I first saw this rebligged on Laura Bruno’s blog.
To those who would call me strange, I say that I would rather be your kind of strange than mine because, to me, strange is denying the truth of our nature.
To me, strange is ignoring the pull of the moon’s tides in our veins simply because we can’t yet measure its influence.
Strange is pretending that our bones aren’t made of the same dust that’s beneath our feet, or that our bodies aren’t filled with the same water that crashes in waves on the shores.
To me, strange would be to deny kinship with the animals, even though we’re born of the same union between the earth and the sky.
What I consider strange is clinging to one identity, like a summer that refuses to concede to the coming autumn. And stranger still is to reject our responsibility to one another, like a maple tree denying the birds and…
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