To Admit "I Am Suffering"

Grace: love without possession.

To say to a stranger, "You are human, just as I. And from that you have dignity."

To say to yourself, "You are but a stranger; a human."

A miracle: the descent of your self-love to nothing more than a stranger.

Love ascends by falling.

Where does this stranger-love come from when we look inward? Complete strife.

I am no stranger to tormenting myself. When I spend time with friends and those I cherish, but I feel unrooted and unmoored, my brain crucifies itself for such a blatant failure.

Shame. Hatred.

Above all, disgust.

There is a beautiful park in a small town in Oregon. The park has an incredible river, and trees on the river bank hover over the water's edge.

I spent time with friends in the park, and I found myself walking to look into the river. Once again, disassociated.

There, but not there.

Dead, but alive.

The reflection of the orange and red trees mesmerized me. My conclusion was simple: the world is bearable, but I am not.

But, for once, I found myself at peace with my walking corpse.

I admitted to myself: "I am suffering. I am sick. But I am trying to move forward."

Where did this stranger-love come from?

The ability to admit "I am suffering" and to recognize that as enough.