Rejoice for a Reason

I read somewhere that the Pope feels that the holidays this year will be a bit of a charade because the world is at war. He lamented the hypocrisy of celebrating the Prince of Peace at a time when all the world seems so far away from His message.

I was uncomfortable, out of sorts with that message. Should I be ashamed of my celebrations?

Then, the other day, my mother mused aloud that the decorations she was seeing, mostly in hospital lobbies and doctors' waiting rooms (as has been our lot of late) seemed garish, unseemly. She, too, was feeling that a world at war might pause before a bauble made sense. I had to think about that.

If the holidays are decorations, like lipstick on pigs, to distract from the pain of real suffering, they are indeed a charade, and for shame. If we take in our grand meals with no regard for the plights shared in places where there are no tables, no feasts, we are lost for sure.

If, however, these days of rejoice are about messages of hope and provocations for reform - in our thoughts, our words, our deeds - then there is no charade, no loss for vanity.

Just as you do this day with family and friend, every day when you have the opportunity to spend good, do so with abandon. Smile, be kind, return the chatter of the clerk. Catch yourself before you act on the impulse of anger. Remember the reaping comes from the seeds you sow. You cannot solve all the problems, so address those you can well and express yourself with sympathy for those that others tend. Choose wisely, don't dawdle in the muck and vile. See it and know it if you must, then cast that trash aside for what it is. Linger in the goodness you can find, be that goodness for someone else. Hum, hug, be fine.

And on your days of pain know that for all the hurt there is love, and love to spare. Wide and wild there is love, full and breathing love, in gardens and books, high in the sky and in all the miles between us, love. Reach for it, lend it yourself, rejoice for a reason, and know love. Have hope. There is no shame in that. It is, for all, worth celebrating.

Lost The Child (For Max)

The teacher who tries and tries and cries and cries and knows the child won’t round the walls in robes and golds.

The police officer who firmly, then roughly, then regrettably finds that child, tossed in grit and shame.

The policy maker who aspires and runs, ambitious and bright, sure, who is apalled and wronged, and wrong, and fails that child, dirty and torn.

The warmaker, not of his own choosing, who fights and burns and hurts and breaks, true to his word, and comes back, lost the chld.

The blind man, able to see, knowing he has a hand to extend, closes his eyes, keeps his hands in his pockets so he might not get the soot on him from the child, lost and stolen. 

See the mother mistrusting and fierce. 

He tells her she is angry from the comfort of his weakness, shuns the child for his fear.

When she turns, she is not defeated. She is resolved. 

That is the blind man’s legacy.

On Paris, Tyshawn, and Being Angry

My daughter is singing about love, sweet and rich her voice, selling smoke that shouldn’t be there, wisdom she shouldn’t have. The sound lulls and growls and rounds the corners, surprising and seeping into the fabric here. The cool of night is settling in outside, candles burn at our table, all is good. For me, in this moment, all is good. If that were all that mattered then good would be the day and all the days after.

But there in the grey-blue-dark of dusk is a haunting, calm and quiet, calling to me. She is in Paris, in the streets and alleys of my hometown, in the fresh and salted waters that lap against the shores of every worthwhile nation. She slithers into the desert, stows among the stacks and stores of every city street, slick. She is on the radio and in my cottons, brushing against me, on the rails and books. The sand between the stones. 

Still and tall the call to love, to be in and full of all of it, is urgent and constant and I am drawn, so drawn. 

When Fire! Hot! Cold-hot fire burns and beckons, too. Why should you break my reverie? Damn you! I should let this fire burn you burn you and burn you again, to ashes, and then I should set fire upon your ashes for your sins.

And then how would your mother hear your voice? And how would the world know your sweetness? Can’t you speak softly to me and I to you in words our mother would smile about, not because one would be the true and the other not, but because she would feel joy over our brotherhood and the goodness with which we found one another?

I am lost in grief over your pain and the pain you cause. And still that voice resiliant and right calls to love and love again and again. Without it, surely all is lost. 

Go.

Don't go, sweet bean. I don't think I can bear a day without you, or at least the promise of you. I know I should be strong but I'll just have to confess now and for all that my strength is tethered to you, and the further you go the weaker I become.

Please go, sweet pea. Adventure as far and as wide as your sight can take you. Look back only to smile and wave and keep going, breathing that air, high and wild as you should be because this is what you worked for and you so, so deserve it.

Don't go, my baby. I can't keep pretending I'm whole. I was in pieces until you arrived so full and complete and mine that you became my wishes and my wishes became real. Don't take my wishes.

Please go, my angel. For all that you have given your turn has come and now your wishes must be made true, so you can see I never lied, I never wanted anything for you but your own joy.

And go and go and go and seek always to be a happy soul. That is what I did, over rolls and tumbles and times of sleep away from my self until I came here. And here you are. And now you go.

Sad and sweet for me and good for you.

You go.