My Week in Prose – Healing

Here is an abstract recap of my last week (2/28/22-3/6/22).

Note: This piece contains strong language.

Pain – from my world to yours, and everywhere in between.

I'm in pain. But pain often brings healing. And yet, as I hobble through life while my own healing touch works its magic upon my aching muscles, a new pain spreads through tendrils of limitation. Such anguish may hardly endure to the outside eye – merely a few grains in the hourglass of human existence – to eyes strained by a mind in overdrive, the grains cling to the crystalline wall. Every task, every movement, every twitch met with a cursed groan of disbel–

"Jesus Christ! Enough of this flowery language about your fucking glute injury from a shitty beer-league hockey game nearly two weeks ago! Yes, it may be uncomfortable sitting in a chair more than ten minutes; granted, it sucks you can't do most of your beloved yoga poses; of course, it's a bummer you need to miss another hockey game. But my god! At least you can walk your dog, play your drums, meditate, and get on with your damned life! Be thankful there isn't a fucking war literally in your backyard."

Yes, my pain is a soothing menthol sensation in the outstretched shadow of real suffering half a world away. Merciful cries shatter the air as scores of hearts, minds, bodies, and souls are flayed into agony by the marching boots and roaring artillery; skylines of homes and livelihoods crumbled into indistinguishable disaster. A living, breathing nightmare conceived by tattered threads of sanity – a once-mighty being rendered into a soulless vehicle for demonic power play. Hundreds of miles away, another pain plagues many in the Motherland, as fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters take to the streets, turning heartache into vibrant healing energy for their suffering neighbors – their brethren in Ukraine. I may sit uncomfortably, but I join those and comfortably stand for Ukraine.