There is an art to being lost;
like dancers, we are hyper aware of the ways
our bodies jut out at odd angles, and frequently concerned
about the visibility of scars.
We are constantly calculating
where the next foot is going to fall;
locked in a rapid succession of pirouettes: fight, flight, fight
but we are stuck;
we are both fleeing and fighting constantly,
spinning so quickly between the two in an effort to break free
that we are drilling downward,
drilling down our feet to our ankles, and then to our bones –
being worn down from the roots up…
roots which have been malnourished in foreign lands for too long,
roots that couldn’t adapt to the harsh conditions
despite our most sturdy of efforts.
There is a difference between being sturdy and being steady,
and those of us who are lost in that downward pas de deux – with all the apparent, surface sturdiness –
are about as steady as the shallow rooted Elm tree in a wind storm.