Resurrection
I rescued animals when I was young. A dying sparrow, a lonely salamander, a rabid Chihuahua (my mom and I jumped on a chair and screamed when he had his first foam flying fit). Now, I find old furniture at the dump. I drag it home and give it life. While no one sees the beauty underneath the dirt and rust, I know neglect can be reversed with lots of love. I scrub and sand and paint and in the end, this piece of junk, its hope and dignity restored, is beautiful to me; because I took the time to see, to care, to roll my sleeves and pull it from the muck. Salvaged from death I watch it slowly come alive and sometimes think, ‘It might have been me: an old discarded table no one wanted, tossed in a heap, to rot with inattention.’ But love has plucked me out and set me high, and sent me those who saw the beauty in my soul, who gently scrubbed away the grime so I could shine.
I guess I’ve always had a tendency toward hope. A fragile faith in that which doesn’t meet the eye. A soft spot for the underdog.
Juxtaposed between the harshness of reality and the possibility of flight, I closed my eyes and jumped, still trusting in the net I could not see. I fell and bled but was not shattered. Tenaciously I clung to my vision of a better world; a world where beauty isn’t judged by merit, and love’s a gift, not needing to be earned, and people take the time to honor your uniqueness.
I think the world will be a better place when life is always nurtured, and innocence respected, and all that is tender, delicate, infinite, rests safely in the warmth of life’s great wing.
LBM Easter, 1996
