The Staggering Story of Humanity: an interdisciplinary exploration and chronicling of the human condition. Glimpses, whispers and shouts yearning to find meaning.
Easter Weekend 2020 – Pandemic April 11 & 12
“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
i went for walk yesterday and saw a deserted street while a child walked along a beach in the sun bars and churches with lights out jesus in the grave contaminated by death will he ever wake up?
i went for a walk the other day and saw the juxtaposition of commerce and life one sacrificed while the other saved blue eyes and black bodies dying in the poison rain will love dance in the field of lilies will we ever know what to do?
i will go for a walk tomorrow and see what i saw yesterday and the other day playgrounds closed to children’s laughter the white noise of humanity quieted for a season to love another like ourselves and be our sister’s keeper embraces distanced by plague but not forgotten will there be meaning in decency?
Try to Praise the Mutilated World By Adam Zagajewski
Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June’s long days, and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. You must praise the mutilated world. You watched the stylish yachts and ships; one of them had a long trip ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others. You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere, you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully. You should praise the mutilated world. Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to the concert where music flared. You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars. Praise the mutilated world and the gray feather a thrush lost, and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns.
~ Adam Zagajewski (Translated, from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh.) September 17, 2001, The New Yorker