November 18, 2010 --- Lithonia, GA
There's a lot going on these days, from global economic crises to unprecedented environmental disasters. Lying politicians and an increasingly careless citizenry, and me without my camera.
And this too, shall pass...
Despite these challenges, I am hopeful. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
There's really no other way to be. We are each of us, given but a moment as people to make the world better than it was when we found it. No, it's not easy. No I don't always feel like smiling or singing the morning glory. But sometimes it doesn't take much more than a "How do you do?" to change someone's day, someone's life.
So much in modern society is designed to make us feel like we aren't... enough. Advertisements asail us with inticements to make ourselves 'better' by buying the newest something. If whatever it is you think you want to buy could really make you happy, do you think they'd be selling it?
Please, dreamers, wake up.
You, and you and you. All of you are enough. Good enough. Sexy enough. Bold enough. Brave enough. Tough enough. Smart enough. Wise enough. Cool enough. Slick enough. Sly enough. Old enough. Young enough. Friendly enough. Determined enough. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.
A friend called me 'Mr. Brightside' today, because, she said, you always try to find the silver lining. It's true, I guess. I don't think there's anythig to be gained from overanalyzing negative happenings. Whatsoever is just, whatsoever is good, whatsoever is uplifting, these are the things that I try to meditate on. Hopefully, after today, more of you will as well.
I'll leave you with an excerpt from Whitman's "Song of Myself"
'...This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you
Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;
How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?
What is man anyhow? what am I? what are you?
All I mark as my own YOU shall offset it with YOUR own,
Else it were time lost listening to me.
I do not snivel that snivel the world over,
That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.
Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd,
I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.
Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?
Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
In all people I see myself, none more and not one barley-corn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.
I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.
I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child's curlicue cut with a burnt stick at night.
I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)
I exist as I am, that is enough...'