On Murray Childs: The Federalist Fox: 87 Conversations Over a Furry Weekend
The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound as I adjusted my powdered wig and fox ears, looking into the mirror. The man who stared back wasn’t just Murray Childs anymore; he was a blend of history and fantasy, Alexander Hamilton reborn as a cunning fox. It was an odd combination, sure, but it made sense to me. Hamilton represented the order I craved—strategic, logical, always in control. The fox? That was the side of me that had learned to adapt, to survive, after losing my job and my family.
The convention hall buzzed with energy as I stepped inside, towering over most of the crowd, my tall frame enhanced by the elaborate costume. People turned to look, and for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was being seen. Really seen.
But this was more than just about being noticed. This costume, this character, it allowed me to mask the fractures beneath the surface. It gave me something to focus on when everything else had slipped out of my control. Dressing as Hamilton was my way of stepping into a role I felt I’d lost—someone respected, someone important. And that’s how I moved through the crowd, not as the man who had lost everything, but as someone powerful, composed, and unshaken.
"Do not seek to understand in order to believe, but believe that you may understand."
— Saint Augustine
As I swept the empty convention hall, the last of the furries long gone, something unusual caught my eye beneath a row of chairs. A notebook, worn from use and dog-eared, sat slightly askew on the polished floor. I hesitated for a moment—this wasn’t part of my usual routine—but something compelled me to pick it up. The silence of the night shift always made things feel different, like the world slowed down just for me. I flipped it open, my fingers tracing over the scrawled notes inside.
Page after page detailed what looked like conversations from FurryCon 2024, scribbled in meticulous handwriting. “87 conversations,” one page read, followed by a list of names, costumes, and strange, yet fascinating observations. One line jumped out at me: “Dressed as Alexander Hamilton, but as a fox. A careful social experiment.” I sat down, flipping through more of it. Each entry analyzed people at the convention with almost scientific precision—what they wore, what they said, how they reacted. He, or whoever wrote this, had broken down the chaos of the convention into numbers, patterns, statistics—something I could understand. There was even a hunt for a "Carmen Santiago red-tailed fox," though it seemed he never found it.
The more I read, the more I found myself intrigued. It was like he’d been trying to connect all the pieces together, like he was searching for something in each interaction, though I wasn’t quite sure what. Every conversation seemed like it had mattered to him—each one like another step in a grand experiment. But as I read, I realized it wasn’t just about the data. It was about connection, understanding, maybe even belonging. The precision of the notes felt familiar, comforting—like my own routines during these quiet hours.
Prologue: A Statistical Plan for Socialization
It’s 6:42 a.m. on a Friday, the beginning of FurryCon 2024, and I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror adjusting my powdered wig. I’ve planned for this moment down to the minute. Over the next 72 hours, I intend to have 87 conversations, the perfect number, by my calculations. The significance of 87 in both my life and statistics has been well-documented (in my personal journals), and I believe it will unlock some deeper truth by the end of the weekend.
I’m also excited to observe how these conversations reveal modern virtues, both global and cultural. What does courage look like in a world so connected, yet so divided? How is generosity displayed in a space like FurryCon, where community transcends borders? As I finish buttoning up my Alexander Hamilton waistcoat and smoothing down my fox fur, I brace myself for a diverse weekend of social observation. Time to enter the convention.
Day 1: The Opener
Conversation 1: The Logistics Fox (7:05 a.m.)
As I step into the convention hall, I’m immediately struck by the sea of vibrant colors, the chatter of different languages, and the variety of costumes reflecting cultures from around the world. I meet another fox—though this one is dressed more simply, in a generic fur suit without the historical flair of my own. His costume is minimalist compared to mine, reflecting perhaps a more modern take on self-expression: simplicity, functionality, and perhaps the influence of minimalist Japanese design.
"Ah, fellow fox," I say. "I see you've opted for a more streamlined approach to the fursona. I’m curious—did you calculate the probability of optimizing your movement by reducing unnecessary costume elements? I personally find comfort in being Hamilton. I had a difficult time with my family after losing my job due to my disability, and this costume... well, it gives me purpose."
He blinks at me through his mask, clearly caught off-guard by my deep dive into personal details. "Uh, I guess I just didn’t want to wear anything too hot. Gets sweaty in here."
"Logical," I say, nodding. I realize now that his approach reflects modern virtues of simplicity and efficiency. "But did I tell you that this suit allows me to feel... like someone else? I sometimes imagine that as Hamilton, people respect me again. My wife didn’t understand that, but I think you do."
He seems slightly bewildered but smiles. "Good to know."
His lack of elaboration makes me wonder if his costume, like mine, is also a form of armor. It’s likely that behind the simplicity, there’s a deeper story—a modern form of self-protection. While I dress as Hamilton to reclaim some sense of authority, maybe he’s dressing minimally to avoid attention.
Conversation 2: The Spreadsheet Squirrel (7:22 a.m.)
At the registration table, I encounter a squirrel fursona with a clipboard and a disturbingly organized spreadsheet. Her fursona is both playful and analytical, a reflection of dual modern virtues—creativity and meticulousness, like balancing right-brain and left-brain functions in today’s world. Her fur pattern is complex, a blend of West African traditional prints, and her notebook bears stickers of flags from various countries. It’s immediately clear that she is international and culturally attuned, perhaps traveling from convention to convention across continents.
"Are you also tracking your conversations?" I ask. "I’ve allocated 87 interactions for the weekend and intend to analyze the data afterward. It's like how I used to track everything in my life before... well, before things fell apart with my family. Did I tell you about how I lost my job because of my disability? It’s a funny thing, being overly logical—sometimes it ruins relationships."
She looks at me with interest. "I hadn’t thought of that, but it sounds like a good idea. I just like being organized."
"Indeed. Organization is key to a successful convention," I say, noting how this reflects a modern virtue—balance between creativity and organization, which is often required to thrive in today's complex world. “Much like how I used to organize our family trips, before... well, things changed. I’m sure you understand.”
She nods, though I sense she doesn’t. Still, her meticulous nature connects with me. We are both trying to bring order to chaos—me through conversations and data, and her through cross-cultural exploration. The stickers on her notebook, from Ghana to Japan, are proof that modern community isn’t bound by geography.
Conversation 3: The Feline Historian (7:38 a.m.)
I run into a cat—specifically, a Maine Coon wearing a replica of a World War I uniform. His costume catches the eye, but what draws me in even more is the thoughtful, almost solemn expression on his face. Beneath the military garb, I sense a deep respect for history, perhaps reflective of virtues like loyalty, remembrance, and intellectual curiosity. There’s something global about him too; his outfit bears symbols from different regiments, not just from Europe but from Asia and Africa as well.
"You’ve chosen a historical persona as well," I note. "I, as you can see, represent Alexander Hamilton. Tell me, why World War I? Does it give you a sense of control, like my fox-Hamilton hybrid does for me? After I lost my family, it’s the only way I feel truly in control."
The cat nods. "I’m interested in the impact that global conflict had on modern society. Plus, I think cats were probably spies during the war."
"Interesting hypothesis," I say. "Though, for me, it's about hiding behind a character. Hamilton makes me feel powerful, despite the fact that my life has been... less than ideal recently. But you know that, right?"
He looks thoughtful. "That makes sense. I think dressing like this gives me a sense of honor. To remember something bigger than myself."
Here, I detect a deeper virtue—what Aristotle might have called honor or magnanimity, but modernized. It’s the virtue of remembrance in a global world, of understanding our interconnected history. In this one outfit, he is carrying not just the history of his own people, but of many.
Conversation 4: The Moth and His Lamp (8:10 a.m.)
Moving further into the convention, I spot a moth fursona who is inexplicably drawn to a literal lamp placed in the middle of the room. His costume is an elaborate mix of faux-fur wings and antennae. His design draws heavily from steampunk aesthetics—mechanical wings with subtle LEDs lighting up the interior. He is a fusion of the old and the new, a commentary on modern creativity and self-expression, and perhaps a reflection on our constant attraction to technology.
"I see you’re living up to your nature," I comment, pointing to the lamp. "Have you calculated the symbolic weight of your attachment to the light source? For me, it’s like being drawn to Hamilton—he’s my light after everything fell apart."
The moth flutters his wings and shrugs. "I’m just a moth, man. Gotta go where the light is."
"Understandable," I say. "But do you ever wonder if the light is just a way to escape your own darkness? After I lost my job, I found myself needing this costume, this convention, as a way to cope."
The moth laughs. "I guess you could say that."
As I watch the mechanical wings hum, I wonder if there’s a deeper metaphor here. In the modern world, we are all moths drawn to the light of technology—our phones, our laptops, the constant buzz of information. But how much of this is escape? His costume, though intricate and beautiful, feels like a metaphor for the way modern people are drawn into the web of distractions, seeking out brightness when the darkness is too much to bear.
Mid-Morning Observations: Conversation 15 – The Furry Politician (10:17 a.m.)
At 10:17 a.m., I encounter a dog dressed as an elected official. His fur is grey and white, and he sports a small pin on his lapel, which looks like a U.N. flag. The balance between his serious demeanor and his friendly approach represents Aristotle's modern virtue of diplomacy. He’s here not just as a participant, but as someone who hopes to foster global unity, even within the diverse and eclectic world of furries.
"You must be familiar with Hamilton’s work on the Federalist Papers," I begin. "I chose him because he gives me structure after losing my job and family. I mean, you already know this from our previous chats, right?"
He looks at me, confused. "Uh, sure. Absolutely! I like to think of myself as the governor of this convention."
"Ah, a governor," I say. "But surely you understand how important it is to feel in control when your life has spiraled? I’ve talked about this before, how Hamilton helps me manage that sense of loss."
He nods, unsure how to respond, but I’m convinced we’ve been on the same page for a while now. His virtuous nature is evident in his attempt to embody responsibility and leadership within the community, blending traditional ideas of governance with modern approaches to global unity and personal well-being.
Lunchtime Break: Conversation 29 – The Snack Table Insight (12:12 p.m.)
I pause by the snack table and strike up a conversation with a dragon carrying three bags of chips. His fursona looks like a hybrid of a traditional Chinese dragon, with long, winding scales, and a Western dragon, with wings and fiery breath. His costume bridges two cultural aesthetics, making him a fascinating embodiment of cultural synthesis.
"Have you optimized your snack selection for maximum caloric intake versus price? Personally, I haven’t been eating much since my wife left, but I figured you know that already."
The dragon looks at me, his tail twitching. "Uh, I just like chips."
"Understandable," I reply. His costume might symbolize the merging of Eastern and Western traditions, but his eating habits are far from virtuous moderation. I recognize here a modern struggle—balancing the indulgence of pleasure with health-conscious choices. His snack hoarding might just be a reflection of modern-day consumerism, a tendency we all indulge in sometimes.
Afternoon Conversations: Conversation 37 – The Winged Horse Enthusiast (1:45 p.m.)
I meet a pegasus fursona who is meticulously polishing his wings. His fursona has touches of both Native American spiritual symbolism and the Greco-Roman myth of Pegasus—a blend of earth and sky, power and freedom.
"Your attention to detail is impressive," I say. "Did you know that polished fursona accessories increase perceived professionalism by 9%? It’s like how I try to present myself since my family left—put together, even though inside, it’s... difficult."
He seems pleased with the compliment. "I take pride in my wings. It’s a symbol of freedom—freedom to be myself."
"As you should," I reply. "I take pride in this Hamilton costume too. It’s all I have left after... well, you know."
He doesn’t, but I believe he does. His blend of cultural aesthetics, though global, symbolizes a universal longing—the human desire to soar above challenges, to transcend cultural boundaries, and to become something more. In his winged form, I see the modern virtues of aspiration and self-empowerment.
Day 2: 48 Conversations Down – Conversation 49: The Geopolitical Gecko (9:05 a.m.)
This gecko fursona is standing near a map of the world, his costume bearing a patchwork of flags. The costume, at first glance, feels like a statement on global unity. Each piece of fabric is stitched together like a quilt, representing the countries he’s visited—or the places he wishes to visit.
"Geopolitical analysis at a furry convention?" I ask. "It’s like analyzing my own personal collapse after I lost my job. I’ve mentioned this before, right?"
He chuckles. "I’m just thinking about how different governments would react to a furry revolution."
I nod. "Revolutions, much like personal upheavals, can reshape everything. It’s like when I lost my family. I’m sure you remember me saying that in one of our earlier conversations."
His costume is a metaphor for the modern global landscape, a patchwork of identities and allegiances. His wit and insight into global politics reflect a modernized form of Aristotle’s political virtue—finding unity in diversity.
Afternoon Reflections: Conversation 57 – The Cat Admiral (1:02 p.m.)
I encounter a cat dressed as a naval officer, complete with a historical fleet insignia. His costume is impressive in its authenticity, blending the British navy with subtle hints of Polynesian tattoo designs. He’s a cultural hybrid, and his naval officer garb is a statement on colonialism, power, and the past.
"You’re clearly into strategy," I comment. "Have you ever considered the parallels between naval warfare and losing control of your life? I’ve told you about how everything went wrong for me, haven’t I?"
The cat looks intrigued. "Explain."
"Both involve managing multiple fronts—social interactions, costume maintenance, and keeping a crumbling life together. I assume we’ve spoken about this before."
He seems impressed and suggests we exchange notes later. His costume reflects the weight of historical power structures and the modern virtue of reconciliation, balancing history with present-day understanding.
Day 3: Nearing the Finish Line – Conversation 76: The Mascot’s Insight (11:14 a.m.)
By Day 3, I’ve met so many furries that my data set is becoming rich with insights. At 11:14 a.m., I meet a person dressed as a generic sports mascot. Their costume blends elements of American football mascots with Japanese pop culture, creating a globalized persona. "Ah, the sports-furry hybrid," I say. "I’ve calculated that you might be one of the most approachable characters here. Much like how I’ve opened up about my personal struggles—remember those?"
"Really?" they ask.
"Absolutely. I’ve mentioned my family situation before, right?"
They nod, unsure, but I continue, assuming we’re on the same page. Their costume reflects a modern virtue—the ability to bridge cultures, finding common ground through sports and entertainment. It’s a symbol of how far-reaching global influence has become, and how these influences can coexist harmoniously.
The Final Stretch: Conversation 87 – The Fox Historian, Revisited (4:55 p.m.)
Fittingly, my final conversation is with the fox historian I met on Day 1. He greets me warmly, and we reflect on the convention. His costume feels more detailed now, perhaps due to my increased understanding. His historical garb bears influences from multiple cultures, a true global hybrid of the past and present.
"I’ve completed 87 conversations this weekend," I say proudly. "And I feel like I’ve shared so much—especially about losing my job and family. We’ve talked about that, haven’t we?"
He looks at me, impressed but slightly confused. "That’s a lot. What did you learn?"
