Christmas Letter 2014

Disclaimer: I actually wrote this 2 weeks ago and just remembered to finish it up today, 12/23. Whoops.

It was on my list today to write a postcard or letter to some friends, and as I pulled out my stack of postcards (my preferred method of communication) I thought about how close we are to Christmas and how really, I should send some sort of Christmas communication instead. How about a Christmas letter? You’re 27 for God’s sake. You don’t have to piggyback on your parent’s letter forever (although, to be fair, they always write about your accomplishments and all the good you’re doing in the world, so it’s a really great ego boost to read about yourself). All told, it seems it is time for the inaugural Christmas letter of Luke. Probably past time, really, but it seems like something those real adults are supposed to do--people that talk about things like buying a house and kids being born. Mularkey, I say! Christmas letters for all!

Dear Loved Ones,

2014 dawned like a winter morning--sneaky. It kind of just happened really. Darkness, then BOOM. It's a new year! I don’t think I even was able to stay up till midnight on New Year’s Eve. Lord, that tells you something about how old I’m getting. Yikes.

To start, I’ll review the fact that I have pretty much the coolest job around at the First Presbyterian Church in Baker City, OR as the youth director. This means I get to hang out with an absolutely incredible group of youth, plan youth group activities, and attend more middle and high school sporting and music events than you thought possible. It’s a blast, and I really mean that.

These are a few of my youth groupers. They're pretty awesome.

I think the theme for my year might be travel. My fellow youth pastors here in town, whom I consider good friends, consistently give me grief over how often I’m gone on various trips. I think of much of this as a perk of being tied in with a denomination that is so interconnected, and I’ve taken advantage of those connections to work with many groups doing good work. To be fair, I’ve also taken some trips of my own for pleasure and vacation, but you’ll hear about those in various detail shortly.

January gave me the opportunity to travel to Israel and Palestine with a delegation from the Presbyterian Peace Fellowship, working in tandem with Interfaith Peace Builders. Here, I’ll gladly promote both organizations: http://presbypeacefellowship.org/, and http://www.ifpb.org/.

Happily, I was joined on this trip by a few longtime friends, and made plenty of new ones during the adventures we shared. I can’t share such a transformative trip easily, but suffice to say it was difficult, it was beautiful, it brought grief and despair and hope and love. Literally every day was a battle with my emotions and prejudices. So much of what you hear about the Holy Land is bad news. I'm here to say there is such good work taking place there, dedicated people across the spectrum giving their lives for peace, justice, and reconciliation. I was so lucky to go and see it, for all its flaws and beauty.

Looking out over Jerusalem.

One of my favorite shots from the trip. This is from the Aida Refugee Camp outside Bethlehem.

Spring saw me helping with the local high school tennis team, which was such a fun and rewarding experience. More great kids, willing to have fun and work hard. Plus, for the first time in probably 2 years, I was working out regularly. Shocker. I was in really great shape from like March to late May. Maybe even a little bit into June. Then I got lazy again. Dangit.

My girlfriend Kady left for Peace Corps Indonesia mid-March, so I consoled myself by spending my spring break week with Jacko on a road trip from Denver to the Grand Canyon. We froze our butts off at the South Rim, but witnessed such overwhelming beauty it was all so worth it.

In June I was able to attend the 221st General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA) in Detroit, MI. I was there in a couple roles. I’d helped organize a Young Adult Volunteer Alumni gathering prior to the assembly itself, so I was helping with that, and then I was there to advocate for and testify on what I’d seen in Israel and Palestine that January. General Assembly was a rollercoaster of emotions, but in the end, a lot of great things came out of it that made me proud to be Presbyterian, and proud of our representative government and how it makes decisions. It was quite an experience.

The morning I helped lead worship  at breakfast (and all those tables and chairs were filled!)

July was maybe the most rewarding time of my work thus far at the church. I was able to take 10 youth and 4 other adults from our congregation down to Hollywood for a week, working with the DOOR program (http://www.doornetwork.org/) and staying at the First Presbyterian Church of Hollywood. It was incredible to watch our youth (and adults) learn and struggle with issues of homelessness, race, and stereotyping. I discovered I really love the questions that come in those bouts of vulnerability, when we are outside our comfort zone and confronting things like privilege and race. It was a truly transformative experience for many of our youth and adults, and I’m so grateful to the DOOR staffers that made that trip possible for us, as well as our church congregation that gladly gave to support the youth.

