JUST EMBRACE
By Rula Sinara
(written June 2022)
Excerpts included in the bestselling book The Trans Anthology Project , Aug 23, 2024)
Between the realms of life and
death,
we are given—and give—the gift of
breath.
The gift of children who’ll grow
old and wise,
like a tree, majestic no matter its
size.
Grounded and strengthened in its
truth.
It requires no proof.
Because what the mind and soul has
said,
is more powerful than what’s
written or read.
A weathered, old branch,
dead.
But peering from the dancing grass,
a fragile stem, suckering past the
sharp blades.
Shielded by canopy.
Urged on by memory.
A new legacy.
Just embrace
From summer to fall.
a new face.
Emeralds and jades to garnets and rubies.
A transformation of barren beauty.
But for all we see,
the roots of that tree
still run deep.
Unchanged.
Mind and soul.
For a rose by any other name, is our
same
little sweet.
Ten fingers.
Ten toes.
A pulsing heartbeat.
Hear them.
See them.
Say their name.
There is nothing to lose, but so
much to gain.
Whether oak or orchid, or in
between,
let their leaves unfurl.
Let them be seen.
Let their branches stretch towards
sun and sky.
Be in their moment.
Don’t ask why.
Just embrace
Their love, their grace.
Their strength and undiscovered
power.
Love them every second and every
hour.
With all reason, in every season.
For we grew our children from
water and seed.
We tended to their
every need.
We’ve helped their roots spread and
drink.
We think we’ve taught them
how to think.
A mere seedling saturated and
drowned by
everything plus the kitchen
sink.
Life
We urge them to think
outside the box,
till tiny toes,
wriggling like worms in dewy grass,
trespass.
So, we mold them into shoes and
socks
and stash away the keys to locks
that save face.
No time or place.
No voice or trace.
Forbidden
But control is a faulty goal.
It depletes and drains.
A muddy sinkhole.
It kills the spirit and tortures
the soul
and
it takes its toll,
in life
or across the river Styx.
There is no magic or potion to mix
to fully heal the damage done
to needs neglected or children
shunned.
Shun instead the poisonous hate.
The ignorance and judgement
It’s not too late
Before it’s too late
Just embrace
And know that
stones and sticks may harm,
but words have power.
Like a bomb,
ticking, taunting
till they explode.
Or
words lift and move a heavy load.
Fire can warm,
but through a forest or grove,
nothing but ashes left.
Theft
of life.
Stolen joy and pride.
Crumble and hide.
Crushing chest.
Love put to the test.
Ignorance without reason.
They’ll never look right, sound
right.
They’ll never season.
And years struggling to undo the
damage
done.
Craving approval from the one,
whose words burned like a merciless
sun.
Giving life, yet taking some.
Leaving them feeling
undone.
Shrinking
behind a silent wall.
Shutting out one and all.
The calm before the storm.
The quiet before the fall.
The fear.
The dread
of bloodshed.
Of listlessness in bed.
Hanging on by a thread.
To cradle and rock in agony,
begging
come to me.
But a broken bough doesn’t always
fall.
Bend.
Catch it,
cradle and all.
For that which bends will not
break.
That is what’s at
stake.
What kind of world has apathy
toward empathy?
Why can’t we learn from history?
It’s an unconscionable evil to
steal peace of mind.
Security and serenity are for all
living kind.
Just embrace
Words are free
to hate or love.
To pull out roots
and chop above.
Or
to nurture and feed.
To grow that seed,
using love the world so desperately
needs.
For the past is easy to fit in a
mold,
but the future is vast and harder
to hold.
To learn is to let that power
unfold.
Knowledge.
Understanding.
We say,
be true,
be real.
So, let’s see that truth
and read what’s real.
What medicine and science reveal.
Don’t get stuck in the past.
Be realistic.
Prevent the anguish of another
statistic.
Winter, spring, summer and fall
Catch their tears when they fall
after a rain.
Refrain,
from causing pain.
Just embrace
Walk in another’s shoes.
Much in life is not what we choose.
Why judge who should win or lose?
Life is all encompassing.
It’s not about scorn or shame.
Only the self-righteous are to
blame.
Death and rebirth,
name to name.
Love of a babe is still the same.
All ages…infant or prime…
waste not time
on doubt or hate.
Blooming is never too late.
Shouldn’t love weave into
everyone’s fate?
Nature didn’t get it wrong.
The air vibrates with bird song.
From countless species and colors
of wings,
every bird…every
being…has the right to sing.
To live and stretch and fly high.
There is no right or wrong or why.
Each song resonates with a
different soul.
From birth to death, a different
goal.
From seed and egg, a destiny.
Just let it be.
There is nothing more fundamental
to life,
more precious or beautiful,
than diversity.
Don’t blame nature.
It’s society
With boxes and rules and
expectations,
to quell the fear of variation
of darkness and the unknown.
But we’ve boldly been where no man
has gone
before.
So, what more?
What’s needed to understand
that when our children feared the
dark
we took their hand.
We held them through the night.
We didn’t question wrong or right.
Because we knew that at the heart
of the matter,
it didn’t matter.
Only love mattered.
We just embraced.
Be the boulder,
snow-laced,
by the barren tree, on the ground.
Anchoring, and like a hound,
protecting.
Stay put when its branches reach
down
in a storm.
Keep it warm
when winter comes.
Radiate the rays of sun.
Let their souls stir and sing,
like birds in spring.
None lesser.
None better.
Each transformation captivating,
like redbud flowers blossoming
straight from wood.
Forget the expected and the ‘should’.
Children are the future.
Change is good.
And life is a fundamental right.
No one need hide in the bitter darkness
of night.
No one forced to beg to JUST BE.
To exist rightfully…fully.
To explore and discover who they’re
meant to be.
The glorious rainbow
and all between.
Let them be loved.
Let them be seen.
We should live to the beat of one
drum.
Human
We should dance to the rhythm of
one heart.
Not apart.
Together.
Like the root tips of groves
touching like toes.
Maple and oak branches entwining
like fingers around that rose.
Love knows.
Love forgives.
Intention, effort,
mean everything.
And that old, weathered branch,
mistaken for dead?
Blossoming.
Just embrace.