"I’ve encountered a mix of furries—dragons, geckos, cats in historical garb, but I haven’t yet met a Carmen Santiago red-tailed fox furry. Have you seen one?"
The fox historian laughs. "Not yet, but keep an eye out. Furries are full of surprises."
I smile, adjusting my Hamiltonian wig. "Indeed. I’ve learned that in both politics and furry culture, it’s all about balance. Between numbers and creativity. Between community and individuality. And the way we express virtue today—it’s about blending cultures, mixing old ideas with new, and finding humanity in the intersection of our stories."
He nods thoughtfully, though I realize he might be hearing this for the first time. "Sounds like something Hamilton would say."
I agree, silently pleased that my analysis—and personal revelations—have come full circle.
Epilogue: The Data Set Complete
As I leave FurryCon, exhausted but satisfied, I reflect on the weekend. Eighty-seven conversations, each one adding a layer of complexity to my understanding of furry culture, politics, social dynamics, and my own personal journey. It’s been a diverse set of interactions, filled with modernized virtues—aspiration, resilience, balance, global awareness. Every fursona reflected a piece of the world at large, mixing traditional values with today’s more complex, interconnected ethics.
It’s been a long but rewarding experiment, and I leave knowing one thing for certain: whether dressed as a founding father or a fox, there’s always something new to learn about the world.
And with 87 conversations behind me, I am, by all measures, lucky.
Imagine stepping into a world where Alexander Hamilton meets a fox’s cunning, where one man’s journey through personal loss, disability, and reinvention unfolds at a furry convention. His story is more than just a whimsical costume—it’s a profound narrative about resilience, identity, and finding purpose in the most unexpected places. You’ve seen the glimpse, now dive into the full story of this remarkable journey. Connect with him, share your thoughts, or ask questions—he’s eager to hear from you. Contact him via email at n+foxander_hamilton.1@orangeyouglad.org to start the conversation.
On Kaleb James Daniels: Friendship and Survival Ft. The one And Only JD POET
Kaleb James Daniels never expected his life would lead him to a park bench in Radio Park, but life rarely goes as planned. Born and raised in a working-class neighborhood, Kaleb grew up learning to fight for what he believed in. "Bite the big dog," he’d say, a phrase he learned from his grandfather—a reminder to face the toughest challenges head-on, no matter how big they seemed.
But the hardest battles weren’t just the physical ones. Life tested him in other ways—loss, betrayal, and the long, quiet struggle for survival. It wasn’t until he found himself among the other forgotten souls in Radio Park that he truly understood the power of friendship. In that park, with nothing but the shade of the oak tree and the company of others like him, Kaleb realized that survival was more than fighting alone—it was about standing together.
"The people I met there saved me," Kaleb often says. "It’s easy to lose yourself when the world forgets you, but friendship has a way of bringing you back. It reminds you that you matter."
Now, Kaleb shares his story not to dwell on the past, but to show others that no matter how tough the fight, there’s always a way forward. And for him, that way was through the bonds he built with the people around him.
"Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe."—Saint Augustine
Imagine finding an old notebook, worn with time, tucked away in a forgotten corner of a park bench. The pages are yellowed, corners bent, and on the first page, you see the initials KJD. Curiosity pulls you in, and as you flip through the pages, the story of KJD’s life unfolds in ink-stained handwriting—his struggles, his reflections on friendship, his poem about the bonds that tie us together, scrawled in a shaky but determined hand. The words flow like KJD’s voice itself—honest, raw, and deeply human. It’s more than just a story; it’s a snapshot of a man who found meaning in the struggle, a quiet resilience in the company of friends, under the oak tree in Radio Park.
Finding it feels like stumbling on a piece of someone's soul, captured between the lines of their thoughts, left behind for the next person to discover and carry forward.
In the shade of the oak tree, the heat of the day still presses down, but under the canopy, there is a brief reprieve, a quiet moment in the park where the struggles of the world seem a little further away. The sun filters through the leaves, dappling the ground in a patchwork of light and shadow. It is in these quiet moments, when time seems to stretch and slow, that the mind has space to wander, to reflect.
The park is alive with the subtle hum of life. Birds chirp intermittently, their calls cutting through the distant sound of traffic, and the breeze moves lazily, carrying with it the faint smell of grass, dirt, and humanity. It’s not the kind of park where families come to picnic, but rather, a place where the world-weary find a resting spot, a brief sanctuary from the endless battle for survival. Here, the benches are often occupied by people with nowhere else to go. The conversations are subdued, quiet exchanges between those who know too well the weight of life’s burdens.
This is where I find myself today, sitting with two others under that same oak tree. On one side of me is Marisol, a brilliant woman whose sharp wit has not dulled despite the roughness of her situation. She’s a caretaker by nature, always ready with a comforting word or a shoulder to lean on. There’s a quiet strength about her, an unspoken resilience that draws people in. On the other side sits KJD—Kaleb James Daniels—a man of few words, but when he speaks, there’s a depth to his voice that commands attention. He’s solid, unwavering in his convictions, his words often laced with a kind of poetic wisdom that seems at odds with the roughness of his exterior.
As we sit, a conversation starts, one that begins, as many do in places like this, with the sharing of stories, bits of advice passed between those who have seen too much and yet continue to move forward. Today, the topic of survival comes up, and I lean into the idea that’s guided me through the roughest patches—something that to others might seem simple, maybe even animalistic, but to me, carries a deeper meaning. "Bite the big dog," I say, watching as they both consider the words.
JKD looks at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the statement. He understands. It’s not about physical strength, or brute force—it’s about survival, about facing down what’s bigger and stronger than you and doing what you must to keep going. It’s about knowing when to fight, when to stand your ground, and when to walk away.
But beyond the physical, it’s about emotional survival too. In this park, among people like us, the fight is often less about what’s outside and more about what’s inside—keeping the spirit intact, finding ways to keep caring, to keep connecting, even when the world feels like it’s trying to strip away every last bit of humanity. Friendship, I’ve found, is one of the few things that helps hold it all together. Without it, the fight becomes something else—something darker.
Marisol nods, adding her own thoughts to the mix. “It’s like that moment when you’re down, and someone—anyone—just gives a damn. That’s all it takes sometimes. Just knowing someone cares.”
It’s a simple truth, but a powerful one. Friendship—real friendship—has a way of lifting you up, even in the darkest times. It’s what keeps you going when you’ve got nothing left. It’s the reason people survive, not just physically, but emotionally. When you know that someone cares, it gives you the strength to keep fighting, to keep pushing forward. That’s what I’ve found, anyway. The bonds you form in these tough places, with these tough people, are the ones that carry you through.
KJD clears his throat, his voice low but steady. “Y’all ever think about what a friend really is?” he asks, his eyes distant as if weighing the question. There’s a moment of quiet, the kind that settles in after a deep question. We sit there, the three of us, in the shade, and I can tell something is coming—something more than just words.
“I wrote a poem,” he says finally, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. His hands are weathered, the lines deep from years of work and wear, but his movements are careful as he smooths the paper out on his knee. He takes a breath, and for a moment, there’s a stillness in the air, as if the park itself is waiting for him to speak.
“This one’s called ‘Friends,’” he says, his voice soft but resonant, the cadence deliberate. “I wrote it for a homie of mine... Dog. You know who you are. Fresno, 1776 West Eden Street.”
There’s a pause, and then, with the same slow, deliberate rhythm, he begins.
"I was just chillin’... about at my end...
I was listenin’ to the TV... and I heard the word ‘friend’..."
The words are simple, but there’s a weight to them. KJD isn’t just reciting a poem—he’s sharing a piece of himself, something raw and real, shaped by the life he’s lived.
"It inspired me to write this... to share... and to send...
Send it to family, acquaintances... to those I don't know...
I want to share with you... my understanding of how the word ‘friend’ goes..."
As he speaks, his voice gains strength, the rhythm building with each line.
"A friend is a person... or a being that's true...
A friend is someone... that cares about you...
How you're feelin'... how you're doin'... and if things are alright with you...
They’ll even ask you... if you're comfortable too..."
Marisol and I listen in silence, the words wrapping around us like the shade of the oak tree. It’s more than just a poem—it’s a truth, a deep understanding of what it means to care for someone, to be there when it matters.
"If you're comfortable... in your heart...
In your mind... in your soul...
If you're comfortable in your life... and achievin' your goal..."
The cadence slows, his voice softening with the weight of the next words.
"A friend wants to know... if your faith is still strong...
If you're hungry... or cold... or how you're gettin' along...
If you need a kind word... a kiss... or a hug...
They won’t avoid you, disrespect you... or treat you real smug..."
The truth of it hits hard, not because it’s surprising, but because it’s something we all know too well. In this place, in this park, friendship is survival. It’s the one thing that keeps us going when everything else falls apart.
"They’ll be there in good times... and when hard times come too...
They’ll be there to tell you... that they really love you..."
There’s a pause, and KJD’s voice drops to almost a whisper.
"A friend is a blessin'... a true gift from the Lord...
Someone you share... not hide... not hoard...
Tell people of your blessing... your gift from the Lord...
The friend that comes to see you... when you're tired, broke... or if you're bored..."
I feel the weight of those words. In this park, under this tree, we are tired, we are broke, and sometimes, we are bored. But we are here, together, and that makes all the difference.
"The friend that comes to lift you... when you're down... or might feel out...
There’s one thing you can depend on... without any measure of doubt..."
His voice wavers, just slightly, but he keeps going, the rhythm never faltering.
"They'll be there while you're livin'...
They'll be there and miss you... when you're dead...
They’ll try and show you the right path... when they see you've been misled..."
Another pause, and then, with a deep breath, KJD finishes.
"If you're hurtin'... or if you're sorrow...
For you, they will pray...
That the good Lord will bless, hold, and keep you... until your last day...
A friend is very special... very few you will have...
Thank you, Lord God Almighty... for the friends that you have allowed me to have..."
The final words hang in the air, suspended in the silence that follows.
“Thank you, Lord, for all my friends,” he says softly, folding the paper back into his pocket.
We sit there, the three of us, in that shared silence, the weight of the poem still lingering in the air. There’s nothing more to say, not right now. The words have done their job, laying bare the truth of friendship, of struggle, of survival.
In the end, that’s what we have—each other. The bonds we form, the friendships we build, they are what carry us through the hardest times. We fight, we get tough, and we protect ourselves because sometimes, no one else will. But we care, too. We care because it’s the only way to survive with our humanity intact. It’s the only way to rise above the struggle, to find meaning in the hardship.
Under that oak tree, in the park where the world has cast its forgotten, we are not alone. We are friends, brothers, sisters in struggle. And as long as we have each other, we will rise.
Kaleb James Daniels’ story is one of resilience, friendship, and survival. His journey, from hardship to finding meaning through connection, is an inspiration to us all. I urge you to share his story far and wide—so more people can learn from his incredible strength and wisdom. You can reach out to Kaleb directly at n+kjdaniels@orangeyouglad.org and connect with him personally. Follow his journey and be inspired by his progenitor’s message on YouTube or read his work on his blog, where he shares more about his life and the lessons that have shaped him. Don’t miss this opportunity to meet the inspiration behind this story.
On Eleanor Westbrook: Where the Wounds of the Soul Heal What the Flesh Cannot
The hospital room was cold, sterile, the kind of place where time stretches endlessly, and silence holds the weight of things unspoken. My body was failing me, sepsis creeping through my veins, but the real battle was deeper—one I had been fighting long before that day. There were wounds on my skin, but the wounds that hurt the most were the ones no one could see—the ones etched into my soul by years of silence and pain.
For so long, I thought strength meant staying quiet, swallowing the tears and pretending the pain wasn’t real. But as I lay there, surrounded by machines keeping me tethered to life, I realized that the real strength was in breaking open, in letting the light pour through the cracks. And so I did. The tears came, but so did the healing. I understood then that my wounds, both seen and unseen, were not signs of weakness but of survival.
"Do not be discouraged by your faults. Start over each day. You make spiritual progress by continually beginning again and again."— Saint Francis de Sales
The notebook, worn and frayed, passed quietly between women, its pages filled with a story that wasn’t just words—it was a lifeline. It began with a woman who had once lain in a hospital bed, fragile but strong, her wounds both of the body and soul. She had found her way through the pain, becoming a light in the world, someone who brought healing where it was most needed.
From her hands, the notebook moved—first to Isabel, who found it in a dusty bookstore and recognized her own hidden wounds in its pages. She passed it to Emily, who read it by lamplight, tears slipping down her face, understanding for the first time that strength didn’t mean silence. And so it went, from woman to woman, each finding comfort, each adding their own story, not in ink but in the quiet spaces of their hearts.
In the end, the notebook was more than a story. It was a reminder that we are never alone in our pain, that the light always shines through the cracks, and that, in passing our stories on, we find our place in the middle—connected, whole, and healed.
The hospital room hums softly, its sterile air thick with the sound of machines—steady, rhythmic, as though they are breathing for me. I feel the tug of the IV in my arm, the slow drip of medicine making its way into my veins, trying to fight the infection that has crept into my body. It’s strange how disconnected I feel from my own flesh, as though my body is a battlefield I can observe but not command. Sepsis, they call it—a war inside me, born of a disease I never truly understood but carried for so long. I am tethered to this bed, to the beeping and the cold fluorescent light, and yet my mind drifts elsewhere. Outside, the world spins on, and on the television, the news quietly unfolds.
Another school shooting. Georgia, they say. I hear the words but they barely touch me. The violence, the grief, the familiar script of loss—it should shock me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it pulls me back. Back to a time when violence wasn’t something I watched from a distance but something that lived inside me, something I witnessed and carried, long after the blood had dried and the screams had stopped.
I blink, and the hospital room falls away. I am no longer in this bed. I’m back in that schoolroom, sitting at my desk, young and fragile, though I’ve never stopped feeling like that girl. The smell of chalk, the scrape of chairs, the murmur of children’s voices fills the air around me. But something else lingers too—something darker. The quiet tension of fear, waiting just beyond the edges of our small world. I can feel it still, as though it never left.
Mornings used to feel safe. My mother’s hand was soft, solid, tethering me to something warm and good. I held onto it until the very last moment before I stepped onto the bus. That’s where Sarah waited for me. Always Sarah, her smile just for me. We didn’t need words. Our hands would find each other’s, our fingers curling together like roots beneath the soil, and in that small touch, there was comfort. But even that simple act of love, of connection, became wrong.
The other children made sure of that. Baby, they said, weird. I didn’t understand at first, didn’t know why they cared, but their words curled around us, small knives that cut through the warmth of Sarah’s hand in mine. I pulled away from her, more out of shame than fear, though I didn’t know why I was ashamed. The sting of their judgment stayed with me, sharp and hollow.
