‘ You were born with wings. Why crawl through life”’ Rumi
To follow on from the previous post. That must not be the end. Those who use names, fists, gang mentality and silence to chip away at the souls of those they are ultimately threatened of would like it to be, but it is not.
It should not have to be that way but sadly it sometimes is and it is imperative we empower and listen to those in need of support, those affected by another’s perception of them. It is not the reality we must remember. It can, for a time, become the reality and the face teeth flesh hair we see in the mirror is distorted beyond what we can bear. We stare at ourselves but do not see our true selves. Our bodies, by way of our neural pathways, appear bloated, ugly, discoloured, too thin, too fat, too black, too white, too feminine, too male.
We become coated in another’s words, swallow another’s fiction, paint ourselves with another’s colours and it tarnishes our beautiful reality. Partners, peers, parents, so called friends, alongside society itself dig their claws into our very being and we lose sight of who and what we truly are.
But, but we must reclaim our bodies from those who would amputate our souls. Stare through the fog to truly see who we are. Not easy, especially during those fragile teen years and today’s digitised age adds another level of hell to fight against.
We need to talk to others, reach out to those who love and care for us. We need to find ourselves in books, songs, paintings, dances, instruments, clay and nature. When we are lonely and cut adrift reach for the musical medicine of our favourite song or poem. They will speak to us and help us find our voice again.
Then in turn we shall articulate our pain and struggle for others to read and digest and feel as Arthur Miller said of his wanting to write plays …’unalone’ . We must continue building the cycle of care, love, empathy and unaloneness. Reach out , reach in. Be.
We must not let the haters win. Remember , you, we, are not alone.
A House Called Tomorrow
Alberto Ríos, 1952
You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen—
You are a hundred wild centuries
And fifteen, bringing with you
In every breath and in every step
Everyone who has come before you,
All the yous that you have been,
The mothers of your mother,
The fathers of your father.
If someone in your family tree was trouble,
A hundred were not:
The bad do not win—not finally,
No matter how loud they are.
We simply would not be here
If that were so.
You are made, fundamentally, from the good.
With this knowledge, you never march alone.
You are the breaking news of the century.
You are the good who has come forward
Through it all, even if so many days
Feel otherwise. But think:
When you as a child learned to speak,
It’s not that you didn’t know words—
It’s that, from the centuries, you knew so many,
And it’s hard to choose the words that will be your own.
From those centuries we human beings bring with us
The simple solutions and songs,
The river bridges and star charts and song harmonies
All in service to a simple idea:
That we can make a house called tomorrow.
What we bring, finally, into the new day, every day,
Is ourselves. And that’s all we need
To start. That’s everything we require to keep going.
Look back only for as long as you must,
Then go forward into the history you will make.
Be good, then better. Write books. Cure disease.
Make us proud. Make yourself proud.
And those who came before you? When you hear thunder,
Hear it as their applause.