Not Within

But without

It appears that it has become fashionable to do what some practicioners call “focus on gratitude.” Which is, of course, a universal good. And yet, so often there is something knee-jerk about the reaction, a compulsion that makes the effect smell like Febreze™ sprayed into a filthy room.  Or, at the risk of mixing metaphors, putting a bad paint job on a wreck. Maybe this is because of the well-meaning speaker’s insistence: I have––, I have––, I have–. In the face of any loss or disappointment, this can certainly help. But it is something else entirely to admit to having nothing. And then, from the position of that hopeless wasteland of wrecked person, to meet some other peace.

A Thousand Faces

The distance between action and call.

I can be mother, too! he offered, thinking of cameos and not the tedium of tending. 

But I can weave! He insisted, stomping the last of the grass. 

What about fire? I can make it! But there was no wood. 

A sacrament, then, anything but penance! 

Purification sounded lofty, so long as the means was anything but silence. 

A song! ––His chest swelled to the imaginary chorus. But she had given those already, to deaf ears. 

I will dance you to the moon! But her feet were bruised from carrying his weight. 

He claimed to want a friend, some unifying vision. At last he arrived, the ever-faithful witness to the glory of his own reflection, and its deep pools went on and on.

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