brothers, sisters.

 

                

Morgan Ackerson, Abby McFarlane, and Julie Boada constructing paper mache puppets and masks at the Summer Arts Academy Wednesday morning at M-State in Fergus Falls. These props will be used in The Cycle of Water production put on June 25 & 26 at Roosevelt Park.The Academy is put together by A Center for the Arts under the direction of Sommer Robles. For more information call 736-5453.

A break between rehearsals, one little performer hangs back. Conversations drift from topic to topic as the minutes pass. A handful of women, all at very different places in their lives were brought together through participation in the arts. Programs at A Center for the Arts not only inspire and teach, but also remind us to reflect upon the past, and hold closely with us the things that we find dear. 

               

Generations gathered on a dusty stage. 

A small circle of women.

The eldest the director, while the little one leads.

Her soft voice like honey and air.

Magnified in the magic of the theatre.

Brushing the hair from her face

Big wet eyes well up with tears as she explains

“I  miss him so much....he was like my brother. We just had this...thing, this understanding. Family.  I just wish he would come home.”

My Brother.

The phrase ignites me and in this moment I feel so much for this girl that I just want to  squeeze her and tell her that i know exactly what she means. Let our eyes get wet together and reflect upon this boy. 

This man.

I continue to listen  to her words, 

while letting my memories play like home movies in my mind.

silent strides in the grass

both thoughtful and mindless.

comfortable calm.

my brother tree. 

wise beyond his years.

i feel like I grow when you’re near

I can feel my roots sink slowly into the soil, seeking footing. 
stable and nurturing,

someplace i cannot distinguish my dreams from reality.

a base built on the foundation of life versus existence.

the beautiful simplicity of non possessive love and the desire to learn. 


I don’t know where these roots belong, or how to anchor myself with the confidence I need to survive.

but your face assures me that I want to try. 

I can feel them stretch as they twist through the possible paths in the ground.

lingering and moving on, sometimes frozen in place.

when your mind is near I feel comfortable in the wander.

the twisting entanglement of possibilities.

my roots move more surely when your voice waters them.

pleasant guidance through the dark.


i hope you too grow when I’m around.
the tools we have acquired will surprise us both. 


lets talk tree talk all day. 

we can raise our branches in praise of that glorious sun that carried us this far. 

birthed us from the blackness of the dirt, seedlings created with the desire to spread.

engage.
share.
create.
change.
produce.
love.
laugh.

our branches will entwine as we sway and
dance in the wind , leaves whirling in celebration.

our roots have found their home in each other.

Her voice pulls me back to the present, and I remember where I am. 

Who I am with, and whose not here.

Or there.

Be brave little sister, dance with me. 

Our brothers are rooted in the deepest parts of who we are.

He will always come home, because he lives in us.

Kaitlin Moen