I can still see the bus driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, the way they met mine as she said, "Don’t cry. Be strong." Her voice wasn’t harsh, but there was something in it—an expectation. A command. I swallowed the tears before they could rise. Be strong. Don’t cry.
That was the first time I learned to silence myself. To bury the hurt so deep inside that no one could see it.
The school was alive with noise, the kind that fills the air before something awful happens. Children laughing, running, calling to each other, their joy so loud it felt fragile. I remember waving to the quiet boy at the back of the room, the one who always sat alone. He never spoke, but I saw him. And in that moment, I wanted him to know that. But even that small gesture was wrong. "You’ll catch something from him," the others said, their voices soft but sharp, like needles.
The weight of their judgment pressed down on me. I dropped my hand before it reached him, feeling a strange, cold shame settle in my chest.
We sang "Happy Birthday" that day, for the blonde girl who had just turned seven, same as me. She was perfect in all the ways I wasn’t—her golden hair shining in the morning light, her laughter bright and easy. We sang for her, and I joined in, my voice slipping into the familiar rhythms of my mother’s language. But even that was wrong. "That’s not right," they said. The teacher’s voice cut through the song, and the laughter followed.
I tried to push it down, to swallow the feeling of wrongness, but it was too late. It was already there, settling into my bones, a quiet wound that would stay with me long after the day ended.
When the bell rang, we took our seats. I opened a book, hoping to lose myself in its pages, but the feeling of not belonging was still there, heavy and constant, like something I couldn’t shake. And then came the sound that would change everything.
The first shot was so loud it didn’t seem real. It cracked through the air, sharp and final, like something tearing through the world. For a moment, no one moved. The room froze. And then came the screams, a high, piercing sound that cut through the silence like glass.
The girl with the blonde hair—the one we’d just sung for—was screaming. Her voice was raw and desperate, and I can still hear it, even now. Ms. Yetzel moved fast, her hand clamping down over the girl’s mouth, silencing her. "Be quiet," she said, her voice harsh and trembling. "Do you want us to die?" Her words hung in the air like a knife.
Another shot. And then more screams.
The room dissolved into chaos. Children crying, clutching their desks, their small bodies trembling with fear. But not me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t move. Something inside me had already turned to stone, had dried up long before the violence began.
I watched the quiet boy stand up. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. His face was calm, almost too calm, as if the world falling apart around him didn’t touch him. He moved to the door, closing it gently, then leaned against it, his small body a shield between us and the danger outside. His hands shook just slightly, but his face remained still. I wanted to reach out to him, to say something, but I couldn’t. I was trapped inside myself, my fear so deep it had no voice.
The shots kept coming, each one louder, sharper. Some of the children stopped crying, their fear swallowing their sobs. Others screamed louder, their voices rising in panic. Ms. Yetzel’s anger grew, her fear spilling over. "You’ll get us all killed," she said, her voice cracking like a whip. But no matter how angry she was, she couldn’t stop the terror that had taken over the room.
And then the final shot came, louder than all the others, rattling the walls, shaking the floor beneath us. And then… silence. A deep, suffocating silence that pressed down on us, heavy and awful. No one cried. No one moved. The quiet boy stayed at the door, his body still, but I could see the way his hands gripped the doorframe, trembling just slightly.
I wanted to say something, to reach out to him, but the words were gone. All that was left was the silence, thick and endless.
Years later, as I lie in this hospital bed, the memory of that day is still with me, lodged somewhere deep inside, like a splinter that never healed. But it wasn’t the gunshots that wounded me the most. It wasn’t even the fear or the loss of life. It was the silence. The silence of being told, again and again, that I was wrong. The wound wasn’t in my body—it was in my soul.
For years, I carried that wound. The kind that doesn’t bleed, the kind that doesn’t show. It festered inside me, even as my body moved on, even as I grew. Flesh-bound wounds can heal, even if they leave scars. But the wounds of the soul, the ones we carry in silence, those take longer. Sometimes, they never heal at all.
The sepsis in my body now, this disease that has brought me here—it’s a different kind of wound. It is flesh-bound, something the doctors can fight with their sterile tools and steady hands. But the wound I carried for all those years, the one that told me I wasn’t enough, that I wasn’t right—that wound can’t be touched by medicine.
As I lie here, I realize that I have spent so much of my life hiding that wound. I swallowed the tears, buried the pain, and told myself that being strong meant staying silent. I thought that if I didn’t show the hurt, it would disappear. But it didn’t. It only grew.
Now, as my body fights to heal, I see the truth. Strength doesn’t come from silence. It doesn’t come from pretending the wound isn’t there. It comes from feeling it, from allowing the cracks to form, from letting the light through. The soul needs healing, too.
And so, for the first time, I let the tears fall. Not for the violence of that day. Not for the girl I was or the fear I felt. But for the years I spent hiding my wounds, pretending they weren’t there. For the years I spent being strong, when what I needed was to let myself break.
My soul is like a floodlight, and it shines through the cracks. The cracks formed by pain, by silence, by all the things that tried to break me. Flesh wounds may scar and fade, but these wounds of the soul—they shape us. They linger, but they also let the light through. And now, for the first time, I am letting that light out.
The world outside is still filled with violence. The news tells me that it hasn’t stopped. But something inside me has shifted. I have stopped listening to the voices that told me to stay silent, to hide my wounds. I have stopped following the rules that said love must be small, that pain must be hidden.
Now, I listen. To my body, to my heart, to the people I love. And in that listening, I find a strength I never knew before. A strength that doesn’t come from being unbroken but from embracing the brokenness.
Maybe, if we all start to listen—if we listen to each other’s wounds, the ones on the skin and the ones deep inside—we can begin to heal. Maybe, if we listen, we can end the violence. Not just the violence of guns, but the violence of silence. The violence of telling ourselves that we are not enough, that we are not right.
If we listen, we can catch each other before we fall. We can hold on before the world pulls us apart. And maybe, just maybe, we can shine.
Because I believe that all things work together for good. And in that belief, I find my strength.
Eleanor Westbrook’s story is one of resilience, healing, and the light that shines through even the deepest wounds. Her journey is a testament to the power of embracing our heritage and turning pain into purpose. Share her story and be inspired to find your own strength through her wisdom.
Contact Eleanor Westbrook: n+eleanorw@orangeyougald.org
On Isabel Marisol Ruiz: A Journey Back to the Heart of Her Lost Homeland
Isabel Marisol Ruiz returned to Nicaragua, a land scarred by revolution, seeking healing and connection. In the old church, she found solace in music and purpose in caring for a young boy. Her story is one of resilience, bridging the past and present, where quiet strength meets unshakable hope.
"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars." — Kahlil Gibran
As I sat at the old piano, its worn keys cool beneath my fingers, I played a few soft notes, letting the sound resonate through the empty church. When I pressed the highest key, a sharp, clear note rang out, but something more happened—a faint click, almost imperceptible. Curious, I leaned closer, my fingers exploring the edge of the key until I found a small, hidden compartment.
Inside, tucked carefully within the hollow, was a weathered notebook, its pages yellowed with age. The cover, once vibrant, had faded to a soft, muted hue, but the name written across it was still clear: Isabel Marisol Ruiz. My breath caught as I gently opened it, revealing handwritten entries, a life poured out in ink. Here, in this forgotten notebook, lay the story of a woman who had returned to her homeland, seeking healing, connection, and a place to call home once more.
The airplane touched down with a jolt, its wheels skidding across the weathered tarmac of Managua’s Augusto C. Sandino International Airport. As I stepped off the plane, the heavy, humid air of Nicaragua enveloped me, clinging to my skin like a damp shroud. The scent of this land, my birthplace, was a complex mixture of wet earth, ripe fruit, and wood smoke. It struck me immediately, a sensory reminder of a life long buried beneath decades of American comfort. Born here in 1978, in the midst of a violent revolution, my earliest memories were fractured—flashes of terror, the echo of gunfire, the hurried whispers of adults trying to shield me from the chaos. But most of all, I remembered the silence that followed the end of the revolution, a silence so deep and pervasive that it seemed to swallow everything around it, including the voices of my parents who had been taken by the war.
That silence followed me across the ocean when I was adopted by an American family, becoming a shadow that clung to me in my new life. My adoptive parents were kind and loving, but they could not understand the weight of the silence I carried within me, the void left by the trauma I could not yet name. The only place I found solace was at the piano in our living room. It was a grand instrument, its black lacquered surface reflecting the light of our cozy home, so different from the war-torn landscape I had left behind. The piano became my refuge, a place where I could express the emotions I could not speak of—the fear, the loss, the confusion. My fingers would dance across the keys for hours, each note a thread in the intricate tapestry of my inner world. It was through music that I began to heal, though the scars of my past remained hidden beneath the surface.
Years turned into decades, and I built a life in America—a life that, on the surface, seemed perfect. But deep down, a part of me remained in Nicaragua, trapped in the memories of a childhood cut short by violence. News from my homeland would reach me sporadically, like distant echoes carried on the wind. Sometimes, I would hear of political unrest or natural disasters, but it all seemed far away, disconnected from the life I had built. That changed in 2018 when the echoes grew louder, turning into a deafening roar. Reports of violent attacks on Indigenous and Afro-descendant communities, of religious leaders being persecuted, of human rights advocates and journalists being silenced—it was as if the country had plunged back into the darkness of my childhood. The stories stirred something within me, a long-dormant sense of responsibility or perhaps a need for closure. I knew then that I had to return.
The journey back to Nicaragua was surreal, a blending of past and present that left me disoriented. As the taxi wound its way through the countryside, I was struck by the landscape’s beauty—lush, verdant, teeming with life. The air was thick with the scent of flowering jasmine, ripe mangoes, and the occasional waft of something less pleasant—rotting vegetation, animal waste, and the unmistakable tang of blood. It was a land of contrasts, where beauty and brutality coexisted in a delicate, uneasy balance. The taxi driver, a man in his sixties with deep lines etched into his face, seemed to sense my unease. He spoke to me in a soft, gravelly voice, telling stories of the land, its history, and its people. He spoke of the resilience of the Nicaraguan spirit, of how the people had endured decades of suffering yet continued to fight for a better future. His words were comforting, a reminder that I was not alone in my journey.
I had arranged to stay in a small town nestled in the mountains, a place far removed from the chaos of the capital. The town, once a vibrant community, had been devastated by the 2000 earthquake, which had left many homes in ruins and the church barely standing. The church had once been the heart of the town, its stone walls a sanctuary for the faithful. Now, it stood as a reminder of the fragility of life, its walls cracked, its roof patched with tin and tarpaulins. But despite its dilapidated state, the church still exuded a sense of sanctity, of peace. It was here that I had been offered a room, a small space with a narrow bed, a wooden chair, and a table. A crucifix hung on the wall above the bed, its paint chipped and faded, the face of Christ almost indistinguishable. The room was sparse, but it was enough.
Outside, near what had once been the altar, an old piano sat beneath a canopy of trees, its polished wood gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The piano was a relic from another time, a testament to the resilience of art amidst destruction. Its keys, though worn and slightly yellowed, still reflected the light in a way that made them seem almost ethereal, as if they were not just part of the piano but part of the world itself, capturing the light of a sun that had shone over centuries of history. I approached the piano slowly, the air around me heavy with the scent of blooming flowers and the faint musk of earth. My fingers hesitated over the keys, as if uncertain whether they still remembered how to play. But when I began to press down, the music came—not in the structured, melodic way I had once played, but in a torrent of sound that mirrored the chaos within me.
The piece I played had no name, no form. It was a wild, tumultuous expression of everything I had kept buried for so long. The notes crashed together like thunder, rolled like the sea in a storm, and whispered like rain on parched soil. It was as if the piano had become an extension of the land itself, its voice resonating with the pain and the beauty of Nicaragua. I later called this piece "Metronome on Low," for it had the steady, relentless rhythm of a metronome, yet it was filled with the unpredictable fury of nature. As I played, I could feel the air around me thicken, as if the very atmosphere was alive with the music, vibrating with every note.
As I continued to play, I became aware of the townspeople gathering outside the church, drawn by the music. Their voices, at first a soft murmur, began to swell, a wave of sound that mingled with the music. But as the music grew more intense, their murmurs turned into cries, then screams. I stopped playing, the sudden silence almost deafening in its intensity. My heart pounded in my chest as I walked outside, the transition from the shadowed interior of the church to the blazing sunlight blinding me for a moment.
Across the road, in a field overrun with nettles, I saw them—a pack of mangy dogs, their matted fur and gaunt frames a testament to the harshness of life in this place. They were circling something hidden within the thorny plants, their attention focused, their movements predatory. Without thinking, I grabbed a stick and ran towards them, my feet pounding against the dusty ground. The air was thick with the smell of dry grass and sweat, the sun beating down on me with relentless intensity.
When I reached the nettles, the dogs scattered, slinking away into the shadows. What I found there in the thicket stopped me in my tracks. A boy, no more than nine or ten, lay curled in the underbrush, his small body covered in bites and bruises. His clothes were torn, his skin raw from the nettles that surrounded him. The sight of him was like a physical blow, the pain in his eyes mirroring the pain in my own heart. The nettles stung as I knelt down beside him, their sharp, burning touch a cruel reminder of the suffering that had brought me back to this land.
I lifted him into my arms, feeling the weight of his fragile body against my chest. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, I saw something in them—recognition, gratitude, perhaps even hope. He whispered something in his native tongue, words I hadn’t heard in years, thanking me for coming. The sound of his voice, so weak and yet so full of life, brought tears to my eyes. I held him close, feeling the warmth of his breath against my neck, and began to carry him back to the church.
The journey back seemed to stretch on forever, each step a battle against the scorching sun and the biting nettles that tore at my legs. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a prayer for the boy’s survival. By the time we reached the church, he had lost consciousness, his breathing shallow and uneven. I laid him down near the old fountain, its water still clear despite the layers of dust and debris that covered everything else since the earthquake of 2000. The fountain was a relic, much like the piano, a symbol of resilience in the face of devastation.
I washed his wounds with the cool water, the only thing I could think to do. The water, clear and pure, seemed to soothe his pain, though it did nothing to ease the ache in my own heart. I found an old altar boy’s robe hidden away in a corner and dressed him in it, the fabric soft and worn from years of use. He was unconscious now, his small chest rising and falling with each labored breath, but he was alive.
Over the next year, the boy and I became inseparable. His recovery was slow, each day a struggle against the remnants of the trauma that had nearly taken his life. But with each passing week, he grew stronger, his spirit unbroken despite the horrors he had endured. He began running errands through the town, his small figure a familiar sight to the townspeople. They would greet him with smiles and kind words, their eyes filled with the same mixture of hope and despair that had greeted me upon my arrival.
As for me, I found my purpose in those months. I spent my days listening to the stories of the people, offering what little comfort I could. The music I played in the church became a way to connect with them, a way to bridge the gap between my past and their present. I discovered that my true calling was not just to play the piano, but to be there—to bear witness to their suffering, to validate their pain with compassion, to offer a listening ear and a kind word.
