“Look at all your plants!” my guest said.
“They’re so healthy.”
Before I could stop myself,
I recounted the story
of my rare cactus who died
because I misunderstood her.
Later, as I walked to church, I noticed how
I’m quick to balance everyone’s perception of me.
As if it were a teeter-totter,
I run from one end to the other to keep it perfectly horizontal.
Compliment me, and I have to confess a fault.
Comfort me, and I minimize my misery.
What if I simply received recognition for nurturing beauty
and acknowledged my sorrow and the weight of it,
as is,
without comment
except, perhaps, a
“Thank You”?
I walked on, beside my friends–
the budding trees, the trampled grass–
annoyed at my propensity for balance
until
I
sank
deeper.
I didn’t want balance.
I wanted room–
plenty of space
for beauty and sorrow to co-exist.
I looked, and I saw,
around me and within,
a thriving ecosystem
of health and decay,
hope and despair,
not taking turns being up or down,
not needing to be balanced,
but with room for each
to be
whatever they are
at the same time.
And wouldn’t you know it?
A few minutes later,
a random act of beauty
ignited a memory,
tenderness, tears.
I let grief come,
felt it prick my heart
as I walked home.
I knew then,
life wasn’t waiting for me to get over this.
Grief, or should I say love,
is a perennial.
Take a long loving look at the real.
– Walter Burghardt, SJ
An Everyday Pilgrim 