Apparently, it’s illegal to pick up stranded feathers, 

because it looks like a person could have plucked it from a bird, especially if it’s a beautiful one. 

As my struggles change and deepen, the methods by which I feel safe have changed….

Feathers are a gift in the midst of chaos, a sign of light in a world of darkness. 

They aren’t just randomly strewn around on the ground, they are always gently placed before my feet on my way to wherever.

My path often looks cloudy and grey, the lines of the road blur and begin to darken. 

When my feet are about to slip through the cracked walkway, a single feather lays before me and 

quickly rebuilds my path, lighting it up with brilliant lights and hands to guide me forward. 

My path may be indoors or out. Regardless, a feather presents itself whenever needed. 

Borders do not restrict it and locations never matter. 

When I sink, the feather comes to help me float.

My love of feathers came from another. 

A sister once told a story about the hug a feather provided for her. 

God would shower hugs in the worst of storms. 

As the story of the hug was passed from sister to sister, I too decided to embrace the love of feathers. 

Their delicate nature in a harsh harsh world. 

A lot of people think that I either make up my feather stories or I must not be observant enough to 

notice that I’m about to step on a feather. 

I know neither are true. 

I am most definitely aware of my surroundings. 

I learn and find strength from what I see and experience. 

Being aware is a blessing, appreciating that awareness is even better. 

I always look up at the sky and down on the ground. 

I’ve walked down empty streets and found hope lying before me 

in a place where no hope existed before.