Funhouse Mirrors

Reality for me
is a funhouse mirror in my head
where my fears manifest in my own reflection

and though you protest in earnest,
speaking of a beauty unknown to me,
you'll never see what I see

The Depth of Sensitivity

I wonder how to walk the fine line of sensitivity. How ignorance can be a just plead for insensitivity when information is at our fingertips. I wonder about the limits of empathy: when we extend beyond the reach of love into the realm of overwhelming care, at which point we need to calm down and relax. I wonder if such limitations are numbing, if they convert passionate empathy into passive apathy as a way of normalizing a casual societal context where it's a beautifully odd thing to care that much.

I wonder why we're able to casually refer to ourselves as ADD, depressed, mental, bipolar; whether the use of these terms to describe our fluctuations lessens our ability to comprehend the complexity of living with a designation that isn't attached to a momentary lapse. I don't understand the limits of social acceptability where it's acceptable to pick and choose disorders to joke about as if there's some sort of unwritten justification that says certain people deserve to be the targets of our misunderstanding. We empathize with terminal circumstances because they help us to appreciate the delicacy and fragility of human life; they teach us to appreciate the present and cherish the past...I get this. But why does it take loss for us to recognize insensitivity; why do we wait for sorrow to reflect on the boundaries of our behaviors?

I wonder whether it matters at all that we should care about the topics of humorous discussion. I've heard it said that there should be no boundaries in comedy, that we should be willing to engage with all topics and make light of all circumstances. I wonder whether this is a viable strategy to help us comprehend the complexity of a fallen and flawed humanity. I feel like the less sensitive we are, the less it matters what we discuss and the less we feel bound to those around us but I wonder whether this detached state is of any help in progressing our society.

What is it worth to gain affection at the cost of diminishing the dignity of others? Does it matter that we don't point at the men and women living on the streets every time we refer to ourselves as poor? Does it matter that we don't call attention to the struggling student every time we mistakenly refer to ourselves as dyslexic? If we wear labels as culturally ironic outfits ready to be changed as soon as they lose their popularity, what does it do to those who have only one set of clothes?

Perhaps I'm being too sensitive. Perhaps, due to those who take no offense, we shouldn't be worried about others who choose not to speak up. But I wonder why we take such firm stances against acts of outright bullying while we neglect to consider the weight of our words. What does it take for a phrase to be inducted into the culturally protected lexicon of unacceptable phrases? Should we even have such a thing?

Thoughts?

Grace

Grace is beautiful in its simplicity, yet immeasurable in its abundance. If I could quantify my failures, I’d disappoint the world twice: once in the magnitude of my flaws and again in the endless nature of my misdeeds. I’ve spent my life learning a lesson I already understand but consistently fail to grasp. It’s as if I’m submerged, fully aware of my need to breathe but preparing to feel my lungs fill with water as I sink deeper as I claim to be a strong swimmer. Grace is the hand that pulls me above the surface, dries me off and warns me of the dangers these waters pose. Grace rescues me from the dangers of myself. Yet, as I write, I prepare to plunge myself in again. I feel guilt in knowing that I abuse this gift, and have a hard time finding comfort in knowing that grace surpasses the reaches of guilt, build on a foundation of love and forgiveness. I am weak, I need grace, but so often I’d rather be strong.

We extend grace to those we love. We say we understand love, we say that we really get what it’s all about, but yet we are so blown away by grace as if love could stand without it. I am blown away by it, though, because I feel like to accept grace I must acknowledge that I’m not loving as much as I should be. I feel like to receive this grace; I must acknowledge that I’ve failed. Failure hurts. Failure is that understanding that there is this person I wish to be and I’m nowhere near that goal. Somewhere in this messy crossroads grace heals this insecurity, giving us clarity if only for a moment.

I am profoundly afraid of failing, and yet it is through failure that I come to fully experience and understand the depth of love.