March 29 Musings

“doubt thou the stars are fire
doubt that the sun doth move
doubt truth to be a liar
but never doubt I love”

William shakespeare

We are so flawed. We have no hope of attaining any level of perfection. We hurt each other, intentionally and unintentionally, we “sin”, we are “bad” and still, somehow, there is a part of us that cannot be undone by all of pain we cause and endure. There is a part of our souls that is not unravelled by the imperfect vessels that we are. We are so flawed and still, we try so hard. We seek the light no matter how far away we’ve fallen from it. We seek to give it to others no matter how angry or afraid we’ve become. No matter how burned, or burdened we are there is a part of us that is untouched by our darkness, however small that part seems at times. That coexists with darkness but is never eclipsed by it. We start out knowing the truth, connected to the magic. And what seems to happen next is that we gradually lose it, over time, over life, heartbreak, betrayal, loss. But when you really look at us, while we seem to be drifting farther away from the light, those same actions, the same tragedies that drown us, are simultaneously drawing us back toward that light. The path is infinitely intertwined, or maybe simply circular. There’s no doubt that the outer layer of our world is shrouded in pain, in violence, in war, in tragedy. I get so sad, because that layer is so immediate, so visceral. Sometimes its all I can see. But beneath that there is something else. Something that can often only be reached by a violent cracking open of that superficial but thick layer. Unexpected. Not manufactured. Something no amount of caused or received suffering can tarnish. The existence of a light that, when put into action, is love. The least expected driving force in a world that is chaotic, a world where law is a disguise for anarchy. Thats why I love stories so much. Since the beginning , we have used stories to help us understand—or just catch a momentary glimpse of— who we really are. If we are telling the truth about ourselves, we are broken, bruised, battered, angry, hateful—we retaliate, we are vengeful, the ones we tear apart are usually the ones trying to put us us back together. And still, we strive for goodness, in whatever capacity we are able. However clumsily we go about it, our desire to love and be loved is irresistible. How can that not be a miracle?

Mary Somers

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