The Hollywood Crew outside First Pres Hollywood!

This October I was able to fly across the Pacific and visit Kady in Indonesia. Kady is teaching English at her school in a small village near the southwest coast of Java and is doing some really great work. I'm so proud of her. Indonesia is a beautiful, vibrant, and green country. There are also some real difficulties, including severe inequality and a frustrating school system. Kady’s village was an incredible group of supportive people, excited to meet and get to know me despite a pretty glaring language barrier. I was even able to attend school with Kady for a day and help middle school students with their English. It was an incredible opportunity to see my wonderful girlfriend, and BONUS, I got to see a part of the world I’d never seen before.

On top of a mountain near Malang (right before I para-glided off the mountain!)

Kady and her trusty bike

In Kady's words, "the stereotypical Peace Corps picture"

Other than that, life just keeps moving. I’m so grateful for the family, friends, and loved ones that I’ve been able to see over the course of this year, and I hope next year brings more of the same. My work with youth is teaching me many things, but chief among them is that you can program all you want, you can do every activity out there, but the things you really hold onto are the relationships you have with the people you love. If you’re reading this, consider yourself one of those people. May you be surrounded with loved ones and filled with hope this Advent and Christmas as we remember and wait for the Prince of Peace.

Love,

Luke

Detroit, or Bright Eyes on Faded Fabric

Bright eyes on faded fabric
The still-burning souls of places neglected
no-
forgotten
As they gather in a heap by the road.
Repurposed anew
art in the cinderblocks and
cement of the empty city
Life in what is always described as the desolate wasteland of
Detroit
Some ask-why would you go there?
Media makes it out
Cold
God-forsaken.

But how can we believe that
for we know that God does not leave
God does not forsake
And even when a city is seen as dull
And dead
There is life

Life is the
sparks in those bright eyes
like embers

Burn a fire too bright, fuel runs out.
Keep an ember alive, it smolders
Ready to be breathed back into life.

2014 General Assembly Newsletter Reflection

Abound in Hope

From June 12-21, 2014, I was lucky and privileged to attend the 221st General Assembly (GA) of the Presbyterian Church (USA) in Detroit, Michigan. My service there was as an observer (rather than a voting representative of our presbytery) and revolved around a couple different responsibilities, mostly as the Vice Moderator of the Young Adult Volunteer Alumni Leadership Council, and as the intern coordinator for the Presbyterian Peace Fellowship (PPF). I had a busy week, full of stress, struggles, and joy. To begin to reflect on the experience, I have to take a step back, to the General Assembly two years ago, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

I was also an observer at the 2012 GA, working as an intern for the Presbyterian Peace Fellowship, serving as a committee monitor and helping with various PPF activities. Over the course of the week, I became schooled in GA procedure and policy: how overtures start at the local congregation, move on to presbyteries, and then finally are passed along from presbytery to the General Assembly. I learned how these overtures are divided into different committees, each focusing on different ministries and aspects of the life of the national Presbyterian Church, and then finally presented before the plenary session of 600+ pastors and elders casting the final votes. It was an eye-opening experience that connected me to the work of our national church in ways I never imagined possible.

That General Assembly, in 2012 in Pittsburgh, was a big step in my relationship with the Presbyterian Church, both nationally and locally. As I lifelong child of the Presbyterian Church, the grandchild and great-grandchild and great-great-grandchild and great-great-great-grandchild of Presbyterian pastors, I am invested in the PCUSA in the same way we invest in many of our familial relationships. I am wrapped up in the PCUSA, both in our local congregation and nationally. As with many relationships, I have hopes for the church. Great hopes. I don't set low, easy standards for the things and people I love. So I set big, bold goals, because I love our local church, and I love our national church. I love it enough to work in it even when it disappoints me.

At the 2012 GA, I was exposed to the disappointment of working and hoping for something that did not come to fruition. As happens in many of our relationships, I felt that our national church had let me down, had let us, its members in its many congregations, down. In a moment to show her maturity, to step out in faith and do something bold and prophetic, I was disappointed. That happens sometimes in all of our relationships. Shortly thereafter, I wrote this poem/letter:


To my church,

whom I love.

I am angry.

