is required. Letters to congressmen
are suggested. Donations encouraged.
As a group we walk silently to let
the stories of suffering ones sink
in. Faces are solemn --
looking noble and progressive and socially
conscious.
I'm angry. I never have liked things
shoved down my throat. Nothing penetrates.
Instead of writing a letter to my congressman,
I write this to remind myself to stand
firm and committed to
the better and harder thing: to treat the suffering
person across the table, across the room,
across the street - with love and offer them
nourishment both tangible and emotional.
Right here, right now, there are hungry
and wounded ones who need attended to.
Don't tell anyone I'm one of those.
But it's not as easy as writing a check
or sending a letter. It isn't quick either.
It takes consistent chunks of energy
and time. It can't be checked off a list
nor can one brush their hands together
with a satisfied smack. The results aren't countable
statistics, data to prove in print. The rewards
aren't forthcoming. Sometimes we don't know
the end of the story - because it isn't written
yet. But I persist in believing one person
loving one person at a time works.
Why is the suffering
in some other place more appealing
than the eyes hoping to catch ours
two feet away?
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