Ireland

I feel you, Ireland. I feel you. Just looked into the eyes of a young man, a teenager as he walked past...and he brought me right back here to you. I don't know why. I don't know why.

My brother mentioned how no one cares about the elderly. I don't think anyone cares much about anyone unless it's their own and even then, you're left to wonder.

I don't think he cares at all about me, except superficially. He'd be the first in church though, to speak at the altar about who he thought I was, about how he misses me, how he'd wished he'd been there, done more. Too late. Being two steps ahead has always been painful. Information is freedom, yes. The other side of that is, "The truth hurts." I see the truth of things as they are.

These thoughts seem to matter now. They carry weight right over my shoulders. And I'm already carrying a heavy load. Burdens help you see the truth. They help you remember how much you long for lightness, how you've forgotten how great things used to be but you failed to see it, experience it fully. 

It's not that no one tells you or warns you about what's coming. It's that it just doesn't compute or register in the moment. It can't. You're over there...and you can't fathom what it might mean to be over here. You can't see that far ahead. Thank goodness for some mercy.

Then it's as if mercy takes a back seat. Or is it faulty perception? Is it a lack of faith that I wallow in self-pity? Is it that I never felt carried? Is it that I didn't want to be carried? Is it that I feel too heavily? Is it that I'm not light enough? Well yeah, I seem to have established that.