23 November 2010

My Letter to the World, Part 1

Picture from here. Go Green.
I want to heal you. I want to fix what’s broken. I want to swallow all of your pain and make it my own, so that by taking it into myself, the strength of my heart can beat it away, beat it into submission. All of your suffering, your ignorance, your fear and your hate, I want to make them disappear. I want to stop up the holes in your soul and purge the wretched disease. I want to change you, one heartbeat at a time. I can do this; you just have to let me. That’s the crux. It’s up to you.

I know the meaning of life the way that every poet knows. We put pen to paper and spill our secrets in ink. We search and we bleed and we cry. We rail against the heavens, shouting at our gods to listen to our petty problems. Bring us money. Bring us fame. Bring us love. We huddle together by newspaper fires, and we sweat in the unforgiving sun. We work for everything we have, and yet still we ask for what is, and what is not, our due. Who is the final arbiter? It does not matter. What counts is the present; this life, this time, this season, this day, this heart.

I know the meaning of life the way an infant knows to breathe. There really isn’t much to it, just a rhythm. In. Out. It requires no thought to execute the pattern. It’s all in the brainstem, in the subconscious, the secret of living and dying so simply locked in nuanced synapse-firings. The cells spark, and the magic of life is a chemical reaction telling you to breathe. In. Out. Live a little, die a little.

I know the meaning of life the way every mother knows. I have a million children, and though not one of them is of my blood nor sprung forth from my flesh, all share my soul. We learn to nurture, to nourish, to watch things and places and people grow up and look like us and speak with our words, and yet every sentence is different. Their thoughts are new, new ideas giving birth to new actions. Their hearts beat pure and strong, filling the world with the song of truth. Sometimes it hurts to let go. The Goddess calls all back to her hearth in time; each of her children eventually returns home.

I want to heal you. I see all of your problems. I see your hunger, your thirst, your illness, your ignorance. I see your burned out wastelands and struggling ecosystems. I see your violence, your infected wounds, your abandoned children. I see your unwritten stories, too full of pain to publish, too burning bright to remain contained for long.

I know the meaning of life the way an artist knows to see. It’s all beautiful, it’s all worth something in the end. Come, take my hand. Let me heal you. After all, it’s all about Love. Trust me.

Blessed be,

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