I recently spoke at length recently with a longtime advocate who will remain unmentioned. We discussed the issue of health, hope in the face of hopelessness, brutality, betrayal, blindness, and balance in the face of it all.
I thought I understood that this path I plod was a marathon, not a sprint. Her farsight showed me the importance of pacing, of rest, of picking with great care the corner of this garment of sorrow I choose to sow my strength into.
I went to bed with a heart of lead. I know I cannot keep pace with others. I’m a plodder, not a runner. I know my strength is small; my weakness great. I feel the finiteness and the fragility of my frame. I am so humiliatingly human.
Finite:1. having bounds or limits; not infinite; measurable.2. subject to limitations or conditions
I woke in the morn, and for many mornings to come, still feeling sober about it. This work is not a foamy, fast-paced frenzy. It is a “long obedience in the same direction.” Intensity and duration are, by the laws of nature, inversely related.
The fruit of this my little frame may be small or great – what matters most to me is the quality. It is my hope that should we sup together in the shade of sorrow-based strength, that the fruit is sweet; the company kind; the words wise; the hearts true.
I am considering with care where and to whom I put my time and my physical and emotional energy… looking forensically, as it were, at my finiteness, fragility, and fruit.
All this to say that I care deeply for you. In order to be here long term to shade you, to sup with you, and to serve you, I need to care a little more deeply for me.
In love and utter solidarity,
LA
Sources: All definitions are from various versions of the dictionary