Growing up, we celebrated. Life. Every day, a little bit anyway.
old recipes and new friends,
the holes in our woolen socks and ways to sow patches on them,
the first beer and first cigar,
the first heart-break,
the first blossom in the spring and the first snow in the winter,
rainy Sunday mornings,
our camping trip to the neighbors’ backyard,
learning how to swim,
fresh lemonade and laundry,
morning and evening prayers,
our love for one another.
When I stepped out of our home and into the world, I realized that the world forgets to celebrate sometimes. I realized that the world is starving.
Starving for bread and justice and second chances.
Up to that point, you know, I’d never felt real, deep, devastating sadness before. Ever. Actually, I don’t think my Mama believes in sadness. Because we’re comforted and privileged. So we didn’t really get sad. Ever.
But in that moment, when I stood at the worlds’ shore and looked at all the devastation, I cried. I cried for the world. And I stopped celebrating, too.
And then you told me to get it together. To stop taking pity on you. And myself. And instead, to be with you. As a fellow human being. And never stop giving. Of myself, in love.
And so I leapt. Into the waves. And the arms of the world. They’re stronger than I thought.
They’ve carried me since. Faithfully, so faithfully.
So I hug them right back. A little bit every day.
Just like my Mama taught me.