The Heart's Pure Instinct
COMPASSION … We had just checked our bags at the airport when I see about a dozen guys in tan khakis. We get closer and I read the words Emergency Medical on their shoulder badges. I ask where they’re heading.
Puerto Rico. We’re replacing a team that’s been there a while. He seems glad to be going. I say, Good luck . . . and thank you.
Meanwhile, we are leaving Atlanta after three days of good food and conversation, happy strolls under tall trees and a gentle October sun, and much laughter. After hide ’n seek, tricycle races and bedtime stories with a toddler, and basking in the pure bliss of baby’s smile, we are heading back to our safe, comfortable, peaceful home.
Home. So close and yet so far from Puerto Rico, Dominica, Houston, and Santa Rosa . . . from the Congo, Sri Lanka, China, and Afghanistan . . . from monsoons, mudslides, fires and earthquakes, typhoons, and wars. So close and yet so far.
Sometimes the suffering of others seems huge and unfair . . . and hugely unfair while my good fortune seems unmerited and almost embarrassing. And sometimes the idea of Karma just feels mean, doesn’t it? Yes, to look deeply at my own thoughts and actions to better understand my part in any event is helpful to me and is part of being accountable to myself. Still, I have no right to impose that scrutiny on anyone else’s life. The only response to others’ suffering that makes any sense at all is compassion. The only response that is both natural and always justified is compassion.
Finding Sanctuary While On Retreat in Ohio
A leaf flew into my pocket today. I didn't even know
It was there.
My hood was up for the light rain
That sifted down from the gray.
My hand went in for something else
And came out with a blessing from the sky.
Crimson satin and perfect,
This refugee from a maple tree
Found sanctuary
with me.
Later: The poem will not let me sleep.
For a leaf is not a person,
Though both are made homeless
By a storm. Or a war.
Sixty five million without sanctuary in this lonely world...
and I do not know how to end
This poem.