Invisible waves of social media and TV are bombarding our nation, perhaps even much of the world. Political ideologies on stage tonight and not, and in other venues earlier, like the harpoon flung from Ahab’s hand, bellow, debate, deny, and scorn the “dumb creature” that would dare to show their limp. Like Ahab, the fists are raised and their zeal proclaims,  “Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.” But, that is not my scrich. Tis only the setting as foggy and shrouded as the trees held in the cloud. The one behind appearing like a mirror reflecting the one in the foreground.

A phone call came as I, unlike the mass of electrical currents swirling, sat quietly on the couch. Gibran’s essays on love the only current I knew. The caller, the reason, not necessary to share. A person, a human being in pain called. Eighty four seconds. A hand and heart reaching out. Eighty four seconds and only one small sentence of hope could I offer…”not even the night can reveal the mystery of life and love.”

Eighty four seconds. How long will it replay in my heart? I don’t know. I know while so many ideologies and harpoons are being hurled by all on stage and not, this was not an isolated cry to be touched by compassion that no one will hear or tweet, re-re-re-re-tweet or share. I know if I stare at the tree in the background, it oddly becomes clearer and more distinct. The fog, though, never lifts.

And so I end this scrich with hands to my heart and my head and neck bowed. Be safe my friend. You are loved. My hand is in yours. You do not walk alone. And to all whose pain and struggle are deaf to the debate, analysis, and rebuttals… I will keep staring at the tree in the background with my hand in yours until the fog lifts.

Namaste…..