The church was more than just a building; it was the spiritual center of the town. Every Sunday, despite the crumbling walls and the patched roof, the townspeople gathered here, dressed in their best clothes, their faces reflecting the hardships they had endured and the faith that sustained them. The priest, an elderly man with a gentle voice and a deep understanding of the human condition, would lead the congregation in prayer, his words resonating through the cracked walls. He spoke of hope, of resilience, of the need to care for one another in these difficult times. I found myself drawn to his sermons, not just for the comfort they offered, but for the way they connected me to the people around me, to the land I had once called home.
I began to learn more about the town's history, the stories that had shaped it. There was the old woman who lived in a house at the edge of the town, a woman who had lost her entire family in the earthquake but had somehow found the strength to rebuild her life. There was the young man who had been a promising student before the revolution but had been forced to abandon his studies to fight. Now, he worked as a carpenter, his hands rough from years of labor, but his eyes still bright with intelligence and curiosity. These stories, these people, became a part of my daily life, a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit.
The local festivals were a vibrant contrast to the daily struggles of the people. The Festival of San Juan was the most anticipated event of the year, a time when the entire town came together to celebrate with music, dance, and food. The streets were lined with stalls selling traditional Nicaraguan dishes—gallo pinto, nacatamales, vigorón. The air was thick with the smell of grilling meat and the sound of marimbas, their lively tunes echoing through the narrow streets. For a few days, the town forgot its troubles, lost in the joy of celebration. I played the piano during these festivals, my music mingling with the sounds of laughter and song, creating a tapestry of sound that seemed to lift the entire town.
The priest, Father Gabriel, became a mentor to me. He was a man who had seen much suffering in his life, yet had never lost his faith in humanity. He would often sit with me in the evenings, sharing stories from his youth, stories of love and loss, of faith and doubt. He spoke of the importance of forgiveness, not just of others, but of oneself. His words resonated with me, helping me to process the guilt and anger I had carried for so long. He encouraged me to see my return to Nicaragua not as a penance, but as an opportunity to heal, both myself and the people around me.
The boy, whom I came to know as Diego, slowly began to open up to me. He told me of his life before the attack, of his family who had been forced to flee their home because of the violence, of the months he had spent wandering from town to town, surviving on scraps of food and the kindness of strangers. His resilience amazed me, as did his capacity for joy despite the horrors he had endured. He would often accompany me on my visits to the townspeople, his presence bringing smiles to faces that had known too much sorrow. Over time, he became not just a companion, but a reminder of the power of hope and the importance of human connection.
I also formed a close bond with a group of women who lived near the church. They were strong, resilient women who had faced unimaginable hardships but had found strength in their community. They taught me how to cook traditional Nicaraguan dishes, laughing as I fumbled with the unfamiliar ingredients. They shared their stories with me, stories of loss and survival, of love and betrayal. Through them, I began to understand the true meaning of resilience, of the strength that comes from enduring and overcoming. They became my support network, my friends, and through them, I found a sense of belonging that I had not felt in years.
The heat was oppressive, a constant, suffocating presence that seemed to press down on me, sapping my energy and clouding my thoughts. The air was thick with the smell of dust and sweat, the sun beating down relentlessly, turning the ground into a parched, cracked landscape. Yet there was beauty in the harshness, in the way the light filtered through the canopy of trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground. The sound of insects buzzing in the air, the distant call of birds, the rustle of leaves in the breeze—all these small details created a tapestry of sound and sensation that was both overwhelming and oddly comforting.
The changing seasons brought with them a shift in the atmosphere of the town. As the dry season gave way to the rains, the landscape was transformed. The parched earth became lush and green, the rivers swelled with fresh water, and the air was filled with the sound of rain pounding against the rooftops. The rain brought with it a sense of renewal, of cleansing, washing away the dust and grime of the dry season. It was during these rains that I felt a sense of peace, a sense of healing. The sound of the rain became a part of my music, its steady rhythm a reminder of the cycles of life, of the constant ebb and flow of pain and joy.
The nights were a different kind of sensory experience. The darkness in the countryside was absolute, the sky a vast expanse of black velvet dotted with stars. The air was cool, a welcome relief from the heat of the day, and filled with the sound of nocturnal creatures stirring in the underbrush. The town was quiet at night, the only sounds the occasional bark of a dog or the distant cry of an owl. I would often sit outside the church, listening to the sounds of the night, feeling the cool breeze on my skin, and letting the peace of the moment wash over me. These moments of solitude were precious, a time for reflection and for connecting with the land on a deeper level.
As the months passed, I found myself reflecting more and more on my past, on the girl I had been before the revolution had torn my life apart. I remembered my parents, their faces growing clearer in my mind with each passing day. I remembered the way my mother would sing to me at night, her voice soft and soothing, a lullaby that had been lost in the chaos of war. I remembered my father, his strong hands lifting me high above his head, making me feel safe, invincible. These memories, once painful, began to bring me comfort. They became a way for me to reconnect with the girl I had been, to integrate her into the woman I had become.
I also began to confront the guilt I had carried with me for so long—the guilt of having survived when so many others had not, the guilt of having left Nicaragua behind while the people I loved had suffered. Father Gabriel’s words echoed in my mind, his gentle reminders that forgiveness was a gift I needed to give myself. I started to see my return to Nicaragua not as a penance, but as a way to honor the memory of my parents, to give back to the land that had given me life. This shift in perspective was not easy, but it was necessary. It allowed me to move forward, to embrace my role in the community with an open heart and a clear mind.
The tension between my American upbringing and my Nicaraguan roots was another source of inner conflict. I had spent years trying to assimilate, to become American in every way possible, yet now I found myself longing for the culture I had left behind. The music, the food, the language—all these things had been a part of my early life, and now they were slowly coming back to me. I began to see the beauty in my dual identity, the way my American experience and my Nicaraguan heritage could coexist, enriching my life in ways I had never imagined. This reconciliation of identities became a central theme in my journey, a journey of self-discovery and healing.
As the anniversary of my return to Nicaragua approached, I found myself facing a significant challenge. The town was planning to rebuild the church, to restore it to its former glory as the heart of the community. The project was ambitious, requiring not just money, but the labor and dedication of the entire town. Father Gabriel asked me to lead the effort, to use my connections in America to raise the necessary funds. It was a daunting task, one that tested my newfound strength and resilience. But it was also an opportunity to give back, to leave a lasting legacy in the place that had given me so much.
The rebuilding of the church became a symbol of the town’s renewal, a sign of hope for the future. The entire community came together, each person contributing what they could. Diego, now fully recovered and thriving, became a leader among the children, organizing them to help with the clean-up and preparation. The women I had come to know so well worked tirelessly, cooking meals for the workers, sewing new vestments for the priests, and decorating the church with flowers and candles. The men, many of whom had lived through the revolution, brought their skills and experience to the project, working long hours in the hot sun to rebuild the walls, to lay new tiles on the roof.
As the church neared completion, I felt a sense of accomplishment, of fulfillment. The music I played in the church had changed too. It was no longer the wild, tumultuous expression of my inner chaos, but a reflection of the peace I had found. The notes flowed smoothly, each one a prayer of gratitude, a testament to the healing power of community and connection. The final piece I played on the day of the church’s rededication was a simple melody, one that echoed through the walls, carrying with it the hopes and dreams of the people who had come together to rebuild their town.
Please share Isabel Marisol Ruiz's story—a tale of resilience, healing, and finding home in a land scarred by history. Her journey, hidden for so long, deserves to be heard. Let her voice inspire others to seek hope amidst the ruins.
Connect with Isabel Marisol Ruiz at n+imruiz@orangeyouglad.org to learn more about her inspiring journey.
On Luca Martelli: The Sculptor of Shadows and Light
Luca Martelli, a man who hid his true self behind marble and stone, lived a life sculpted by love, guilt, and the search for acceptance. In the shadows, he found solace in his art, where each piece was a confession of the identity he could never fully reveal to the world.
"Do not be afraid of the wounds of Christ; do not be ashamed of the cross of Christ. The cross is the unique hope."
— Saint John Paul II
I was wandering through an old, dusty bookstore on a quiet street corner, the kind of place where time seems to stand still. As I browsed the shelves, my fingers brushed against a worn leather notebook tucked away behind a stack of forgotten tomes. Curious, I pulled it out and opened it. The pages were yellowed, filled with elegant handwriting, the words barely legible from years of neglect.
Tucked inside the cover was a small, well-used fountain pen with the initials "L.M." engraved on its side. I felt a strange connection as I held it, as if the pen had stories to tell. Flipping through the pages, I discovered sketches and notes—fragments of a life lived in shadows, yet full of passion and depth. It was Luca Martelli's notebook, a glimpse into the mind of a man who had sculpted his identity with words and ink, just as he had with marble and stone.
Holding that pen, I felt as though I had found a key to Luca's world, a way to share his story with others. This was more than just a notebook; it was a piece of Luca's soul, a legacy waiting to be passed on.
I have everything I ever dreamed of—wealth, success, a life adorned with the finest things. Marble floors echo beneath my footsteps, and the walls of my home are lined with art that speaks of a legacy I was born into. I am the product of a proud Italian family, the heir to a name that carries weight and expectation. But behind the grandeur, beneath the surface of my carefully curated life, there is a weight that presses against my chest, a burden I carry alone.
From a young age, I understood that the world had a plan for me, a path laid out in marble and gold. But my heart, that ever-rebellious organ, had other plans. It whispered truths to me in the quiet of the night, truths that I could not share with anyone. You see, I am a creator. My mind is a kaleidoscope of ideas, my hands skilled at bringing visions to life. I know who I am, both in heart and in mind. Yet, I hide a part of myself from the world—a part that society has long told me is a perverse sin.
I am a man who loves other men.
This truth, simple yet profound, is the source of my deepest guilt and my greatest shame. I have been taught to believe that who I am is wrong, that my desires are unnatural, that my love is a stain on my soul. And so, I have learned to hide. I have become a master of disguise, a man who can wear a hundred masks and never reveal the truth beneath. Even in my art, my one true refuge, I abstract my identity, shrouding it in metaphors and symbols that only I can truly understand.
But there are moments—fleeting, fragile moments—when I allow myself to be seen, if only by myself. In the privacy of my studio, surrounded by the tools of my craft, I let my hands speak the truths that my mouth cannot. Each brushstroke, each chisel strike, is a confession. The marble block before me becomes a canvas for my soul, revealing the contours of my inner life in ways that words never could.
And yet, even as I carve my identity into stone, I feel the weight of societal condemnation bearing down on me. Every piece I create is a paradox—a testament to my love and a reflection of the guilt that shadows me. But I cannot stop. The need to create, to express, is too powerful. It is through this art that I find a measure of peace, even as the world continues to judge me.
My life is a delicate balance, a dance between the public persona I present to the world and the private self I keep hidden away. In public, I am the perfect son, the dutiful heir, the successful creator. But in private, my mind is a storm of conflicting thoughts and emotions. I long to be free, to let the world see me as I truly am. But fear holds me back, whispering that the cost of honesty is too great.
There are moments, however, when the masks slip—when I catch a glimpse of my true self in the mirror and almost dare to acknowledge him. These moments are both terrifying and exhilarating. They remind me that I am more than the sum of my fears, that there is a core of truth within me that no amount of societal pressure can fully extinguish. But they also remind me of the dangers of stepping too far out of line, of revealing too much to a world that is not ready to accept me.
As I grow older, I find myself increasingly at odds with the world around me. The city I live in is alive with the hum of life, but I move through it like a ghost, unseen and unheard. I have learned to navigate it with caution, to avoid the traps laid by those who would see me fall. But there is anger in me, too—a fire that burns brighter with each passing day. My art becomes my voice, my way of pushing back against a society that would erase me if it could.
Each piece I create is a challenge, a statement that says, "I exist. I am here. And I will not be silenced." There is a rawness to my work now, a directness that wasn’t there before. I no longer have the luxury of hiding behind abstractions. The world has forced me to be bold, to stand up and claim my place in it. But with this defiance comes loneliness—a deep, aching loneliness that I can never quite shake.
In the quiet moments, when the noise of the world fades away, I am left with myself—with my thoughts, my regrets, my longings. I am older now, more worn, but still searching for the same things I have always searched for: love, acceptance, peace. My relationships are tinged with the same melancholy that has always been there, the same unfulfilled desires and unspoken truths.
But even in this loneliness, there is something beautiful. There is a depth to my life, a richness that comes from living with both the joy and the pain. I reflect on the choices I have made, the paths I have taken, and I see that they have all led me here, to this moment, to this understanding of myself. And in that, there is a kind of peace.
I do not know what the future holds for me. Perhaps I will continue to live in shadows, hiding the truth of who I am from a world that is not yet ready to accept it. Or perhaps I will find the strength to step into the light, to reveal myself fully, and to let the world see the man that God has created. But regardless of what path I choose, I know this: I will build a city.
A city of love, of compassion, of understanding. A city that reflects the light of my soul, even as it acknowledges the darkness that has shaped it. It will be a city where all are welcome, where no one is judged for who they love, and where the only sin is the failure to love.
In this city, I will find peace. In this city, I will find myself.
Luca Martelli's journey is one of profound courage and quiet resilience. In a world that often demands conformity, Luca dares to live in the shadows while sculpting a life of love and light. His story is a testament to the human spirit's ability to find hope amidst guilt and societal judgment. By sharing Luca's story, we give voice to those who struggle in silence, reminding the world that every soul, no matter how hidden, deserves to be seen and loved.
On Jeremiah 'J' Thompson: A Lifelong Journey from Shadows to Light, Inspired by the Innocence of a Child and the Wisdom of the World
The light dances across Mr. J's weathered face, highlighting the deep lines that speak of years of quiet endurance. His eyes, dark and reflective, hold a spark of hope that refuses to fade, while the slight cleft in his lip adds a gentle softness to his slow, deliberate smile—a smile that reveals the quiet strength within.
"Is there so much love in the world that we can afford to discriminate against any kind of love?"
— Father Mychal Judge
In the dim, forgotten corner of an old building, tucked away behind a heavy wooden door, lies a janitor’s closet. The room is small, the air thick with the scent of dust and time. At first glance, it seems ordinary—just an old, cramped space filled with the remnants of years gone by. But as the door creaks open, the dim light reveals something extraordinary.
Every square inch of the walls is covered in paintings, the works of a great artist who poured their soul into each brushstroke. The canvases, though faded, still hum with vibrant colors and emotions that leap from the walls. They tell stories of love, loss, joy, and sorrow—each painting a window into a world long past but still alive in these silent confines. These works, infused with the wisdom of the world, capture moments of profound realization, the subtle shifts from darkness to light that only a lifetime of observation can convey.
