Alright. This is what I have so far. Are you in a position to listen? Afraid to explore at night and walk outside for ending up in a white chalk outline. Jay rappinʼ ʻhands up donʼt shootʼ in his evocative ʻSpiritualʼ. And as soon as you hear it you will hear the truth and pain in it. I remain one more minute. For what? Due to privilege? Sitting up on top on this little ledge, looking up at the pedestalized ranks, with their telestrator line “Thanks”, insincere, but necessary to be said none-the-less. Wasnʼt the first, and it wonʼt be the last. The last may come first, but the purse wonʼt be passed. How many names emboldened will become victims? As if its not enough to hold someone, youʼve picked him or her to end. END. No more breath. No more internal beats, or wild dreams. DONE. For what? Itʼs someoneʼs father. Someoneʼs son.
How long must we wait Martin? How many miles must we march Ben? Do you still rise Maya? I donʼt have a mighty enough pen to conquer this discord for ages. We demand to be free and then some act as if in cages. The sages have said it for all time, across rhyme, to music, and painted on walls. Along the climb and each time we choose it, we answer the call. All is one. One is all.
And then, fear, brutality, and actions void of thought command to be caught on video and become a part of the collective narrative. How do we push back against this trend in the media, and statistical nightmare with dignity, respect, and love?
How do we answer the call? All is one. One is all. Loved ones mourning loss. Too many someones having paid the ultimate cost. My heart aches. My thoughts frustrate. It mos def isnʼt all butterflies and cupcakes.
But seriously, I wanna know ʻhow long is it we must wait?ʼ I keep reading his line over and over, as Iʼm getting older and bolder with less to show for. Loneliness. Anger. Resentment. Fear. Hate. Brutality. Oppression. Is this the legacy we wish to reminisce about as if weʼre going through regression and repression?
How about kindness, mindfulness, and the blind wool nest that is love? How about patience, relationships, and acting without hesitations or agenda in authenticity and open arms? How about giving the most, though knowing that giving isnʼt enough? How about protecting, serving, and helping to prevent harms?
Near the center of the chalice in Dallas, amidst people of all walks doing it right, cries for help, without help in sight, rung out in the night. And too many fled in fear and pain. And those of us here remain trying to make sense, trying to explain. Trying to regain some new sense of normal in a shaken world. And each day awaken little girls, and little boys who will sit and absorb this world into which theyʼve been hurled that sometimes loves and sometimes destroys.
Their ears are waiting to listen. Their eyes are waiting to watch. They will ask us what is missing. They will find actions for their thoughts. What will we tell them? Will we yell then? Will we cry? Will we distract and disable to rest elbows on the table, and find another why? In this all too familiar narrative of our fable, how many more must come to die?
I take in a giant breath and soak in a moment of silence. I think about any tendencies I have toward violence. ʻMay you live in interesting timesʼ may be both a blessing and a curse. Too much cost. Too much tossed aside. Too much lost. Someoneʼs love. Someoneʼs friend. Someoneʼs last thought. Someoneʼs first.             Live love and give of what youʼve got. Everyone has time, talent, and treasure. Everyone has some climb and can let time measure. This is all I have is my heart and my words, and Iʼll happily yet somberly pull them now. Something inside is continually stirred, but both are near giving out.