Maybe despair is a serpent, gnawing at the root. Maybe it is a long draught of bitter poison. Maybe it aches too much to say what it really is. But in its darkness, I have learned a cure: the presence of those dear.
It works over miles. Nearness would be better, but there can be phone calls in the night, a voice on the other end, and we are all connected, a vast web stretched out over cities and towns, north to south, east to west. It works over time. We grow stronger from the presence of our friends in our lives. We learn the art of speaking true things. We learn the art of listening. Healing arts, we learn them imperfectly. We learn to be each other’s pillars, we help bear the burdens that each could not alone, and all of us are there when it becomes too heavy, when one needs to stop, unload, maybe to cry a bit.
We are a net of a thousand tiny points of light, spread out over the distance. For the two in the morning calls, for the opportunity to listen, for the ability to speak our troubles.
8/1/2009: corrected grammar