I am angry that we prioritize politics

over our relationships with each other.

I am angry that members of our community

threaten to leave when their

demands aren't met

the temper tantrum of a petulant child.


I am frustrated.

I am frustrated that hours upon hours

years upon years of work

done by so many different people

can be so quickly dismissed by those

newly educated on the subject

by those scared of change

or spending a little money.


I am disappointed.

I am disappointed that we

as a church

missed a chance to speak

the prophetic voice in our world

we could have no longer been a thermometer reflecting society

but the thermostat dictating change

I am disappointed that in efforts

to appease the loudest

we have allowed the silent to stay ignored.


I am sad. I am sad for our divisions.

I grieve for schisms rendered

and relationships broken.

I am sad we remain stuck

in neutral

able to go neither forward nor back.


But I have hope.

I have hope for the conversations I have seen

the dissimilar theologies and worldviews

committing to developing relationships

mending rifts


I have hope for the young voices I heard

voices that demand our ears

and our respect

not simply because they are young

but because they hold the 

passion

love

and commitment to reconciliation

that will guide this church forward.


And I have faith.

Even at my lowest points

when I doubted God's presence in our midst

when I questioned the motives of voting members

even as the dreams and visions I held for this week

dissolved as chalk on sidewalk in the rain

I have faith.

For while I lament

timing

urgency

immediacy

I know it is not our will, but God’s will be done

and while we may not know where that takes us

my dear church

it's exactly where we need to be.


Even in

my anger

my frustration

my disappointment

and my sadness

my dear PCUSA,

I love you.

-Luke, 2012

I can admit it, I was carrying some personal baggage into General Assembly this summer. As I signed up to testify before the Middle East Committee on what I’d seen in Israel and Palestine this January, I was already cynical. At the last GA, we had worked hard, poured our hearts into our work, and seen it fail in the midst of politicking and threats. What difference would my words make? What difference would my work make?

Even when overtures passed in committee that I held dear to my heart, good things, great things, I kept my hopes at bay. This had happened last time, too, only for decisions to be reversed at plenary. I didn't want to be disappointed again.


But this time, my beloved PCUSA, our beloved PCUSA, came through. The Presbyterian Church, into which I was baptized while infant and in which I will someday die, has made me so, so proud. We stepped out on same-sex marriage, giving pastors the discretion to choose whether to perform marriages for same-sex couples in states where it is legal. We overcame fear and threats and chose to divest from three American companies involved in non-peaceful pursuits in Israel and Palestine. We passed an interfaith stance that allows local congregations to reach out to multi-faith partners around them. Some of these were tough, contentious issues. Many results brought polarizing joy and pain to various parties.


My pride, my joy in the events at General Assembly may not mirror everyone’s response. Even as the results were counted and displayed in plenary sessions, bringing laughter, joy, tears, and shock, I was thinking of our own church family. I knew not everyone would share my joy in these developments, and I grieved for the loss of trust or comfort that this news might bring. The results of this General Assembly may be shocking, may be painful. As is often the case with difficult moments of discernment, stepping out in faith can lead to uncertainty. Congregants may question the denomination or our place in it. Can we be a part of something with which we might disagree?


The final sermon at General Assembly talked about the role of wilderness in our faith. The ancient Israelites wandered in the wilderness, John is a wild man in the wilderness, Jesus is tempted in the wilderness. The wilderness plays a key role in each of our individual faith journeys and in our journey as a church. Those moments where we are uncomfortable, scared, and worried? They come right before moments of incredible faith and spiritual formation. The ancient Israelites are delivered, John prepares the way of the Lord, and Jesus refuses to give in to temptation. Perhaps we also are entering a wilderness where we feel uncomfortable, scared, and worried. Perhaps new opportunities and spiritual growth are ahead.


I know from a lifetime of experience in this church family that we know how to have difficult conversations. While growing up in this church I was lucky enough to have modeled in front of me differing opinions given with respect, differing theologies heard with an interest in genuine understanding, and differing pragmatisms embodied in joy together. Simply put, I have seen in this church that while we don’t always agree, we do always love each other. We do always seek to understand each other. We commit to each other to be family, to be church, in the midst of those differences. Our journey as a church continues, always together. Praise God.

