This is not part 2, because the stone is still being chiseled.

Everyone
Is God speaking.
Why not be polite and
Listen to
Him?

-Hafiz

Pt. 1: You be the hammer and I'll be the chisel . . and I'll also be the stone

I spent 2.5 hours writing this post from several different ways, but ended up deleting all of them. I couldn't figure out how to do it without sounding whiny or without someone putting me on suidcide watch. And that would just be devestating to my image.

Just read this.

I feel broken, critical, depressed and doubtful most of the time. But I think thats ok. Blessed are the poor in spirit, right?

The Birth of Flight

I.

As I join a mostly empty flight, I abandon my assigned seat for one five rows up by the window. The man next to me, across 4 empty spots and an aisle, sits against the opposite window. A tube sneaks from an overhead bin and follows, taped, the roof of the plane, down to a mask attached to his face. Aged, tired, sick; he inhales from it what I inhale naturally. He wheezes as I notice that we sit, exactly mirrored. Our bodies at the same angle. Legs crossed. Pillow propped. Eyes connecting.

He wheezes again. I think to myself: this poor man cannot see how much we have in common.

II.

Oh my God, this birth
has undone me. The labor has left
me with empty hands and
I’ve also gone blind.
I sit here and feel that this was a
miscarriage; my pain is more real
than the God I try to follow.
but, I hope –
that my empty hands can slowly
roll open from these fists
and bear what was born-