In the center of the room, there’s a single old chair, its wooden legs worn smooth by the hands of time. The seat, though simple, holds a quiet dignity, as if it has witnessed countless stories, waiting patiently for someone to sit and listen. The chair, like the room itself, is a symbol of endurance—a silent witness to the passage of time, where the innocence of a child’s first steps into understanding meets the deep reflections of a world-weary soul.
And then, there are the notebooks—87 in total—stacked neatly along the shelves, their spines cracked and their pages yellowed with age. Each one holds a piece of a larger puzzle, filled with the thoughts, dreams, and confessions of those who came before. Among them is a single notebook, different from the rest, its cover more worn and its pages more fragile. Inside, a story unfolds—A Lifelong Journey from Shadows to Light, Inspired by the Innocence of a Child and the Wisdom of the World. It’s the tale of Mr. Jeremiah "J" Thompson, a man who, despite his struggles, found the courage to step out of the shadows. Guided by the innocent light of a child and the hard-earned wisdom of a life lived in quiet perseverance, he embarked on a journey of self-discovery, of finding his voice, and of embracing the light he once thought beyond his reach.
The janitor’s closet, once forgotten, is now a sanctuary for these stories—a place where art, memory, and emotion converge. It is here, in this quiet, undisturbed darkness, that the truths of life are revealed, waiting for the next soul to enter, to sit in that old chair, and to discover the hidden treasures it holds. In this space, the innocence of a child and the wisdom of the world find their rightful place, intertwined in a lifelong journey from shadows to light.
I sit on this old, weathered bench, my familiar post beneath the great canvas of the sky, where the clouds move like slow ships across a boundless sea of blue. They float lazily, unhurried, as if time itself has taken a pause to catch its breath. The playground stretches before me, a stage set for the daily play of life, where shadows and light dance together, each one chasing the other in a never-ending cycle. The swings creak with the gentle push of the wind, the slide gleams under the sun, and the voices of children rise and fall, like the distant echoes of a forgotten song.
My body feels the weight of the years, each movement a reminder of time’s relentless march. My hands, calloused and slow, rest on my knees, while my mind drifts, sometimes clear, often foggy, like the morning mist that clings to the earth before the sun burns it away. I’ve spent so many years in this place, watching, waiting, my thoughts like old records that skip and stutter but never quite find their rhythm. Yet, in these moments of stillness, when the world outside seems to fade into the background, I feel a quiet connection to something greater, something that hovers just beyond my reach.
Then, like clockwork, he appears. The little boy, the one who stands apart from the others, the one who moves through the world with a different kind of grace. His skin is dark, like mine, but his spirit... his spirit is something else, something bright, something that shines from within. He carries with him a quiet confidence, a sense of purpose that belies his small frame. Every day, he comes alone, crumbs still clinging to his shirt, a smudge of jelly on his lips, the remnants of a lunch hastily consumed. He walks with a certain rhythm, a beat that only he can hear, and it draws my attention, pulls me in like the tide.
I watch as he approaches the slide, that old, red slide that has seen so many children come and go, each one leaving a bit of themselves behind. But this boy, he’s different. There’s something about the way he moves, the way he climbs those silver steps, slow and deliberate, like each one is a step toward something sacred, something only he can see. The rungs of the ladder catch the light, turning them into shining threads, a bridge between the ordinary and the divine. He climbs, higher and higher, until he reaches the top, where he pauses, standing tall, his small frame silhouetted against the sky.
And then, as if on cue, the train comes. I can feel it before I hear it, the ground trembling beneath my feet, a low, deep rumble that grows louder, more insistent, as it draws near. The sound of the crossing bells rings out, clear and sharp, followed by the long, mournful wail of the horn, a sound that seems to echo through the very fabric of the world. The boy, he stands there, at the top of that slide, and he waves. He waves at the train, at the world beyond, as if to say, "I see you. I see you, and I’m not afraid."
For a moment, time stands still. The playground, the children, the world itself seems to fade into the background, leaving only the boy and the light, bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. He stands there, in that light, as if he’s been lifted out of the shadows, out of the darkness, and into a place where only the purest of hearts can go. He stands there, and I... I am transfixed. I am caught in that moment, in that light, and for the first time in a long, long time, I feel something stir deep within me.
As the train passes, its sound gradually fading into the distance, the other children begin to arrive. Their laughter, their shouts, bring the world back into focus, pulling me out of the light and back into the familiar rhythm of the day. The boy, he finally slides down, back to the earth, back to the reality we all must face, but something has changed. Not just in him, but in me too. I feel it in my bones, in the way my heart beats a little faster, in the way my breath catches in my throat. That boy, with his innocence, his courage, has shown me something I had long forgotten—the light outside the cave, the world beyond the shadows.
I remember the first time I realized I was different. It was a day much like this one, many years ago, when I was no more than a boy myself. I had been sitting in a classroom, staring at the words on the blackboard, trying to make sense of them, but they swam before my eyes, twisting and turning like snakes in the grass. The other children, they laughed, they joked, they read aloud with ease, while I struggled to keep up, to make the words come out right. I knew then that I was different, that there was something inside me that didn’t work the way it should. It was a heavy burden to carry, one that has weighed me down ever since.
But that boy... that boy on the slide, he’s different in a way that makes him strong, not weak. He’s different in a way that gives him power, not fear. He stands at the top of that slide, in the light, unafraid, unyielding, and I see in him a reflection of something I lost long ago. I see in him the courage to step out of the shadows, to face the world with open eyes, with an open heart.
That day, as I watched him descend from that slide, I made a decision. I decided that I, too, would leave my cave. I decided that I would break free from the chains that had bound me for so long, that I would learn to write, to speak, to tell the stories that had been buried deep inside me. It was a decision born of desperation, of a need to find some meaning in the life I had lived, in the life I still had left to live.
As I rise from the bench, my old bones creaking in protest, I turn and walk back into the school. The quiet halls are filled with the ghosts of memories, of children long gone, of teachers who once stood at the blackboard, their voices echoing in my mind. I walk slowly, each step measured, each step a reminder of the years that have passed, of the years that are still to come. I pass by the classrooms, now empty, the desks neatly arranged, the blackboards wiped clean. And then, as I reach the end of the hallway, I see it—a reflection in the glass, a face staring back at me, a face I barely recognize.
The lines on my face, they are deep, like the grooves of an old record, each one telling a story, each one a testament to the life I have lived. My eyes, they are tired, weary from years of struggle, of pain, but there is something else there too, something new, something born from that boy’s light. I see it in the way my eyes catch the light, in the way my lips curl into a small, hesitant smile. I see it in the way my reflection seems to shimmer, to dance in the glass, as if it is not just a reflection, but a vision, a glimpse of something greater.
I think of that boy, his face so young, so full of life, of dreams. He has seen the outside, he has touched the light, and he is unafraid. Me, I’m just beginning to see it, just starting to understand what it means to step out of the shadows, to break free from the chains that have bound me for so long. But I know now, I know that it ain’t too late. That boy, he gave me the courage to see, to write, to be more than just a man in the shadows.
As I continue to walk those quiet halls, mop in hand, I feel a change, a stirring deep within, as if the light has finally reached me, as if the darkness is finally starting to fade. The world outside, it’s vast, it’s full of light, of life, and I... I am ready to step into it, to embrace it, to become a part of it.
My thoughts turn inward, to the days of my youth, to the times when I would sit alone, in the dark corners of the schoolyard, watching the other children play, feeling the weight of my difference like a heavy stone in my chest. I remember the shame, the anger, the fear that came with not being able to read, to write, to do the things that came so easily to others. I remember the loneliness, the isolation, the feeling of being trapped in a world where I could not fully participate.
But now, as I walk these halls, I feel that weight begin to lift, that stone begin to crack. I feel the light begin to seep into the cracks, to warm the cold places inside me, to bring life to the parts of me that had long been dormant. I think of the boy on the slide, of the way he stood there, unafraid, in the light, and I feel a sense of hope, of possibility, that I have not felt in many years.
The faces of the children I have watched over the years come to mind, each one a reminder of the passage of time, of the countless days spent in this place, in this school. I see their smiles, hear their laughter, feel their energy, their vitality. They are like bright stars in the night sky, each one shining with its own unique light, each one a beacon of hope in the darkness.
I think of the teachers who have come and gone, of the lessons they have taught, of the knowledge they have imparted. I think of the words they have written on the blackboard, of the books they have read aloud, of the stories they have shared. I think of the wisdom they have passed on, of the seeds they have planted in the minds of the young, and I wonder if perhaps, in some small way, I too have been a part of that.
As I walk, the echoes of the past surround me, the voices of the children, the teachers, the laughter, the shouts, the quiet moments of reflection. They are all a part of this place, a part of me, and I carry them with me as I move forward, as I step out of the shadows and into the light.
And so, I write. I write because I have seen the light, because I have felt the warmth of the sun, because I know that the journey has just begun. I write for that boy on the slide, for the light he has shown me, for the world beyond the cave. I write because I am ready to step into the world, to embrace it, to become a part of it. I write because I have finally found my voice, and I am ready to share it with the world.
As I finish my day, as I put away my mop and broom, as I turn off the lights and lock the doors, I step outside into the cool evening air. The sky is dark now, the stars beginning to appear, each one a tiny point of light in the vast expanse of the universe. I stand there for a moment, looking up at the stars, feeling the cool breeze on my face, and I smile.
For the first time in a long time, I feel at peace. I feel a sense of connection to the world around me, to the people I have known, to the life I have lived. I feel a sense of purpose, of meaning, of hope. And I know, deep in my heart, that I am ready. I am ready to step out of the shadows, to embrace the light, to live my life fully, to write my story.
And so, I walk home, the stars shining above me, the light of the world all around me. I walk with a sense of purpose, with a sense of determination, with a sense of hope. I walk, and I write, and I know that I am finally free.
Mr. J's story is one of quiet strength and resilience, a testament to the endurance of the human spirit. His life, etched in the lines of his face and the wisdom in his eyes, reflects the silent victories won through years of humble service and unspoken dreams. By sharing his story, you help honor the journey of a man who has lived with dignity and grace, even in the face of life’s challenges. Please share Mr. J's story, and let his legacy inspire others to find strength in their own quiet moments.
You can reach out to Mr. Jeremiah "J" Thompson at n+jeremiahthompson@orangeyouglad.org. Your words of support and guidance could make a meaningful impact on his journey.
On Santiago: The Dream, The River and the Veil
Santiago’s mind is a landscape where emotion flows like a river through the valleys of his thoughts, carving out paths of empathy, introspection, and yearning. His sensitivity to the world around him creates a deep resonance within, where every experience becomes a note in the symphony of his inner life. In the emotional mapping of his brain, we see regions illuminated by a profound understanding of others' feelings, a gift that allows him to connect on a level beyond words.
Yet, this same sensitivity often leads him into the quiet depths of contemplation, where he grapples with the tension between the earthly and the divine. His heart longs for something greater—a truth, a light—that he senses but cannot always grasp. In moments of prayer, his mind finds calm, a serene focus that aligns his thoughts and emotions, guiding him toward peace. Santiago's emotional brain is not just a reflection of his reactions, but the very essence of his journey through life, shaped by his profound connection to the world and his quest for meaning.
"God is the friend of silence. See how nature—trees, flowers, grass—grows in silence; see the stars, the moon, and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls."
—Saint Teresa of Calcutta (Mother Teresa)
A notebook, worn and weathered by the passage of time, was found nestled in the crevice of a wooden pew in a small church in Fresno nearly forty years ago. The leather cover, once smooth and polished, now bears the marks of countless hands that have held it, each one leaving behind a trace of their journey, their prayers, their hopes. The pages inside are yellowed, edges frayed, the ink slightly faded, yet the words remain clear, etched with the quiet reverence of those who wrote them.
For decades, this humble church has stood as a refuge, a place where the weary and the seeking come to find solace, to encounter the presence of Christ. The notebook, unassuming in its appearance, became a silent witness to the spiritual journeys of those who passed through its doors. It has been read by many, each soul finding something of themselves in its pages—comfort, guidance, perhaps even a glimpse of the divine. The words within it speak of faith and doubt, of struggles and revelations, a tapestry of human experience woven together by a common thread: the search for God.
As the years have gone by, this notebook has become more than just a collection of thoughts—it has become a part of the church’s story, a relic of the lives that have been touched by its sanctuary. The notebook holds the echoes of prayers whispered in the quiet of the night, of tears shed in moments of despair, of joy found in the embrace of faith. It is a testament to the enduring power of Christ’s presence in this small place, a reminder that even the most unassuming objects can carry within them the weight of countless journeys, each one leading closer to the light of God.
To those who find it now, decades after it was first tucked away, the notebook is a bridge to the past, a connection to the souls who have walked this path before them. It is a reminder that they are not alone in their search for Christ, that others have walked this way and found peace, that the journey to God is one that transcends time, one that is shared by all who come to this sacred place. The notebook remains here, in this small church, waiting to be discovered by yet another pilgrim on the path to divine grace.
It’s opening essay is reproduced here:
In the dim glow of this sacred space, where shadows stretch like whispers of the ancients, I find myself seated in the front row. My breath, slow and deliberate, matches the flicker of the candles. Their light—soft, tender—touches the icons that surround me, each face etched in devotion, each gaze a mirror to the soul. Aquí estoy—here I am, Santiago, baptized in the name of the saints, yet wandering, still searching, still yearning.
Mis pensamientos, my thoughts, like the smoke from the incense, rise and swirl—never in a straight line, always bending, always returning to the beginning. The air is thick with the scent of frankincense, sweet and heavy, a fragrance that lingers on the edge of memory—un recuerdo—a reminder of a world that exists beyond the veil, a world that I can almost touch, almost see.
I came into this life as Santiago, but the name felt like a cloak too heavy for my shoulders. El agua bendita touched my brow, and the church—so grand, so filled with light—welcomed me, but still, I drifted, like a leaf on a river, carried by currents I could not control. It wasn’t until I stepped into this small, dimly lit church that I felt the river slow, felt my soul anchor itself to something solid, something real.
Mis ojos, they wander, tracing the lines of the icons that line the walls—each saint, each holy figure, more than just a picture, more than just paint on wood. They are here with me, in this moment, in this space. San Juan Bautista—Saint John the Baptist—his eyes, deep and knowing, filled with a sorrow that I feel in my bones. He stands there, his hair wild, his face weathered by the desert winds—una vida vivida en soledad, a life lived in solitude, in the wilderness, yet here he is, with me, understanding without words, without need for explanation.
And then there is San Jorge, Saint George, the warrior, his face set in a calm resolve. Sus ojos, they hold the strength of mountains, the patience of rivers. He stands ready, always ready, yet peaceful, as if he knows something I do not, something about the battles that are yet to come, battles not fought with swords, but with faith.
