Wounds

I was up before 4:30 this morning, a not uncommon experience of late. Unlike most days, though, I did not write in my blog. This morning’s output remains close to my vest, where it ought to be. Some things one needs to keep private. Some words are too intimate to share. Some words cannot venture beyond one’s own brain. But they do find their way to the page. Or, more correctly, to a file that could one day be exposed to the world. But not now. Not today. Some days, we need to remind ourselves that we are not the most important people on the planet. Though we might matter, the universe doesn’t revolve around us. Our emotions don’t merit a microscope whose image is broadcast to every living thing.

I’m tired of politics. I’m tired of caring in an ugly space in which compassion is either weakness or delusion. That’s not what I was taught. Compassion is an attractive strength to which we should aspire. That’s what I was taught. Though too much of what I was taught was bullshit, the beauty of aspiring to be compassionate was a lesson in which I believe, still. Compassion heals. And we all need to heal. We’re all licking wounds that shape the way we live in this world. We need to heal to get past those wounds.

Some days, and this is one, I wonder what wounds afflict people who populate my life. I mean my family, my friends, the people who belong to clubs that count me as a member. Every individual who inhabits my thoughts. Facebook friends, church-goers I know little about, the guy at the grocery store self-check-out lane who patiently explains to newcomers who the credit card payment system works.

That guy. I wonder about his life. I wonder whether he’s married and, if so, what his wife is like. Does he have kids? Does his job pay enough to cover his necessary expenses? He wears glasses; does he have insurance that covers vision issues? Questions about others’ lives can become overwhelming. Ask those questions about the police officer or the people at the post office who retrieve your mail after an extended absence. What about the guys who collect shopping carts in the parking lot? Is that job the top of their career ladder?

You can’t ask the questions I want to ask. Or, you shouldn’t. The answers are none of my business, but I’m so deeply curious. I wonder why that is?

Enough questions for one afternoon. Tonight, we’re off to HSV Open Mic Night, the event I tackled for a while and then gave up. The “new guy” seems to be doing a fine job of taking “my” event to a new level. Tonight, I get to sit in the audience and do nothing. I enjoy that. I’m an unpaid slob, same as when I had to sweat the event’s details. I do not feel wounded that someone else has taken “my event” in another direction. That’s a nice feeling. Unwounded. That’s me. For now.

 

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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One Response to Wounds

  1. You asked for it….you got it

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