-Luke Rembold, General Assembly Volunteer, 2012, 2014

Thank God for teachers

I don't know
as students
that you are ever fully aware of
just
how
much
your teachers care
about you

that long after you are gone
they strive to keep track
of what you are up to
genuinely invested in each of your
successes and failures
it is like playing a game
without realizing you have
cheerleaders on the sidelines
fans in the stands
it is easy, sometimes
to think that you are alone
but it is never true.

I don't know as students
that you are ever fully aware of
just
how
much
your teachers care about you

until 9 years after your final class with them
13 years after the first one
they get tears in their eyes
talking about what it is like
to watch students grow
and how hard it is
to watch them graduate and go
out  into the world
never knowing if you'll see them again

that is when you know
that is when I knew
just how much those teachers care.

Those glistening, teary eyes,
laid that soul bare.

The Grand Canyon

Red rocks ringed

with ridges

of white

bright spots

in the dull grey of desert

layers

levels

long for the horizon

reaching for that

last lost expanse

of uninterrupted

sky.

See the colorado bend

twist and turn

as it yearns for

its everlasting home

in the gulf

the canyon it has created

like a symphony

individual notes together

a melody

the years of effort

of a small river

to create something

ineffable.

They told me once

as they were remodeling the church sanctuary

that places of worship

contained vertical lines and patterns

arrows pointing to God

yet as I look out on the

Grand Canyon

with its strata and layers

as horizontal as can be

I feel more grounded

and connected to the earth itself

Like God sent me a message to

be still

here

And I hear Rumi in my head

almost mocking me

“Lo, I am with you always

means when you look for God,

God is in the look of your eyes

in the thought of looking

nearer to you than your self

or things that have happened to you.

There's no need to go outside.”

There's 3 kids on the side of the road to Jericho...

We'd come to the Dead Sea in a cab, paying 60 shekels to get there from Vered Jericho, after paying 400 shekels in cash that morning to our hostess at the hostel (since she preferred that to the credit card). We'd also received a business card from her that she said would get us into Kalia beach at 50% off, which ended up not working, so we payed 54 shekels each for access to the Dead Sea beach. In the span of 3 hours, we'd spent 612 shekels of our cash. And, we found out that the national bus system wasn't running that day, as it was Saturday, the shabbat. Without an atm in Kalia, or a moneychanger to turn our American dollars into shekels, we were sitting in Kalia without money to get to Jerusalem. We had just enough to get to Jericho, where we could visit an atm or moneychanger to get more shekels, then grab a cab into Jerusalem, but at a much greater cost. After we'd swam and laid in the sun for a while, we decided that the stress of figuring out our next move dictated that we go up to the front desk and inquire about taxis.

          We were sitting at a table in the restaurant/bar area, thinking and talking about our options, as we watched a bus full of tourists arrive. Emily listened to some of their conversations and picked up that she thought at least a few of them speaking with Spanish accents from either Mexico or somewhere else in Central America. She then struck up a conversation with a couple of Episcopalian priests from Spain, telling them our situation, until their tour guide approached her and told her that they could not help us. We resigned ourselves to our Jericho plan, trying to laugh at our failures and lack of planning to get over the fact that we'd be spending considerably more money due to our lack of foresight. As Emily talked to a worker in the Dead Sea salts and lotions factory, the worker hailed the same tour guide and said, “Can't you help these kids?” The tour guide replied, “Ok, I'll check with my boss, and see if it's ok.”

So after waiting around for a bit while the group finished their time at the Dead Sea, we found ourselves loading our bags under the bus (the bus driver said, “This is not my group!”) and stepping on board a bus full of pilgrims, mostly from Spain, but with 1 or two from Mexico and Columbia. We boarded first, and were quickly greeted with many quizzical looks from pilgrims we hadn't gotten a chance to talk to before, along with some cheers and excitement from some of those who were hoping they would help us out.

In the words of the head tour guide (who greeted us jovially with great excitement) “There is no better way to talk about the parable of the Good Samaritan (which happened on the road to Jericho) than to act it out.” And we indeed felt that hospitality, as we were serenaded with Spanish hymns and readings from the Bible as we drove from Kalia to Abu Gris (or Bethany, where Lazarus, Martha, and Mary lived), and then on into Jerusalem. We rode along with our new friends and shared their joy as they looked out on Jerusalem the first time.

