Make the life of as many people you can as happy as you can
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Thursday, February 27, 2014
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Ajar
A mason Jar is so defined
by what things lie within
The glass and lid, forgettable
Filled not, mean less than skin
Though painted, can originate
Though jeweled, can please the eye
But decor'd glass with empty fill
Will not be soon to buy
And so what hope lies for the Jar,
Whose insides have spilled through?
Once butter spread or soap been pumped,
Is his fate emptied too?
But no, for Jars have heavy lids
Still light enough to lift
So unscrew that which keeps things out
And outside, let in-drift
And filled this Jar will become
With sunshine, light of day
And re-secured
the lid will keep
Rain or dark away.
Oh, how I wish to be a Jar
To be filled by whats outside.
But rather, I have sturdy walls
Trapped darkness in, reside.
by what things lie within
The glass and lid, forgettable
Filled not, mean less than skin
Though painted, can originate
Though jeweled, can please the eye
But decor'd glass with empty fill
Will not be soon to buy
And so what hope lies for the Jar,
Whose insides have spilled through?
Once butter spread or soap been pumped,
Is his fate emptied too?
But no, for Jars have heavy lids
Still light enough to lift
So unscrew that which keeps things out
And outside, let in-drift
And filled this Jar will become
With sunshine, light of day
And re-secured
the lid will keep
Oh, how I wish to be a Jar
To be filled by whats outside.
But rather, I have sturdy walls
Trapped darkness in, reside.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Pain: plants and people
This semester I have the privilege of working with a number of professors about the nature of genocide and reconciliation in preparation for a group service trip to Rwanda. Today, one such professor shared with us what he knew.
He spoke of the mindset. Of being misinformed and threatened. He spoke of neighbors slaying neighbors and of watching friends in the eye as they die at the machete clenched hands of teachers and doctors and strangers. He spoke of radio stations calling out names, of men being assigned targets like a childish game of basketball, marking up man-to-man. He spoke of some men who, unable to complete their assignment themselves, paid strangers to do it for them, assuming innocence by the act of ignorance.
But, most chillingly, he spoke of the adaptation. How, once a man has killed another it becomes exponentially easier to do it again and again and again and again. Numbness and routine, he spoke of, another life is just another life, here or gone. He told us that this is unavoidable and that we do it, though less severely, everyday. I stepped on a strangers foot on my way to class, I cut someone off to make it into a closing elevator, I jokingly nudged a friends shoulder a little too hard and, undoubtedly, I will do it all again tomorrow. But, nothing we do will alter the course of the universe so we continue to hurt one another.
Naturally, I was troubled by the ease at which one man can slay another and, perhaps more naturally, I tried to focus my attention elsewhere. My eyes gazed passed the professor and on to the leafy plant growing on a table in the back of the room. I rested there for awhile, at the thought of plants. Plants grow, I assured myself. They grow and they never slice one another with machetes. It is okay if the human race is terrible because there are things on this planet that are not- plants.
My eyes dashed, for the rest of the meeting, between the face of my professor and the leaves of the plant. I felt dirty when I left, ashamed of my species for being so hurtful when others are not. I so often joke of leaving society, abandoning man-kind and spending my life with nature but, after this meeting, the thought of polluting a seemingly innocent species with the innate harmfulness of my own seemed selfish. I will stay with people, I thought, because I do not want to contaminate goodness with the evil that is unavoidably part of who I am.
I tripped as I walked back to my dorm. I tripped over the root of a tree. I stayed down for awhile and thanked the root for causing me the pain I deserved for being part of such a pain-inducing culture. I sat there and tried to appreciate the tranquility of the plant I was beneath. I could not.
Trees have roots. Roots dig themselves into the ground to soak up rainfall which feeds the tree. They will strangle anything in their way to settle where they will be most successful. They slice and they displace and they kill the roots of other plants, their own kind, for their own benefit.
Everything causes pain. Everything. It is easy to hate the cruelty of man kind because I can understand the language that tries to justify it but it would be foolish to limit that blame to just myself. Every fish and bird and squirrel and bee and tree would strangle its neighbor if it had to. It is inevitable. It is inescapable. And I have no idea what to do about it.
He spoke of the mindset. Of being misinformed and threatened. He spoke of neighbors slaying neighbors and of watching friends in the eye as they die at the machete clenched hands of teachers and doctors and strangers. He spoke of radio stations calling out names, of men being assigned targets like a childish game of basketball, marking up man-to-man. He spoke of some men who, unable to complete their assignment themselves, paid strangers to do it for them, assuming innocence by the act of ignorance.
But, most chillingly, he spoke of the adaptation. How, once a man has killed another it becomes exponentially easier to do it again and again and again and again. Numbness and routine, he spoke of, another life is just another life, here or gone. He told us that this is unavoidable and that we do it, though less severely, everyday. I stepped on a strangers foot on my way to class, I cut someone off to make it into a closing elevator, I jokingly nudged a friends shoulder a little too hard and, undoubtedly, I will do it all again tomorrow. But, nothing we do will alter the course of the universe so we continue to hurt one another.
Naturally, I was troubled by the ease at which one man can slay another and, perhaps more naturally, I tried to focus my attention elsewhere. My eyes gazed passed the professor and on to the leafy plant growing on a table in the back of the room. I rested there for awhile, at the thought of plants. Plants grow, I assured myself. They grow and they never slice one another with machetes. It is okay if the human race is terrible because there are things on this planet that are not- plants.
My eyes dashed, for the rest of the meeting, between the face of my professor and the leaves of the plant. I felt dirty when I left, ashamed of my species for being so hurtful when others are not. I so often joke of leaving society, abandoning man-kind and spending my life with nature but, after this meeting, the thought of polluting a seemingly innocent species with the innate harmfulness of my own seemed selfish. I will stay with people, I thought, because I do not want to contaminate goodness with the evil that is unavoidably part of who I am.
I tripped as I walked back to my dorm. I tripped over the root of a tree. I stayed down for awhile and thanked the root for causing me the pain I deserved for being part of such a pain-inducing culture. I sat there and tried to appreciate the tranquility of the plant I was beneath. I could not.
Trees have roots. Roots dig themselves into the ground to soak up rainfall which feeds the tree. They will strangle anything in their way to settle where they will be most successful. They slice and they displace and they kill the roots of other plants, their own kind, for their own benefit.
Everything causes pain. Everything. It is easy to hate the cruelty of man kind because I can understand the language that tries to justify it but it would be foolish to limit that blame to just myself. Every fish and bird and squirrel and bee and tree would strangle its neighbor if it had to. It is inevitable. It is inescapable. And I have no idea what to do about it.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
To want to wilt
I often dream of life as a flower
Being planted just to grow;
Living from spring's start to its end
Three seasons I'd never know
From seed to soil I would return
And never think it wrong
I'd expect nothing from having bloomed
And accept brevity as life's long
But I am not a daisy, rose
Or a Texas Bluebonnet
So I will suffer life's end-
Know my existence and not want it
And I am not a daffodil.
My flesh not petal, but skin
Springtime's destiny is not mine
I'll bloom not, nor from within
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Being planted just to grow;
Living from spring's start to its end
Three seasons I'd never know
From seed to soil I would return
And never think it wrong
I'd expect nothing from having bloomed
And accept brevity as life's long
But I am not a daisy, rose
Or a Texas Bluebonnet
So I will suffer life's end-
Know my existence and not want it
And I am not a daffodil.
My flesh not petal, but skin
Springtime's destiny is not mine
I'll bloom not, nor from within