Not saying that's a bad thing, I'm just saying ... I picked stones out of the dish on a friend's table tonight and started examining them closely. I decided that I would look for symbols and read them, which makes me think of Lyra and the alethiometer, except I sort of felt like I was reading my past and not what's to come. Then, the symbols became difficult to interpret, meaning couched in subterfuge. Here is what I thought I saw and how I chose to interpret it ...
An hourglass (Tm) - seagulls (a voyage ... overseas) [...] a beach (land)
something small giving way to something much bigger (into the unknown?) -
caught between 2 spheres of existence (somehow familiar, oh yes) -/-
follow the horizon ...
a period of darkness (doubt and despair?)
* an opening *
a head with mane of fire (enlightenment, realization)
- a bear & an arrow's head -
And I stopped there. It's good to know how to keep your mind busy, even if it doesn't seem to have an obvious purpose. Thinking for thinking's sake can be a good thing. Maybe?
But sleep is also important.
Mmmmmm, sleep ...
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
wide as the earth, deep as the sea
Wide as the earth, deep as the sea ...
To the girl I saw crying, do you remember me? Late December ... you descended on your porch steps, a blanket around your shoulders, a sob in your throat. I turned where I stood, several paces ahead and across the street, in response to a sound of movement, a front door opening. Your sadness reached into my chest and grabbed hold of my heart, tugged at my gut, tapped into a primary place inside of me.
[a bit of an aside ...] It is moments such as this that define us, make us who we are in relation to others and the world that surrounds us. When we have a choice to make a fundamental decision that says something about the kind of people we want to be and are. On the one hand, we can choose to turn away from someone's suffering, out of indifference (which I hold to be one of the greatest threats to the survival of humanity), self-interest (I don't want to get involved), rationalization (someone else will take care of it), fear (for many reasons, including 'feeling uncomfortable'), malice or other. OR we can choose to move, to interact, to respond with compassion. It is the second of these two choices that drives me, at my very core. It is something I hold to be sacred, a way of being that gives my life its meaning, a reason to be, to exist. And so ...
I found myself standing there, temporarily immobilized by emotions (yours and mine) and an awkwardness (wondering if I was intruding on your grief, not knowing what to do, etc.). Someone, a friend or a flatmate, opened the door and I thought perhaps that she might sit with you and provide you with the comfort I believed you deserved and needed. But she didn't come out, just stood for a moment as if paralysed by indecision and/or an awkwardness not unlike the one I felt. I watched her retreat back into the house and found myself thinking "I can't just keep going, walk away from this person in pain." As I approached your house, you looked up. The sobs that shook your small frame, and rent the stillness of a deserted street in the earliest hours of the morning, ceased. The awkwardness I had felt was, for the most part, gone. It felt right, coming over to you. I said "I don't know you, but you looked like you could use a hug." The thanks you spoke were mirrored in you eyes as you opened your arms and accepted my embrace. You shared the reason for your distress with me and I empathized, spoke words of encouragement: "I've been there, trust me, you'll get through this. It won't always feel this way. You're strong." You said you knew, that it would eventually go away, but that you wished it didn't feel this way right now. I nodded, understanding exactly what you meant. However brief and temporary, our interaction seemed to alleviate your pain, which was what I had set out to do. We had shared, what I hoped you also felt was, a profound moment. As I turned to leave, I felt the need to leave you with words that might help lift your sadness. I said "you're beautiful." You thanked me and perhaps said "I love you." I don't quite remember. What has stayed with me is the feeling of a fairly simple but basic connection between us. You moved me and I responded with kindness and compassion, moving you.
Thank you for sharing this moment with me.
To the girl I saw crying, do you remember me? Late December ... you descended on your porch steps, a blanket around your shoulders, a sob in your throat. I turned where I stood, several paces ahead and across the street, in response to a sound of movement, a front door opening. Your sadness reached into my chest and grabbed hold of my heart, tugged at my gut, tapped into a primary place inside of me.
[a bit of an aside ...] It is moments such as this that define us, make us who we are in relation to others and the world that surrounds us. When we have a choice to make a fundamental decision that says something about the kind of people we want to be and are. On the one hand, we can choose to turn away from someone's suffering, out of indifference (which I hold to be one of the greatest threats to the survival of humanity), self-interest (I don't want to get involved), rationalization (someone else will take care of it), fear (for many reasons, including 'feeling uncomfortable'), malice or other. OR we can choose to move, to interact, to respond with compassion. It is the second of these two choices that drives me, at my very core. It is something I hold to be sacred, a way of being that gives my life its meaning, a reason to be, to exist. And so ...
I found myself standing there, temporarily immobilized by emotions (yours and mine) and an awkwardness (wondering if I was intruding on your grief, not knowing what to do, etc.). Someone, a friend or a flatmate, opened the door and I thought perhaps that she might sit with you and provide you with the comfort I believed you deserved and needed. But she didn't come out, just stood for a moment as if paralysed by indecision and/or an awkwardness not unlike the one I felt. I watched her retreat back into the house and found myself thinking "I can't just keep going, walk away from this person in pain." As I approached your house, you looked up. The sobs that shook your small frame, and rent the stillness of a deserted street in the earliest hours of the morning, ceased. The awkwardness I had felt was, for the most part, gone. It felt right, coming over to you. I said "I don't know you, but you looked like you could use a hug." The thanks you spoke were mirrored in you eyes as you opened your arms and accepted my embrace. You shared the reason for your distress with me and I empathized, spoke words of encouragement: "I've been there, trust me, you'll get through this. It won't always feel this way. You're strong." You said you knew, that it would eventually go away, but that you wished it didn't feel this way right now. I nodded, understanding exactly what you meant. However brief and temporary, our interaction seemed to alleviate your pain, which was what I had set out to do. We had shared, what I hoped you also felt was, a profound moment. As I turned to leave, I felt the need to leave you with words that might help lift your sadness. I said "you're beautiful." You thanked me and perhaps said "I love you." I don't quite remember. What has stayed with me is the feeling of a fairly simple but basic connection between us. You moved me and I responded with kindness and compassion, moving you.
Thank you for sharing this moment with me.
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