La Madre de Dios, the Theotokos, looks down from above, her eyes wide, filled with a love that envelops me—me sostiene—holds me, as a mother would hold her child. Her face, serene, soft, radiates a strength that I can only hope to understand. Sus ojos, they are the light in the darkness, the beacon that guides me when all else fails.
But it is Christ—Cristo—who draws me, pulls me toward Him. He stands before me, full-bodied, majestic, yet obscured, veiled by a blindfold of white gauze. Una venda blanca, a veil that hides His gaze, that shields His eyes from mine. The rest of His face, serene, patient, esperando—waiting, always waiting. Sus labios, they are still, but they speak to me, telling me of a truth that I am not yet ready to hear, of a love that I am not yet ready to fully accept.
This blindfold—esa venda blanca—it is a barrier, not just between Him and me, but between me and the world, between the divine and the earthly. I feel it, not just in Him, but in myself, in my own eyes, in my own heart. Quiero quitar esa venda, I want to remove that veil, to free His eyes, to meet His gaze, to see and be seen, to know and be known. But I hesitate—dudo—not out of fear, but out of reverence, out of a deep understanding that to remove this veil is to step into a light so bright it could blind me, a love so powerful it could consume me.
And yet, I long for it—lo anhelo—with every fiber of my being. I want to lift the veil, not just from His eyes, but from my own, to clear the path that has been laid before me, to see the world as He sees it. I want my chrismation, this anointing with holy oil, to be the moment where the veil is lifted, where the blindfold is removed, where the light of Christ shines fully upon me, iluminando mi camino—illuminating my path, guiding me forward.
Las pausas, the pauses in my thoughts, the spaces between my words, they are where the truth lies, where the light breaks through, where the veil begins to lift. Here, in this church, surrounded by the saints, under the gaze of Christ—though veiled—I find a peace that transcends understanding, a peace that fills me, that holds me, that guides me. Encuentro paz, in this silence, in these pauses, in the spaces where the light breaks through.
This is my journey, mi camino, my Santiago. A path between the world of shadows and the world of light, between the dream and the waking, between the veil and the truth. As I sit here, I vow to remove the veil, to lift the blindfold, to step into the light that waits for me, to see and be seen, to walk with Christ, mano en mano, hand in hand, into the dawn of a new day.
And so I pray—yo oro—as the saints bear witness, their faces, their eyes, their very presence surrounding me, enfolding me in their grace.
San Juan Bautista—guide me in the wilderness, teach me to hear the voice of God in the silence of my heart. Let my words be few, but let them be true. Enséñame to live with the courage to face my own doubts, my own fears, and to find strength in solitude, in the quiet places where You dwell.
San Jorge, warrior of faith—give me the strength to stand firm, to fight not with anger but with love, to face the battles of the spirit with a heart that is pure, a will that is unyielding. Dame la paz that comes from knowing that You are with me, that You stand beside me in every trial, in every moment of weakness.
Madre de Dios, Theotokos—wrap me in Your mantle, shield me with Your love, and lead me with Your gentle hand. Llévame to the light, to the warmth of Your Son’s embrace, where I may find rest, where I may find peace. Let Your eyes be my guide when I cannot see the way, let Your heart be my refuge when the world is too heavy to bear.
And to You, Cristo, my Lord—let me lift this veil, let me remove this blindfold, so that I may see You as You are, so that I may walk in Your light, in Your truth. Quita de mí the blindness of sin, the blindness of fear, and let me behold the fullness of Your glory. I long to see You, to be seen by You, to know You, to be known by You. Let my chrismation be the moment of revelation, where the scales fall from my eyes, where the light floods in, where the truth is made clear.
Amen—let it be so. In the silence, in the pauses, in the spaces where the light breaks through—let it be so.
We invite you to share Santiago's essay, a deeply personal and reflective piece found within this treasured notebook. This essay, written in a moment of quiet contemplation, captures a journey of the heart and mind, one that resonates with the universal search for meaning and connection. By sharing Santiago's words, you help to extend the reach of his thoughts and reflections, offering them as a source of comfort and inspiration to others on their own journeys.
Wherever and whenever you can, let Santiago's essay find its way to those who may need its quiet wisdom, its gentle strength. In sharing this story, we honor not only Santiago’s voice but also the countless others who have touched this notebook, contributing to a tapestry of shared human experience. Together, we can keep this legacy alive, offering its message to a wider world, connecting hearts across time and space.
On Lois: The spirit is The Deep Knowledge within, a song that rises
The face of Christ emerged from the weathered log, not with the precision of a chisel but with the raw, primal force of creation itself. Carved with a sharp stone, each line was jagged and uneven, the contours of the wood guiding the hand that shaped it. The figure’s features were elusive, mere suggestions of eyes, nose, and mouth, as if the divine presence was both there and not there, a mystery intertwined with the ancient grain of the wood.
Painted in earthen hues—ochres that whispered of the earth, deep reds that pulsed like blood, shadowy blacks that held the secrets of night—the portrait flickered between the realms of the seen and the unseen. The eyes, left untouched by paint, stared out from the rough wood, their uncarved surface holding a depth that no brush could capture. Around the face, the wood was charred, a darkened halo that spoke of both reverence and the consuming fire of the divine.
In this abstract form, the figure of Christ was not simply a depiction but an invocation, a blending of ancient traditions and spiritual truths, the wood and paint converging to reveal a presence that transcended the ordinary. It was a portrait that demanded to be felt as much as seen, inviting the viewer to look beyond the surface and into the very heart of the sacred.
"We are all visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love... and then we return home."
— Aunty Diane Kerr, Wurundjeri Elder
On the quiet morning of August 2, 2024, officers were called to the northern edge of Radio Park in Fresno, responding to a report of an individual who was found unresponsive. Upon arrival, they discovered a woman, likely between 45 and 50 years of age, lying near a park bench, partially concealed by the overgrown greenery. In her hand, she held a small, worn notebook, close to her heart. The scene was peaceful, but there was a profound stillness in the air.
Paramedics were summoned, but the woman had already passed from this world. As the officers took in the scene, one of them gently opened the notebook she clutched. Inside, there was only a single entry, written in a hand that trembled with purpose. The words, though difficult to decipher, carried a weight of meaning that lingered in the air. The final lines were underlined, the ink smudged slightly, as if written in haste or perhaps with a final burst of strength.
It was clear that this woman had spent time in the park in recent weeks, though her name and story remain unknown. There were no signs of harm; it seemed as if she had simply lain down and let the earth cradle her in her final moments. The cause of her passing is yet to be determined, but it is suspected that natural causes or a longstanding illness may have taken her.
The notebook has been carefully preserved, a testament to her final thoughts, and an investigation continues to seek out the story of the life she led.
Ms. Barry’s notebook, now a solemn relic, has been respectfully photographed and transliterated here.
My grandmother, a woman of the land, held within her the echoes of time, her spirit woven into the ancient rhythms of our country. She had seen the world change around her, like the shifting sands, a relentless tide that swept away all that was familiar. When the white men came, they brought more than weapons—they brought laws designed to cut us off from our roots, to take our children, to sever the ties that bound us to our ancestors. They called it “protection,” but we knew the truth—empty words meant to mask the theft, to tear apart the fabric that held us together.
But my grandmother was not one to be bowed by fear. When they came for her children, she did not run, did not plead. She stood firm, her gaze fixed on the man before her, and in that moment, something passed between them—something beyond words, something that reached into the heart of both. Her eyes, steady and filled with the power of life, pierced through his authority, touching the very core of his being. It was as if her spirit spoke through her eyes, drawing his soul into her own, binding them in a way that no law or weapon could undo.
He did not take her children. Instead, he stayed. But his staying was not out of remorse or sudden kindness. No, it was a reluctant act, driven by the change that began in him the moment their eyes met. He came with a mission, a duty imposed by those above him, yet in her, he found something unexpected—an unshakable force of forgiveness. Not the easy forgiveness that absolves or forgets, but the kind that transforms, that reaches into the depths of a soul and pulls it back from the darkness. Through her, his lost soul found an anchor, forever bound to hers, part of the legacy she passed down.
From this union, complex and fraught, came my mother—a child of two worlds, carrying within her the balance of both. Her skin was fair, her features those of people who could walk unnoticed in the new world imposed on us. To the outside, she appeared to belong, to be one of them. But beneath that surface lay a truth much deeper, a truth born from the union of a woman who embodied the spirit of the land and a man who had once sought to sever that connection. My mother carried this legacy like a hidden wound, a mix of blessing and burden, seen only by those who knew where to look.
And then there was me. I am marked by my grandmother’s blood, by the earth from which we all sprang. My skin, my hair, my very being speaks of the land, of a heritage that cannot be hidden or denied. I have never been able to pass as anything other than what I am—an Aboriginal woman, rooted in the soil of my ancestors. This has set me apart, made me a stranger in a world that still struggles to accept those who do not fit neatly into its boxes. It has not been an easy path, but it is the one I was born to walk.
From a young age, I was drawn to the mysteries of the mind, to the intricate dance between thought and movement, between the brain and the body. This led me to the study of neurology, where I dived deep into the exploration of movement disorders, seeking to understand the forces that govern our physical lives. My path was clear—I would use this knowledge to help others navigate the cruel twists of fate that steal away their ability to move, to control their own bodies. But fate had other plans for me.
During my training, I first noticed the signs—so subtle at first that I could almost pretend they weren’t there. A tremor in my hand, a hesitation in my step. I knew what these symptoms meant long before the tests confirmed it: Machado-Joseph Disease (MJD), a hereditary condition that slowly, inevitably, robs the body of its freedom. I had seen it in others, watched them struggle against the encroaching loss of independence, of dignity. Now it was my turn to face this relentless foe.
For years, I fought to continue my work, to help others even as my own body began to betray me. I used every bit of knowledge, every insight gained through study and experience, combining the clinical with the deeply personal understanding that only comes from living with the condition you are treating. I pushed my body to its limits, driven by the same fierce determination that had sustained my grandmother, refusing to let this disease define me.
But there comes a point when even the strongest will must bow to the inevitable. My legs, once steady and strong, could no longer carry me. My hands, once precise instruments of healing, became unreliable, their movements erratic and untrustworthy. The disease had taken so much from me—yet in its taking, it had also given me something precious, something unexpected. It had deepened my understanding of the connection between mind, body, and spirit, revealing to me the threads that tie us to our ancestors and to the land.
In my weakened state, I found myself drawn back to the bush, to the wild places where my grandmother’s spirit still lingered, where the ancient ways of our people remained strong. It was here, in the quiet of the night, that I sought refuge, dragging my frail body through the undergrowth, each movement a painful reminder of the toll the disease had taken. Yet each step also brought me closer to something profound, something beyond words.
As I crawled through the darkness, my body wracked with pain, I felt a call deep within me—a memory of the rituals my grandmother had taught me, long forgotten but now rising to the surface. Exhausted, I stopped and leaned against the rough bark of a tree, its coolness grounding me. Without thinking, as if guided by instinct, I spat into the dirt. The act felt ancient, primal, a connection to the earth that ran deeper than thought.
I reached down and mixed the dirt with my saliva, making a thick, gritty paste. With trembling hands, I smeared the mixture across my face, feeling the earth’s coolness against my burning skin. I rubbed it over my chest, over my heart, where the pain had taken root, deep and unyielding. The relief was immediate, a soothing balm that seemed to seep into my bones, easing the relentless ache. But the pain was not in one place—it was everywhere, a constant reminder of the battle I was losing.
So I repeated the process. Over and over, I spat into the dirt, mixed it with my hands, and applied the paste to every part of my body that ached, every cluster of nerves that screamed in agony. My face, my chest, my arms, my legs—I covered myself in the earth, feeling the connection to the land grow stronger with each application. It was as if the earth was drawing the pain out of me, absorbing it, transforming it into something else, something I could not yet understand.
As I worked, the ritual of my ancestors mingled with the teachings of my faith, creating a dance of ancient wisdom and divine grace, making mud from the dust. In the quiet of the bush, under the vast sky, I found myself repeating that ancient act, drawing on the deep wells of faith and tradition that flowed through me. The dirt, now mixed with my sweat and tears, became more than a remedy—it was a communion with the land, a return to the source of life itself.
Time lost its meaning as I worked, my body moving on its own, guided by something ancient and powerful. The cool night air mingled with the warmth of my breath, and the sounds of the bush—familiar, comforting—filled my ears like the distant echoes of a long-forgotten song. I felt my grandmother with me, strong and sure, her spirit guiding my hands, whispering to me in a language I had always known but rarely understood.
As the first light of dawn began to filter through the trees, painting the sky in soft hues of gold and rose, I sat back on my heels, covered in earth but feeling strangely light, as if the weight of the disease had been lifted from me. The pain that had been my constant companion was gone, absorbed by the earth, transformed by the ritual.
I stood up, slowly at first, testing my legs, my balance. But there was no hesitation, no faltering. I was whole again, in a way I had not been for years. The earth, the land, had healed me, not through some magical cure, but through a connection that transcended the physical, that reached into the very essence of who I am.
I walked out of the bush, not with the labored steps of a woman fighting a disease, but with the confidence of someone who had been healed in a way that went beyond the body. The answer had been so simple, so obvious, that it overwhelmed me. It was not something that could be spoken, only felt, only lived.
The dawn bathed the world in a light that was both new and ancient, a light that seemed to come not just from the rising sun, but from within me, illuminating everything it touched. The trees, the earth, the very air around me glowed with a warmth that spoke of renewal, of life continuing in an unbroken cycle. The land had not just healed my body—it had restored my soul, reconnected me with the thread that runs through all of creation.
And so I walk forward, carrying the knowledge that I am whole, that I am healed, in the only way that truly matters. The earth, the land, the connection to my ancestors—it is all within me, and it is all I will ever need. The light that pierces the darkness, the love that transcends all boundaries, is with me always, guiding me as I continue to weave together the old and the new, the past and the future, into something that is whole and beautiful and true.
The spirit is the deep knowledge within, a song that rises through the miracles, echoing in the chambers of the soul, calling out across the silence of the heart, a whisper that becomes a roar in the quiet… of understanding.
For beneath the Milky Way's ancient light, the Wirrkul flows across the sky—A river of souls, of stars, of time, Where creation sings in silent verse. I looked up, eyes tracing the trails of ancestors, Seeing the dance of life in the endless night. The earth beneath, the sky above, A sacred thread weaving past to present.
I closed my eyes, and in that stillness, Heard the voices of all my fathers, Their words, like wind through the trees, Whispering truths carried by the land. They spoke of life, of death, of all that is, In a language older than the stones, A song that has no end, no beginning, Just the eternal now, echoing in my soul. I stood, rooted in the earth, And felt their strength within me rise, A river flowing from heart to heart, Connecting me to all that ever was, And all that will ever be.
