By Lisa Huddleston

A place for everything; everything in its place. 
Right wrong. 
Black white. 
True false. 
All neatly filed away.

But tornados come. Hormonal, chemical, literal winds of time whip apart the categories that give order to my life and then chaos reigns. 
Organized religion, educational theory, liberal conservatism and vice versa. 
Illicit or elicit? 

I feel the sucking pull, and it really does sound like a train. But there is no safe place to go to hide my brain from the storm, and I know my thoughts, my files of self, will soon be flung to neighboring farms and driven into hardwood trunks of trees to hold the fragments of who I thought I was.
Lord. Jesus. Christ. Have. Mercy. On. Me.
A mantra. 
An OM. 
A chanting lullaby to calm the wind. 
"Peace! Be still."

But I will never straighten this mess again, and I am doomed to uncertainty. Of this am I sure?
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, dirt that I am. 
Naked I came and naked I will leave with miles to go before I sleep.