected force that renews the entire planet with its mere existence.
There are seasons they say, and the dead of winter holds as much promise as the flowers in spring. But winter is harsh and seems longer than spring. Only after it passes do we witness the blossoms that we were sure would never grow.
But then suddenly, there they are! And how much more beautiful they seem bursting through the melting snow.
Have faith. Be the change.