Close your eyes. Listen—Rise.
On Cara: In the Echoes of Silence: Embracing the Purity of Truth
As I stood in the small, worn bathroom of Radio Park, the air seemed to vibrate with remnants of her voice, a sound that had once filled this space with a resonance that transcended the ordinary. The name Cara Lánaithe was etched into the wall, surrounded by other names long since forgotten, but hers remained distinct, as if the very act of carving it had imbued the letters with a lasting presence. In my hands, I held her notebook, the pages worn but filled with words that carried the weight of her journey, her strength, and the purity of her truth.
It was as if each word, like her name, was etched not just in ink but in the very fabric of this place, a testament to the soul that had found a way to transform even the most forgotten of spaces into something sacred. The memory of her voice lingered, like a melody that refused to fade, filling the silence with a beauty that could only be felt, not fully understood.
"Deep peace of the running wave to you, deep peace of the flowing air to you, deep peace of the quiet earth to you, deep peace of the shining stars to you."
— Celtic Blessing
The bathroom was silent now, its once vibrant echoes long since faded into memory. The cracked tiles and flickering lightbulb seemed to tell their own story of neglect and time's relentless march. As I entered, something caught my eye—a small, weathered notebook tucked behind the rusted pipes of the toilet. I reached for it, the cover marked with a name: Cara Lánaithe. The name felt familiar, like a whispered song from a dream, something both distant and deeply intimate.
Curiosity led my gaze upward, and there, among the graffiti and scratches on the wall, was her name again, etched with careful strokes beside the remnants of other names long forgotten. Her presence lingered here, in this forgotten space, where her voice had once filled the room, transforming it into something sacred. I opened the notebook, the pages filled with flowing script, each word carrying the weight of a soul that had known suffering and yet sung through it, lifting others with the purity of her truth.
As I stood there, the silence thick around me, I felt a connection to her, to the music that had once echoed off these walls, to the spirit that had left its mark here. The notebook in my hands was more than just paper and ink; it was a piece of her soul, a testament to the strength she had drawn from the very depths of herself. I could almost hear her voice, still resonating through the cracks and crevices of this old bathroom, a gentle reminder that even in the most forgotten places, beauty and truth could be found.
This is in the notebook of Cara Lánaithe...
Living in Radio Park for over a decade has made me tough, maybe too tough. Trust is hard, and reading ain’t never been easy for me. Dyslexia, they call it. Words twist and turn on the page like the life I’ve lived, but when I close my eyes, that don’t matter. The world fades away, and all that’s left is the sound of my breath, my voice rising up like it’s got a mind of its own.
This bathroom, it’s not much. The tiles are cracked, the paint’s peeling, and the smell—well, it’s something you get used to after a while. But when I start to sing, none of that matters. My voice fills the room, turning this broken space into something more, something sacred. The air gets heavy, like it’s carrying something bigger than me, bigger than all the crap life’s thrown my way.
The sound ain’t just bouncing off the walls; it’s like the walls become part of the song, humming along with every note I sing. I ain’t just making noise—I’m pouring out my soul, filling this room with everything I’ve got. The melody swells, and it’s like the room can’t hold it all, like it’s spilling out into the park, touching everyone who’s ever felt alone, lost, or forgotten.
I think about the others out there, the ones who call this park home, just like me. They’re out there, scattered around, each one carrying their own load of pain. My voice reaches out to them, soft at first, like a whisper only they can hear. Then it grows, wrapping around them like a warm blanket on a cold night. It’s more than just a song—it’s a lifeline, a way to say, “I’m here. I see you.”
The music ain’t just sound—it’s a thread that ties the past, present, and future together. It’s a pulse, a heartbeat that reminds me I’m alive, even when everything around me feels dead. Each note is like a step forward, a way to push through the darkness, to keep going even when it feels like I’m walking through mud.
After a while, the music fades, but it doesn’t leave. It lingers in the air, in my bones, in the space around me. I open my eyes, and the bathroom feels different, like it’s grown, like it’s holding onto the echoes of what just happened. It’s quiet now, but there’s a kind of peace here, a stillness that wasn’t there before.
Then there’s a knock at the door, soft but sure. I crack it open, and there’s a man standing there, face lined with years of hardship, maybe not too different from mine. He hands me a couple of oranges and a bottle of water. Simple things, but they mean more than he could ever know.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice a little raw from all that singing.
He looks at me, really looks, like he’s searching for something. Then he asks, “What would you do?”
I don’t know where the words come from, but they rise up inside me, clear as day. “Accept the purity of truth, for it is.”
He nods, like he’s found what he was looking for, and gives me a small smile before walking away. I stand there for a long time, holding those oranges, that bottle of water, feeling like something’s shifted inside me, like I’ve found a new place to stand in this world.
I think about my father, the man who threw me away like I was nothing, pushed me aside because of what my mother said. She’s gone now, took her own life, left behind nothing but pain and a bunch of old dolls I never understood. I’ve carried that hurt with me for years, like an open wound that won’t heal.
But standing here, in this moment of quiet, I know it’s time to let go, to try and mend what’s been broken. So I start walking, back toward the man who once called himself my father, holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, we can find a way to move forward together. It’s slow going, filled with awkward silences and careful words, but bit by bit, the walls between us start to crumble.
He doesn’t get me, not really, doesn’t understand the connection I feel to something bigger, something that goes beyond all the crap we’ve been through. But he listens, and that’s something. And in his listening, I find a strength I forgot I had.
I don’t have much, not even a place to call home, but I’ve started dreaming again. I’m trying to get into the BRIT School for Performing Arts & Technology, the same place where Adele learned to sing. I dream of standing on a stage, of letting my voice fill a room, of showing the world that there’s more to me than what they see on the outside.
But there’s this fear that hangs over me, like a dark cloud. What if they never see me? What if I’m always just that girl from the park, singing to herself in a rundown bathroom? It’s a fear I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try. But I keep singing, keep pouring out my soul, hoping that one day, someone will hear me, really hear me, and understand.
For now, I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done—singing, surviving, and holding onto the hope that one day, the world will recognize the strength I’ve fought so hard to build.
Please help share Cara’s story—anytime, anywhere. Her journey is one of resilience, strength, and a deep connection to heritage. By sharing her story, you help amplify the voice of someone who embodies the spirit of survival and the power of identity. Spread her narrative, and let her courage inspire others to find strength in their own struggles. Your words, your voice, your platform can make a difference. Let's ensure her story reaches those who need to hear it most.
On Elena: Whispers of Transformation in the Night
She stood in front of the mirror, her long, black curls cascading over her shoulders, framing her porcelain skin. The light in the room softened her features, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones and the strength that lay just beneath the surface. Her eyes, dark and reflective, held a quiet intensity, a mixture of vulnerability and unyielding determination. As she gazed at her reflection, she saw not just the woman she had become, but the battles she had fought to get there. In that moment, she was a portrait of resilience—a quiet, powerful beauty, forged in the fires of transformation.
"A phrase is born into the world good and bad at the same time. The secret lies in a barely perceptible twist. The lever should rest in your hand, getting warm, and you can turn it once, not twice."
— Isaac Babel
The subway car rattled and swayed as it hurtled through the dark tunnels beneath New York City. Among the usual detritus of discarded coffee cups and crumpled newspapers, a small, leather-bound notebook lay abandoned on a seat, unnoticed by the hurried commuters. The notebook’s cover was worn, the edges frayed, as if it had been carried through many long nights. A young woman, caught in the lull between stations, glanced down and spotted it. On a whim, she picked it up, curious about the story it might hold within its pages.
As the train clattered on, she opened the notebook, her fingers tracing the inked words on the first page. The writing was elegant, deliberate, and carried the weight of someone who had poured their soul into each sentence. The pages told the story of a woman’s journey—a narrative of transformation, of stepping into the shadows of New York’s bustling streets, of facing the cold, lingering glances of strangers, and ultimately, of finding her true self in the warm, embracing glow of stage lights. The words were raw, powerful, and tinged with a deep, unspoken pain, yet they also spoke of resilience, of a beauty that had been fought for and claimed with every ounce of strength.
As the train slowed to a stop, the young woman closed the notebook, her heart heavy with the weight of the story she had just uncovered. She looked around at the sea of anonymous faces, wondering if the writer was among them, lost in the crowd, or if she had already moved on, leaving her story behind like a whispered secret. The notebook was more than just a collection of thoughts; it was a testament to a life lived on the edge of becoming, a life that had found its voice in the shadows of the city. The young woman tucked the notebook into her bag, determined to keep the story safe, a silent promise to honor the words within.
This is that story.
Within my mind's eye, I step into the dimly lit venue, the weight of the night’s anticipation settling over me like a second skin. Tonight, I will transform this space, filling it with the sounds that define me, the music that speaks my truth. The room is already alive with a low murmur, a gentle hum of voices, each conversation a ripple in the dark sea of humanity gathered here. The air is thick with the scent of stale beer and the faint tang of metal, a blend of the tangible and the intangible that wraps around me as I make my way toward the stage. The shadows cling to the walls, making the room feel both intimate and vast, as if it extends infinitely in every direction. Tonight, I will step into those shadows and bring them to life.
Before I can immerse myself in the night ahead, I take a moment to prepare, standing in front of the mirror in my small, dimly lit bathroom. The glass is fogged slightly from the warmth of the room. My breath comes slow and steady as I reach for the makeup brush, the familiar weight of it comforting in my hand. The air tastes faintly of the scented candles I’ve lit—lavender and sandalwood—mixing with the faint metallic tang of the city. It’s a small ritual, this preparation, one that I’ve come to cherish. Each stroke of the brush, each line drawn with precision, is a step closer to the woman I see in my mind, the woman who is me.
The reflection staring back at me is a study in contrasts. My face, softened by the hormones, carries a delicate femininity that wasn’t there before—rounder cheeks, fuller lips, a softness around the eyes. Yet, the shadow of who I once was lingers, not as a ghost, but as a quiet reminder. My cropped hair frames my face, highlighting the angles that remain, but I’ve learned to love these remnants, to see them as part of the whole that makes me who I am. The makeup is an art, a transformation that is less about hiding and more about revealing the truth of my identity.
The light in the room catches on the shimmer of the highlighter I’ve applied to my cheekbones, making them glow softly, like the first light of dawn. I trace the curve of my lips with a deep, berry-colored gloss, feeling the cool, slick texture as I press them together. The taste of the gloss, sweet and slightly sticky, lingers on my tongue, mingling with the faint taste of coffee from earlier.
As I apply the finishing touches, a sudden wave of emotion washes over me—part pride, part sadness. Pride for how far I’ve come, for the woman I see in the mirror, a woman who is strong, who has fought for every inch of herself. Sadness for the moments of doubt, the times when the world’s gaze feels too heavy, too critical. I close my eyes, letting the feelings pass, and when I open them again, I see only the determination in my eyes, the resilience that has carried me through.
I smooth down the fabric of my dress, feeling the cool silk slide beneath my fingers. It clings to my curves, accentuating the body I’ve shaped through sheer will and countless decisions. The color—a deep, rich burgundy—hugs me in all the right places, the fabric pooling slightly at my feet. I take a deep breath, the scent of the candles grounding me, and I know I’m ready. Tonight, I will step out into the world, into the city that never sleeps, and I will claim my space, my identity, with every step I take.
The city greets me with a sharp contrast to the warmth I’ve just left behind. The night air is cool, almost crisp, with a faint hint of rain that lingers, though the sky remains clear. The city’s pulse is immediate and overwhelming, the constant hum of life vibrating through the streets, seeping into the very ground beneath my feet. The air tastes of concrete and exhaust, laced with the occasional whiff of food from street vendors—a hot dog cart on the corner, the sweet, greasy smell of pretzels wafting through the breeze.
As I move through the streets, my heels clicking against the pavement, the sound almost lost in the cacophony of the city, I become part of the rhythm of New York. The lights of Manhattan flicker and dance, casting long shadows that stretch and twist as I pass under street lamps. People are everywhere, their faces a blur of expressions—some tired, some excited, others blank with the anonymity that city life often imposes. But there are always a few that stand out.
A man glances at me as I pass, his eyes lingering a moment too long, not with interest, but with something darker, something that feels like suspicion or disdain. His look brushes against me like a rough hand, but I keep walking, my head held high. I’ve grown accustomed to these glances, the quick assessments that people make when they see something they don’t quite understand. It’s a part of my life now, a part of being visible in a world that sometimes prefers things neatly categorized, easily understood.
A woman across the street catches my eye, her gaze softening into something like pity as she looks me over. Her face, pale and drawn, seems to hold a thousand unsaid words, and I can almost hear the thoughts she might be having—wondering who I am, what my story is, why I walk with such purpose in this world that is so often unkind. I don’t hate her for it, this look of pity, though I wish she knew I don’t need it. Compassion is what I feel, not just for her, but for all the people who look at me and see only the surface, not the depth beneath.
Weaving through the crowd, I let the city’s noise become a rhythm, a beat that syncs with my steps, my breath. The shouts of street vendors, the honking of horns, the distant wail of a siren—it’s all part of the symphony that is New York, a place where chaos and beauty collide, where anything is possible, and everything is just a little bit broken. I pull my jacket tighter around me, the leather cool against my skin, as I approach the venue.
The entrance to the club is tucked away, almost hidden between two towering buildings. A line of people waits outside, their voices a low murmur, punctuated by laughter and the occasional burst of music from within. I can feel the energy building, a tangible force that pulls me closer. As I step up to the door, the bouncer gives me a nod, recognizing me as part of the night’s lineup. I give him a small smile, grateful for the ease of entry, and step inside.
The club is dimly lit, the interior a blur of shadows and muted colors. The air inside is thick, heavy with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and anticipation. It’s a familiar smell, one that clings to the walls, to the people swaying in the darkened corners. The music playing through the speakers is a low, pulsing beat, the bass vibrating through the floor, through my body, setting the tone for what’s to come.
As I make my way to the stage, I can feel the eyes on me—some curious, some indifferent, others appraising. It’s a mixed crowd tonight, a blend of friends, fans, and the occasional predator who slinks through these spaces, looking for an easy target. But I push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the familiar faces I spot in the crowd, the ones who’ve supported me from the beginning, who understand the world I’m about to create.
The lights dim further as I step onto the stage, the darkness closing in around me like a shroud. The projector behind me flickers to life, casting fractured images onto the screen, a cascade of glitch art that dances and twists in time with the music I’m about to play. It’s a symphony of distortion, a visual representation of the world I navigate every day—imperfect, jagged, yet undeniably beautiful.
Taking my place at the center of the stage, I let my fingers hover over the controls, feeling the power beneath them, waiting to be unleashed. The first beat drops, deep and resonant, reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. The crowd shifts, their energy shifting with the sound, and I can feel it wash over me, through me, grounding me even as it lifts me higher.
