Balance

If I had dinner with the Presumptive President

You know how it is when the only thing on the table is bitter gourd? And you don’t eat gourd. And so you gulp it down with water, and then put on a false front, that lingering taste still in your mouth?
Well that’s how I feel about the president elect. I am without choice except to graciously accept that this is what’s on the table, and I’ll have to shove it down my throat the next 6 years. And yet, I am willing to hang around. Sit. Sometimes, it takes more than just a bite to have a taste for something.

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Photographs and Letters

Except that there are too many shots I miss. And I could only fit frames in seconds. And instead, moments drift. The dandelion passes swiftly. The bird flies away. The rows of flowering trees won’t tell me their secret in a shot.

And so I write these down instead. I write for me and for sharing a bit of the world that lives in me. Hoping that one day, I am bestowed the gift, lent the Genius, to capture moments in prose, in a thousand words. And that someone somewhere reads them. Without pictures.

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What was in the Pope’s bag?

And so what was really inside the Pope’s bag? Pope Francis didn’t pull out rabbits. But he spoke similarly of greedy pigs, of excesses and dark places. Of beggars and weeping, the misshapen, the orphaned, the homeless and how we are compelled to see them instead of shuttling them to luxury resorts and keeping them out of sight. The Pope did not keep holy relics we could touch and make us whole. And he didn’t quite fancy the limelight. Or that we take our relics home and so be doubly blessed. Quite the opposite, he begged: bring the sacred out of our altars and resting places; carry the light to the fringes, the periphery, and those hidden from view; and on our own, touch others and make them whole.

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