Everything seeks a
level. When things tip too far, the wounds of history bleed again: they never depart.
We deal with what has been handed down rather than written down; also, we need
solutions to the solutions already in hand. It’s too late for Plan B; Plan Z
will put you into negative numbers. Time to try something really different.
Moments to mend the world, by fragments. Find something sufficiently small to
attempt.
Is there enough
time? Some things are eternal, and we are among those that are not. Maybe not
enough time; but plenty of time; in fact there’s always the same amount of
time. We have time to be honest; to be kind; to be reverent; to be civilized.
In spite of many years of practice and many lacks. That’s what practice is:
repetition, repair. We might prefer to have clean hands, like Pilate. Sorry. We
might be cluttering up the mind with that which doesn’t need to be kept there.
We could fail to despair. Now we hear only in part: in real time, but without
real space. Hope hands us on. We are not here to be perfect, but to be
forgiven.
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