          As they learned their parable through acting it out, we experienced a miracle through their generosity and hospitality. I have rarely felt so reliant on other people as I did as we sat on their bus, listening as the landscape was described in their language. At one point one of the Episcopalian priests Emily had first talked to came up during a song and showed me they were singing Psalm 121 in Spanish, encouraging me to sing along with the words in front of me. I felt so incredibly lucky to be invited to share. It was one of those few moments for me that the Holy Land felt holy and sacred.

We're often told to put ourselves in the Bible stories, to insert our name, to make it real. How much more meaningful it is when we  have opportunity to truly live them out. 

New Perspectives on the Way to Jericho

The other day, in order to get from Jerusalem in Jericho, Emily, Megan, and I had a cab called from the hotel we were staying. Because it was Friday, we were having some trouble finding a cab, but the hotel receptionist found us someone who would drive us (and it appeared worked at least some as a cabbie, even if his car was not a cab). So we climbed into his nondescript 1990-something toyota corolla and headed for Jericho.

Our driver knew little English, and spent most of the first 15 minutes of the drive alternating between phone calls on the two cell phones he had (one personal, I think, and the other work related). But as the drive continued, I was shocked by what I experienced as his passenger.

For one, our driver was nervous and possibly a bit scared. Every time we passed by a police officer on the side of the road, or came near the entrance to a settlement, he visibly tensed and slowed down to well under the speed limit. At one point, as we passed a traffic camera, he pointed over at it and mimicked a camera's shutter sound, letting me know why he had slowed down so much. I tried to ask if he was worried about the speed limit or something else, but the language barrier prevented much of a conversation.

When we reached Vered Jericho (yes, a settlement, which we unfortunately didn't know when we booked the hostel) he pulled up to the gate as an armed guard came out to the car. Our driver quickly started explaining the situation as best he could, and even called our hostel owner on the phone (which he passed to the guard) to shed some light on the situation. The guard took our driver's ID (which I assumed to be Jerusalemite) and examined it thoroughly before handing it back. When he looked over at me in the passenger seat, he said, “United States?” When I said “Yes,” he said, “California?” I've gotten a lot of folks assuming I'm from California when I tell them I'm from the United States (apparently I fit the beach bum vibe), so I laughed, and said, “No, but close.” Instead of waiting for me to even provide my passport as he'd asked, he laughed and after a bit more conversation with our driver, opened up the gate and let us through.

Finally, when our driver pulled up at the hostel, he had to stay and wait for the hostel owner to provide proof that he had in fact brought us to the hostel. After receiving a couple business cards to show to the armed guard, our cabbie left us to return to Jerusalem.

The whole experience made my skin crawl. When we'd booked the hostel, we didn't know it was on a settlement. After we found out, we'd decided that we'd stay one night there, cancel the second night, and make a new plan, but we also were curious as to what it might be like to stay in a hostel on a settlement. The way our driver was fearful on the road, the way he was treated with suspicion at the settlement gate in a position we put him in...it wasn't right. And our treatment as Americans, given more freedom in our cab driver's country than he was--it makes you wonder what kind of democracy this really is.

Understanding the Beatitudes

I have never much cared for the Beatitudes of Matthew, specifically that first one: "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." What does that even mean? I far prefer the pragmatic, action-based physical reality of Luke, "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God." Blessed are the poor. Jesus is turning the world upside down. It makes perfect sense to a middle-class white straight aspiring peace and social justice activist.

But poor in spirit? This is much harder to define. It requires more latitude in qualification, more grace in its breadth. It's a lot harder to judge who is "poor in spirit."

But today, as I thought on many of the historical events that led to the state of modern-day Israel and Palestine, I was struck by one of the phrases I saw written on the separation wall yesterday.

"One wall, two jails."

For one of these oppressed people, that jail is that of poverty, of inequality, of injustice, and of occupation. It's easy. "Blessed are the poor."

The other people are oppressed by fear. They have been hurt. They have been killed in horrific ways that make your heart break. They are a people who have felt the terror of occupation. But now they live in a jail of fear. They've locked themselves in without a way to get out. "Blessed are the poor in spirit."

We often see the world how we choose to see it, so I've been able to ignore Matthew's Beatitudes in order to see my own beliefs and justifications become the lens through which I see the world. Today, my eyes were opened to a different understanding.

