There is a man named Pedro Reyes who has tried to use art to address violence. He collects guns, and uses them to create both musical instruments and shovels with which to plant trees. 

Reyes is bone weary of the killing. One of the most dangerous cities in Mexico is Culiacan, which is notorious for drug trafficking. He chose that town to ask for donated guns, and was given 1,527. They were melted down, steam rolled and repurposed into as many shovels which in turn were used to dig holes for 1,527 trees. 

I bet it created a beautiful forest. The trusting sounds of birds, and the sigh of gusty wind in the leaves would be a welcome replacement for the ripping blast of bullets. 

There has been violence in my own small town and last spring there was an event aimed at healing. It included the reverent planting of a young oak tree, with some of the diggers being children who lost someone. She overlooks an enclave that turns red in October, and white in winter. I stood beneath her branches this week, and thanked her for gifting us with hope. 

People who live in close proximity have an opportunity to wound each other. They understand the points of vulnerability and know what would hurt most. But in relationships we are beckoned to reform the arsenal of criticism and blame into tools that help each other to take root and grow. 

Neither John nor I own a gun. That makes us two of the eleven people out of a hundred who do not.  None of our kids do either which accounts for the other nine. But we did compose a song about the miracle that happens when we lay our weapons down.