Jackie Morris's Letter

Dear future generations,

In these times it is so hard to hold to a positive vision of a future for humans. And still I try. If it is true that images were created to celebrate the sacred, but writing was invented to account for wealth, then using writing to tell stories to subvert those who would, through their greed, their avarice, bring us to an edge of destruction and despair seems like an act of sabotage and subversion. I paint, to celebrate the sacred. I write because humans are hard wired to learn through stories. I write and paint with a hopeful heart. Perhaps all art is ritual. For now, this is my letter to the future:

In her hand she holds an egg.
So small, fragile,
its weight belies its size.
Past, present, future,
the palm of a hand.

Past is filled with mistakes.
Present is filled with fear.
Future needs to be hope.

To the past she simply says, ‘sorry’.
To the present she says, ‘courage’.
To the future she says, ‘?’

She can speak only for herself
and she knows these days
she finds more wisdom in
the movement and language of birds,
more comfort in the shade of trees,
more beauty in the shape of clouds.

And she knows her part in how
humanity has taken the
beautiful canvas of the planet
and scarred and scoured and scorched
with concrete and asphalt,
in mining and quarry,
blighting dark skies with light,
poisoning rivers,
destroying life,
and it does not sit well on her soul.

She looks at the egg
nested in the open palm,
feels the weight,
seeks the answer.
Future, present, past,
held always in balance,
finding answers in
the language of birds,
the wisdom of trees,
the flow of oceans,
the journeys of whales,
the shape of clouds,
the cycles of moon,
the pathways of stars,
the changing of seasons,
the colours of moths,
the movement of butterflies,
the dance of the cranes,
the tenderness of elephants,
the charm of finches,
the mystery of birth,
the beauty of death,
the woven web of connection,
of every living thing.

In her hand she holds an egg.

© Jackie Morris 2022