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It seems as late, I am compelled to writing stories. Maybe it’s the look in my daddy’s eyes when he’s telling me something I didn’t know already, or maybe I’m coming to understand that it’s something I do well, and that poetry need not be lost in the process.
I’ve discovered is that I don’t need to create an imaginary world to write. I have the world already, and stories that I’ve often worried to – that they would disappear completely if someone (if I) didn’t write them down.
You see, I love the story. I want to know the why of everything. I refuse to chalk off violence or ignorance as just poor breeding or insufficient laws. It’s impossible to ever truly understand, to truly know compassion if you don’t know the story of how someone (anyone) got to the place they are, how they come to a crossroads where the choices were so blurry (and perhaps so few). I want to know because every story is in some part my own.
Do I know you?
I watch the news and hear the latest details of a killing, a beating, a thoughtless remark…….and know there’s more to the story – a betrayal, a loss, an act that seems beyond reach of forgiveness. And yet, as a rule, society cares not much for the why; with most attention focused on who – who can we blame? Maybe if we spent a little more time understanding, there would be less that needed fixing. If our sympathies extended beyond others just like ourselves, then maybe we could become part of something more than a temporary distraction – a moment of outrage.
A moment beyond the moment in which we’ve forgotten.
I will listen.
Instead, reporters tell us the same thing over and over (we must have someone to blame). We hurt for the victims of senseless violence, and yet cannot see that we are all victims. Most perpetrators have family, people who love them, people who will struggle with survival in the world of ‘after’. Do we grieve for them, or are we much more selective with our compassion, identifying only with the survivors we recognize? Do we grieve for the soul that was so lost as to think this was really an answer?
Who let go?
It makes us angry, when it should make us sad. “Every man’s death diminishes me.” Every story becomes a part of my own, every sorrow, a memory mine.
which way
the beginning –
was a moment in time
when love
found a way
through the dark
forsaken the promise
would take them to home
and a light
on the porch
burning still
walking and wearing
boots into dust
the wringing of wrinkled
these hands
are emptied by losing
each innocence come –
by way of the path
we’ve forgotten
to watch
. . .
We all should be more compassionate and understanding of the people and the world around us, and, just maybe, some of the someones out there would be compassionate and understanding to us. Loved your thoughts here, Bobbie… xo
Me
We certainly should, Paul. We view the ideal through our own eyes such that we become the rule for normal. Surely it would be easier to only love those who are the same as us……..but the truth is, everyone is different and we all deserve love, unique to us and to our own burdens. Thank you. Love ever, Bobbie
We are all one, connected. If think and feel without blame or recriminations, then love has room to float up and with that compassion and care. Perfectly posied post Bobbie. ❤ for you, always. xXx
Indeed, dear Jane. I had lunch with a friend yesterday who commented that she found herself crying more as of late, and felt it was somehow related to getting older. I commented that is more likely that her heart is filling up with no where to go but through her eyes….. Let us always stretch the limits of our heart, such that love is made new and more every day. Always for you <3,