Who will stand for the wild soft heart?
Who will stand for the wild soft heart, the deep and steady breath, the hunger of the soul, if not us?
Who will speak for the Earth, the children, the elderly and the destitute, if not us?
Who will love the depth of our humanity, holding it tenderly in all its joy and pain, failure and triumph, blessedness and fright, if not us?
I walked past a homeless man the other day. So young, with already-weathered skin. Just a big boy, really. Cold. Alone. Sitting against a gray wall, empty eyes staring somewhere other than there. My momma’s heart broke open and I stopped. Tears fell against my own weathered cheeks.
I didn’t know what to do.
I wanted to bend down and reach out.
I wanted to do something to help ease his suffering.
I don’t know if he wanted that. But this was my instinct.
I stood not moving except for my breath and tears, standing on a busy San Francisco street, wanting to follow my own instinct, the instinct to care for a lost cub alone in the night.
How do I walk on this Earth, in truth, my body alive with an instinct so quick and real there is no hesitation when a fellow human is in need? An instinct so real because it is once again connected to Life.
How do I begin to remember? How do we begin to remember?
Who will hold this world in her arms against her warm heart filled with light if not me? If not us?
Written during a Writing Raw circle.
