The Art of Transcending
More often than not we find ourselves struggling to find reasons to leave the comfort of our bed in the morning. Whether it be the promising warmth of coffee or that feel of withered newspaper between our fingers, it’s usually the little things in life that give us that extra kick in our step, that tiny bit of fuel we need to keep going.
So here’s my “two cents”: my beliefs are not like choosing the winning lottery ticket or picking up a hundred-dollar bill off the ground, but rather something so much more mundane that it loses a lot of the glow it ought to have. I believe in the spirit of things, the will of the world to throw off its covers in mornings and step into its fuzzy, bunny slippers.
I believe in the tired old man who, though the leprosy of age and the ravaging of arthritis rattle his bones like plague, finds the strength to fall to his knees in his Sunday prayers and sing with a voice riddled with years of cigarettes and medications. Perhaps your faith is stronger than your frame, but I know that you smile because you know your God is smiling back.
I believe in the little girl who has known nothing but run-down apartments and the scream of police sirens her entire life, the stench of city pollution and the condemnation of her own destiny. You trade your drugs for books, your guns for degrees and tell your mommy that you want to become a doctor. I laugh because I know you will, even though some would laugh at the simple prospect of you actually removing the bullet instead of putting it in.
I believe in the young boy who has found himself hospitalized with terminal cancer. You have your whole life ahead of you, but how do they expect you to see that when they all blind you with the bittersweet taste of their tears? The nakedness of your scalp is as pale as the white-washed walls in which you shall forever dwell, your fate sealed by a lifetime of IV drips and a scourge of chemotherapy. So why do you smile, little one? Is it because you know that the strength of your own heart is secretly the cure to cancer and that you find ways to transcend the happy, little pills the doctors feed you? Oh, that I might carve paper hearts out of such mighty spirit, for a child has more to offer me than those men in coats and Masters Degrees who told him he would die, that his spirit just wouldn’t be enough.
And this I believe. This I believe.
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