Let us pray to the God that breaks down barriers that we might be freed from each of our prisons.

David and Goliath

The young boy stood in the center of the road, his slingshot in his hand. Above him loomed the giant, a power that had defeated the boy's fathers and grandfathers. Everyone else fell back behind the boy, fearful and scared to draw too close to the giant. Yet the boy stood his ground, calling out and jeering at his enemy.

Sound familiar?

David and Goliath, anyone? 

I was struck by the role reversal. The funny thing is, it is modern day Palestinians that are referred to as Philistines in the David and Goliath story of the Old Testament. And today, while in the Aida Refugee camp outside Bethlehem, I watched from a roof as a young Palestinian boy played with a sling, aiming at telephone poles and streetlights, yelling out loud as he released stones at his targets. His actions gained the attention of the watchtower at the nearby security wall, and we watched as the gate was rolled open and an armored jeep began to roll out. The boy's friends gained courage, still yelling and jeering at the Israeli Defense Force manning the jeep.

Our group was quickly herded to the bus, as our hosts were worried about our safety.

I worry for that boy. For Palestinians in occupied territories, resistance is life, and I applaud that young boy's courage. Yet that boy will likely live his entire life in that refugee camp with no opportunity to leave, and in that situation, that frustration could turn into hatred. His heart could turn hard. How can he still have hope?

And what of those 19 and 20 year old young men and women of the Israeli Defense Force that are supposed to patrol that security wall and control the children? What about their hearts as they are charged with orders they may or may not want to carry out? How much of their fear turns into posturing with their guns and armored vehicles? What is happening to their hearts and their humanity?

The Old Testament David and Goliath had a clear winner. The modern-day story I saw today does not.  

The Sea of Galilee

There is something about a body of water

that remains unchanged

steady

consistent

ever-present

buildings, cathedrals

come and go

yet the sea remains the same

waves rolling in

over my toes

chilly and cold

I can dig my feet in

to the sand and shells

feeling the grit of the land.

Look out on the water

picture the storm

clouds overhead

wind whistling past your ears

and the world spins and your heart worries

and you are reprimanded

“Ye of little faith! Why are you scared?”

And then

“Peace, be still.”

And then, steady as the waves,

peace rolls in.  

I Awake in Fear

This is not my story, and I cannot speak FOR those who share this experience. But I do want to create an opportunity to learn their story and advocate on their behalf.

It IS real.

I awake in fear.

Each morning, every morning

I wake up

with that dull kind of chill

that reminds me that even in my sleep,

I am afraid.

I awake in fear

at the sound of voices outside

at the notion that they may be

accompanied by the fiery

engine roar of a dozer or tractor

I awake in fear

that they've finally come.

I am scared for my children

for their safety

for their future

I am scared

for how I might respond to their danger.

The stress, the worry
it tears me down
tears me apart
that short stop in my heartbeat
every time I hear the steps of boots
coming down the street.

I awake in fear

and while it has been

days, months, years

since I got the notice

I cannot let the fear go.

(There are thousands of Palestinian homes scheduled for demolition by the Israeli government. They never know when or if government workers or the military will show up at their home and forcibly evict them and charge them fines for their own eviction...) Read more at http://www.icahd.org/

Raise the Wall

How do you raise a wall?
How do you raise that security blanket
pulled up right under your chin
so you can sleep better at night?

How do you raise a policy that
safety is the top priority?
How do you raise that fear,
that idea that you need to be protected?

How do you raise a wall
that separates
the haves from the have-nots
the powerful from the powerless
the oppressor from the oppressed?

How do you raise an idea?
How do you raise the notion
that humanity is not created equally?
That in order to have and be let be
you must look and sound like me?

How can you raise that wall
of apartheid and power?
How can you raise a barrier
that prevents conversations
that limits opportunities?

How can we raze the wall?

my eyes were hungry

My eyes were hungry
as they searched the dark skies
and countrysides
with the innocent joy
and eagerness
of a pilgrim
new in the holy land

my eyes were hungry
sharing the low groans and growls
of my churning stomach
searching for food
both body and soul

my eyes were hungry
for vision.

what's out there in the darkness?

what's out there beyond the realm of my knowledge

or even my imagination
that I have yet to learn?

my eyes grow ravenous
as they desperately seek
hope hidden in the hills.