To the dearest and farthest,
To all who are similar and all who are different,
I plea with you to come together.
Even just once, if only for a moment.
The things that can bring humans together in some type of union.
It may be something as insignificant as having the same material possession,
Or something as meaningful as a birth or death of a beloved one.
‘Tis very sad though,
How such togetherness can be taken for granted.
As I stride down the busy, lively city streets;
Surrounded by many fellow men and women.
Some in groups, some in pairs,
And some much like myself;
To themselves and possibly not by choice.
It’s not that we necessarily seek some sort of sympathy,
Charity especially is not needed.
For company of another is a privilege,
At least that’s my belief.
But as I walk these streets,
Both familiar and strange,
And the breeze brushes my arms & legs;
I’m reminded of the intimacy in loneliness.
And as I look into the eyes of another nomadic soul,
Another beloved one who’s maybe lost a bit more control;
I try to help them know,
They are seen.
Their presence is important,
Even if their circumstances lead them to believe this is false.
Even if the demons that have made home in their mind and soul,
And their addiction yells about just how little control they have;
They are still important,
And oh so significant.
Able to change as much as they want,
When they want;
They will need help,
And they probably don’t know how to ask for it.
I don’t either so,
We have yet another commonality.
I’m helpless in being able to ask for help,
But it’s not only my reality.
I unfortunately see it in too many people,
Wandering souls carving out homes in holes they find.
Life and Death,
Two incredibilities that we obsess over knowing oh so little about them.
At least, usually, beyond our own finite perspective.
I would continue,
For my emotions spur me on;
But my mind knows,
That the ineffable has come.
Partly inspired by an NPR broadcast about a book entitled “Letters of Note”, particularly the reading of a letter written by a couple Margaret & Hugh Connell(spelling may be wrong) to the Ciulla family. They found the father of the Ciulla family(the letter was read by his son, Frank) in the field of their farm after the plane he was originally flying home for Christmas on, was bombed.
If you have a bit of time to take a listen of this beautiful letter, please do.-http://www.npr.org/2014/10/17/357004557/out-of-the-lockerbie-bombing-a-bond-and-a-letter-of-note