When I witness your existence as you navigate the distance from the origin of purpose to the peak, I am humbled by persistence past the line of least resistance in your resolute pursuit of what you seek.
While invincibly curtailing paralytic fear of failing you are crushing obstacles along the path. Does the mountain you are scaling lead to summit views unveiling the reward for struggle in its aftermath?
Let us climb the hill together as we both escape the tether of conditioning that binds us to our birth, for the thesis isn’t whether we are made of wood or leather but how feathered faith can soar above the earth.
“My daddy changed the world.” Gianna Floyd, at only six, already understands that something monumental has occurred. She joins the ranks of children left to bear the burden of a murderous design infused into the bedrock of our nation.
Four hundred years of history reveal the willful subjugation of a line of people who, despite the barricades, survive in force to raise a mighty roar that shatters all illusion. We must stand in truth to finalize emancipation.
No longer will the platitudes suffice nor “thoughts and prayers” assuage an open wound. The time for reckoning is NOW, the day will soon give way to dusk, the moment lost forever if denial perseveres. The case demands authentic reparation.
Shades of Twenty-Twenty vision lie beneath abandoned cities packed with disregarded lessons of the centuries before. Finally the veil has lifted, there’s a purpose in tomorrow and the memories are fading from the year that brought the war.
Looking forward to commencement, parties, proms, and lazy summer leading into jobs or college, we were only seventeen. Some of us were undecided, some had mapped a certain future in the pattern of their parents. Others saw behind the screen.
Since we entered kindergarten we’d been tested, used, and herded for political agendas on the nation’s shrinking stage so it wasn’t unexpected when democracy imploded in a world already reeling from the chaos of the age.
Virus after virus followed, claiming half the population. News from other countries filtered slowly through the riot zone ’til the power grid was severed. While democracy imploded we were scrabbling for survival. Now we live on wits alone.
Here I stand, the single remnant from a family of seven, flanked by unified companions whose intention can increase coexistence with the planet. Taking only what is needed, with the help of one another we will make a lasting peace.
“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it–always.” ― Mahatma Gandhi
Unanswerable questions plague the minds of all who yearn for justice in the world. Why must the battle rage relentlessly? How can it be we never seem to learn from all the brokenness and suffering humanity inflicts upon itself? Will any of us live to see the day when sanity prevails across the globe?
But earthly eyes are not equipped to view the picture from the timelessness of space. Our singular assignment in this realm of fitful dreams is training to connect with love in all its forms. If Gandhi could experience and witness all he did, yet cling to the belief the universe is ultimately kind, I’ll do no less.
“Somewhere in the cosmos, perhaps, intelligent life may be watching these lights of ours aware of what they mean… or do our lights wander a lifeless cosmos, unseen beacons announcing that here on our rock, the universe discovered its existence?” – Stephen Hawking
The mental giant in a metal chair resided in a multi-layered sphere beyond our grasp, as we who simply stare into the heavens, wondering if here is all there is. He brought the world a gift enfolded in a cryptic paradigm, unwrapped in subtle stages for a shift in scientific thought on space and time.
The message of the multiverse is veiled in gossamer and lace, with calico and pleated velvet drapes that have assailed our curiosity, but this I know: Illusion born of suffering absconds when consciousness is freed from mortal bonds.
With boundless greed invading like charging bulls, creating an atmosphere of hating all up and down the aisle, remember how we started with open hearts unguarded and immigrants rewarded for waiting by the mile.
For all have benefited from hordes that were admitted, like threads securely knitted in variegated style. Our tapestry unravels if loudly pounding gavels prevail. In all your travels, outshout them with a smile.
“Grim care, moroseness, anxiety,—all this rust of life, ought to be scoured off by the oil of mirth. It is better than emery. Every man ought to rub himself with it. A man without mirth is like a wagon without springs, in which one is caused disagreeably to jolt by every pebble over which it runs.”~Henry Ward Beecher
There is much to be said for the value of squeaks in the axles supporting the wagon as an audible cry for attention that speaks on the breath of a petulant dragon.
For unless we can pinpoint the source of the pain that is causing the friction and scour it with abrasive exertion, perpetual strain on the bearing will soon disempower it.
Once the cleansing is finished, a coating of grease is essential to keep the wheels rolling. In the spread of the ointment, they find their release and respond to a gentle cajoling.
Like preventative medicine, flexible springs add a measure of stable protection from the potholes and pebbles and gravity swings that unbalance the cargo’s direction.
So be sure to maintain your conveyance with care when you’re feeling especially rattled, lest the unabsorbed shocks hoist the wagon midair leaving riders completely unsettled.
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