Unafraid of Abundance

facing disillusionment + delight

Disillusionment is easy in a world full of pain.

Melancholy feels safer than delight when the evidence points to fires all around. Beauty is dangerous to a soul worn. I allow myself to be swallowed by doubt, silenced by the fear that I have nothing to offer a bleeding world.

Frail words seem futile against a cosmic tide of suffering.

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Today, I hold more bravery. I wonder if the quiet word, the spun story, the gentle touch really do matter.

Is it worthwhile to sow seeds of hope, even if the harvest is slow to come?

We’re hurting too much to risk not helping. Even if help is an arm around shaking shoulders so you know you’re not alone.

I want to look, unflinching, at the broken crevices of the world we pass like strangers. I will not harden my humanity by looking away.

But more (and somehow harder), I will not shrink from the joy that permeates even the shadows, a whisper that will not be annihilated.

I will not refuse the gladness that sometimes rises against the backdrop of death.

Disenchantment is easy. Hope is harder.

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There is a story, waiting. A pending reversal of all that ails us. Redemption might seem dormant. But if the substance is true, it’s an abundance of beauty and triumph and all good things.

In weariness, I call toward that promise. And I move, one step at a time, toward the light that will one day reach every forgotten corner.