Coming down from that hope-filled high, today, I realize my weariness.
Hope is not a pep pill.
I feel the ache and the stress of the struggle, deep in my bones.
The frustration and irritation have stolen over me...a soporific of annoyance...calling me to sleep....to cease caring....to give up.
I can't listen. I will rest, and I will not give up.
But I fear the day is coming, sooner than before, when I will not rise from my rest, refreshed and ready to join in the battle.
The urgency is as great as the enervation.
How can we bridge the gap in understanding?
How can we mend the tears in the fabric of our collective journey?
Why must we continue to try to answer questions contrived, by the askers, to be unanswerable? (Do you still beat your wife?)
Why should we have to justify justice?
Pick, pick, slap and slander...it is a litany of immaturity and insecurity.
We run that gauntlet and try not to feel the blows.
We stare into the mirror at the gray hair and lines in the face and invoke the inner strength of the younger us.
So, every day is given to work, to solving and reasoning, along with living. And we also have rest.
Dr. King was often weary. So was Gandhi.
In fiction, Don Quixote was on in years when he mounted his steed and charged the fearsome windmill.
Let us hope our courage is equal but know that our minds and targets are clearer.
I have not forgotten you, young girl with the sad eyes and empty arms.
I have not deserted you. Just let me rest and you rest with me.
We will rise from our bed.
I am weary but I am not defeated.
Robin Westbrook (c) 1/23/2009