The noise builds, layer upon layer, each glitch, each distortion adding to the complexity of the soundscape. It’s raw, unfiltered, a perfect reflection of the chaos within me, the constant push and pull between who I was and who I am becoming. The bass thrums through my chest, syncing with my heartbeat, as I lose myself in the rhythm, in the sound that is both alien and familiar.
Behind me, the glitch art pulses in time with the music, the colors bleeding into one another, creating a visual representation of the sound. It’s chaotic, yet there’s a strange harmony to it, a pattern that emerges from the disarray, just as I’ve learned to find beauty in the broken pieces of my life. The colors—deep reds, cool blues, electric greens—flicker and shift, casting shadows across the room, turning the faces of the audience into abstract portraits, each one unique, each one part of the whole.
As the music reaches its peak, I can feel the energy of the crowd surging, their movements syncing with the beats, their bodies swaying in unison. It’s a moment of pure connection, where the boundaries between us dissolve, and we become one with the sound, with each other. The noise is all-encompassing, filling every corner of the room, every space within me, until there is nothing left but the music, the light, and the overwhelming sense of being exactly where I’m meant to be.
I glance out at the crowd, catching glimpses of faces—some smiling, some lost in the music, others with looks that are harder to decipher. But it doesn’t matter. In this moment, I am free. Free from the judgments, the misunderstandings, the fears that haunt me outside these walls. Here, on this stage, surrounded by the noise I’ve created, I am my truest self.
The final notes hang in the air, suspended in the silence that follows. The light behind me flickers one last time before fading to black, leaving only the echoes of the music in the minds of those who have witnessed it. The applause starts slow, then builds, a wave of sound that washes over me, grounding me back in reality. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, feeling the tension ease away, replaced by a sense of accomplishment, of peace.
As I step off the stage, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I catch sight of myself in a mirror backstage. My reflection is bathed in the soft glow of the lights, and I see a woman who is both strong and fragile, both fierce and vulnerable. A woman who has fought for every inch of who she is, and who will continue to fight, not just for herself, but for everyone who finds themselves in the crosshairs of a world that doesn’t always understand.
I smile, a small, knowing smile, because tonight, we’ve made them see us, hear us, feel us. And that is power. That is victory.
Her story is one of quiet resilience and unique beauty, a testament to the strength found in vulnerability. In a world that often overlooks the subtle complexities of identity, her portrait speaks volumes. Share her story to remind others of the power in every detail, every imperfection, and every moment of introspection. Let her quiet intensity inspire others to see beyond the surface and connect with the depth of human experience. Please share her story, and help spread the message that everyone, in their own way, carries a narrative worth telling.
On Tahoma: Echoes in the Park: A Guardian's Reflection on the Spirit of the Land
Officer Tahoma Blackwood stood tall, his cropped hair framing the chiseled lines of his face, where strength and heritage were etched into every contour. His uniform was sharp, a symbol of the duty he bore with pride, but it was his eyes that told the real story. They were the eyes of a warrior—intense, unwavering, filled with a quiet passion that came from a deep-rooted connection to his people and the land they had long protected. As he moved through Radio Park, there was a presence about him, a sense of purpose that went beyond the badge he wore. He was not just an officer of the law; he was a guardian, a protector of more than just the peace, but of a way of life, of a history that whispered through the trees and echoed in the earth beneath his feet.
"The Great Spirit is in all things: he is in the air we breathe. The Great Spirit is our Father, but the Earth is our Mother. She nourishes us; that which we put into the ground, she returns to us."
— Big Thunder (Bedagi)
In the backseat of an old squad car, long forgotten in the corner of a dusty lot, a small, leather-bound notebook lay hidden beneath a faded jacket. Its cover was worn, the pages slightly yellowed with age. Inside, written in a hand that was firm yet reflective, was a single essay.
The essay told the story of a night in Radio Park, of a police officer’s encounter with a group of transients who transformed his understanding of his role. It spoke of a dance that stirred memories of his own heritage, of a moment that bridged the gap between enforcement and empathy.
The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of a profound realization, one that had clearly left a mark on the officer who had written them. But the essay had never been shared, never seen by anyone else—until now, when it was found by a curious soul who wondered what had become of the officer who had once carried that notebook, and whether he had found the peace he had sought in those pages.
These are Officer Tahoma Blackwood’s words.
The call came in just before dusk, as the sun was dipping behind the buildings near Radio Park. The dispatcher’s voice crackled through the radio, letting me know about a group of folks gathered in the park, playing dice. It wasn’t unusual—Radio Park had become a regular stop on my patrol, a place where the city's lost and forgotten often found themselves. I’d gotten used to the routine: break up the gathering, give a few warnings, and move on to the next call. But tonight felt different, like there was something in the air I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
As I walked closer to the park, I could hear voices carried on the evening breeze, mixed with the sound of dice hitting the pavement. The group, a mix of men and women, was huddled around a makeshift table, their faces partly hidden by the growing shadows. They didn’t seem to notice me at first, their focus was on the game.
"Buenas tardes, folks," I called out, trying to keep my tone steady but gentle. "Let’s wrap it up, ¿vale?"
The dice stopped, and for a moment, the park was quiet, except for the rustling of the trees overhead. One of the men, older than the rest, looked up at me, his eyes searching mine like he was trying to figure out what I was about. Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket—not for money or dice, but for a small wooden instrument—a single-stringed fiddle. The sound it made was strange, yet familiar, like it had a voice of its own.
He started to play a slow, mournful tune that echoed through the park, like a song from another time, another place. The others began to move, just a little at first, swaying to the rhythm. Then, one by one, they stood up, forming a loose circle, their movements becoming more deliberate, more connected. What had started as a simple game of dice was turning into something else entirely.
Their dance was unlike anything I had seen before, yet it stirred something deep inside me, something ancient. The movements were grounded, almost like a ritual, with a rhythm that felt like it came from the earth itself. Their feet moved in sync, dust rising in small clouds as they stepped, turned, and swayed. It was a dance of resilience, of survival, of a connection to something far greater than the concrete and steel that surrounded us. It was rooted in something old, yet in that moment, it felt universal—a celebration of life in its most basic form.
As I stood there, unable to move, watching the dancers connect with something sacred, my mind wandered back to my own memories. Seeing these people, finding peace and unity in their movements, awakened something in me that had been buried beneath the weight of my badge and the duties that came with it.
I was a child again, back on the reservation where the land stretched out like an endless sea of earth and sky. Life was different then, slower, like time itself moved in a way that allowed the soul to breathe. I remembered the fires we lit as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that danced across the ground like spirits of the earth. We would gather around those fires, my family and I, listening to the elders as they spoke of the old ways, the stories that carried the wisdom of generations. Their voices, deep and steady, were like the heartbeat of the earth itself, each word a reminder of who we were and where we came from.
There were dances then, too—movements that weren’t learned but felt, passed down through the blood, from one generation to the next. I remembered how our feet would move together, how the dust would rise as we stomped the earth, as if trying to awaken something ancient beneath the surface. There was a rhythm to it, as natural as the wind through the trees, as steady as the pulse in our veins. We danced to honor the earth, to connect with the spirits that watched over us, to remember those who had walked this land long before us.
But it wasn’t just about the movements. It was about the unity, the way we came together as one, finding strength in our connection to each other and to the land that had given us life. The pipe would be passed around afterward, just like it was here, in this park, in this moment. Each of us would take a turn, drawing the smoke deep into our lungs, feeling it settle within us, grounding us, reminding us of the sacredness of the air we breathed, the land we walked, the people we shared it with. It was a ceremony, a moment of connection that went beyond the hardships we faced, a brief but powerful reminder that we were part of something greater than ourselves.
The memories washed over me, pulling me back to a time when life seemed simpler, when the world was shaped by the traditions we held, by the respect we showed to the earth and to each other. I hadn’t thought of those days in years, hadn’t let myself feel the loss of those connections. But now, standing in this park, watching these people who were seen as outsiders by most, I felt it all rushing back—the pride, the sorrow, the deep sense of belonging that I had somehow lost along the way.
When the music finally stopped, the dancers didn’t scatter like I had expected. Instead, they sat down in a circle, their faces glowing with a quiet satisfaction. Someone brought out a small pouch of tobacco, and they began to smoke, passing the pipe from hand to hand in a way that felt almost ceremonial. I watched, not sure what to do next, but knowing that to interfere would be wrong, like breaking a spell that was somehow sacred.
As the smoke curled up into the night, they began to talk—not about the dice game, not about their struggles, but about their spirituality. Their voices were low, respectful, as they shared stories of their beliefs, their hopes, their dreams for a world beyond this one. There was a sense of unity in their words, a shared understanding that life was more than the sum of its hardships, that something greater connected them all.
Listening to them, I felt something shift inside me. I had come to the park as an enforcer of rules, a keeper of order, but I was leaving with a new understanding of my role. These people weren’t just transients to be moved along; they were part of a community, one I had overlooked in my daily routine. They were people who, despite everything, had found a way to connect with each other, to find peace in their shared experiences, and to hold onto their dignity in a world that often tried to take it away.
As I walked back to my patrol car, I knew that this moment had changed me. I had seen a glimpse of what could be—a different kind of community, one built on respect, understanding, and a shared connection to the land. The vision of Radio Park, transformed by the dance and the circle of smoke, would stay with me, guiding me as I looked for a way forward, not just for the people here, but for the people of my heritage.
It was a reminder of the respect that should have been given to my own people, the tribes who had long understood the importance of living in harmony with the earth and each other. Maybe, in this park, I had found the first step toward healing, not just for this community, but for my own—a step toward easing the poverty that haunted us, not through enforcement, but through understanding and respect.
Please share this story. It’s a glimpse into a moment of connection, respect, and understanding that has the power to change perspectives. By sharing, you help to amplify the voices of those often overlooked and forgotten, reminding us all of the shared humanity that binds us together. Your support in spreading this message can help build a community rooted in compassion, respect, and a deep connection to our shared heritage. Share it anytime, anywhere—because every voice deserves to be heard.
On Gabriel: A Flicker of Hope in Chalk and Shadows
Gabriel Markos was found at dawn, his journey ending in a place where hope still dared to bloom amid the ruins. His face, though peaceful, bore the weight of someone who had walked too far, seen too much, and yet held on to a quiet resolve. Beside him, a small, weathered notebook lay open, its pages filled with the thoughts of a soul caught between despair and faith. The words within, though few, carried the depth of his struggle—a prayer for peace, the memory of a fleeting moment in an orphanage, and an unfinished vision of a world that might have been.
The ink on the last page had barely dried, the sentence trailing off as if Gabriel had been interrupted mid-thought. "I believe peace is near—" it read, a promise left hanging in the balance, waiting for others to finish what he had begun. His life, though brief, had been a testament to the power of hope, and the words he left behind would now carry that hope forward, like seeds scattered on the wind, waiting to take root.
"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy."
— Saint Francis of Assisi
They found him at dawn, slumped against a crumbling wall, the remnants of a life cut short. His body, barely out of youth, lay still in the first light of morning, a quiet, tragic figure against the backdrop of a war-torn landscape. His clothes were simple, worn from the journey of someone who had walked too far and seen too much. His face, though peaceful in death, bore the traces of deep thought and quiet resolve—features that had not yet fully left the realm of boyhood but carried the weight of a man’s convictions.
Beside him, almost hidden in the dust and debris, was a small, battered notebook. Its leather cover was cracked, the edges frayed from countless openings and closings, as though it had been a constant companion through all his trials. The pages within were yellowed, some corners dog-eared, others smudged with the ink of hurried writing. The binding, though worn, held together with a strength that belied its appearance, much like the young man who had carried it.
Inside, there were only three entries, each written with a hand that had grown steadier over time. The first was a prayer, simple and earnest. The second and third entries, though brief, carried the weight of experiences and thoughts too profound to be confined to just a few words. The handwriting was clear, deliberate, reflecting a mind that had carefully chosen each word, each phrase, as if aware that these pages might one day tell the story he could not.
The notebook, now silent, lay open, its last entry unfinished—a testament to a life that had ended too soon, yet one that had left behind a message of hope, a belief in peace, and a vision that others would now have to carry forward.
A Plea for Divine Intervention in a Fractured World
Lord, in Your infinite mercy, sow the seeds of peace where division has taken root. Let Your love bridge the chasms of hatred, and may we find the strength to forgive where wounds run deep. Guide us, O God, through the darkness, and lead us into the light of understanding, where all hearts are united in the common hope for a world reborn in Your grace.
A Witness to Innocence in a World of Conflict
The door groaned as I nudged it open, the sound like the slow awakening of an ancient giant. The air inside the orphanage was thick, almost tangible, as if the dust that hung in the beams of light was the very breath of the room. The first rays of sunlight pierced through the gloom, pooling on the worn floorboards, casting a golden sheen that crept up the walls, illuminating the vibrant tapestry of chalk drawings. The walls were alive with color—layers upon layers of haphazard strokes and shapes, some bright and others muted, overlapping in a chaotic dance that seemed to defy logic, yet spoke of a deep, unspoken yearning.
In the half-light, the colors breathed and shimmered, shadows curling around the edges, giving the drawings a warmth that felt almost sacred. The interplay of light and darkness painted the room with a depth that made the walls seem to pulsate, as if they were trying to reach out and share their stories. The children’s hands had left behind fragments of dreams, hazy and incomplete, like echoes of a distant past that was never fully theirs.
In a corner, where the sunlight was most generous, two small figures huddled together, their heads bent in concentration. The boy’s dark curls caught the light, creating halos of soft gold around his head, his olive skin smudged with the dust of chalk and time. A worn kippah rested on his head, slightly askew, as if it had been pulled on in a hurry, its frayed edges barely clinging to tradition. His hands, steady and small, moved with a deliberate grace, tracing the outline of a figure with outstretched arms—a figure that seemed to emerge from the wall like a ghostly apparition, half-formed and yet filled with an inexplicable presence.
Beside him, the girl moved with a fluidity that contrasted with the boy’s careful strokes. Her small hands swept across the wall, adding waves beneath the figure, her movements quick and sure, driven by an urgency that spoke of things left undone. The fabric of her hijab, once vibrant with intricate patterns, had faded with time and wear, the threads fraying at the edges, yet it framed her face with a quiet dignity. Her dress, embroidered with delicate motifs, was now a patchwork of repairs, its colors dulled by the dust that seemed to cling to everything. Her face, too, bore the marks of her work—smears of chalk in every hue, like war paint worn by a child trying to make sense of a world gone mad.
The sound of chalk against plaster was the only noise in the room, a rhythmic, almost hypnotic scraping that filled the space like the gentle murmur of distant waves. The children’s hands moved in unison, though they said nothing, their actions driven by an understanding that seemed to come from somewhere deep within—a place where dreams and reality blurred together, and the act of creation became an escape, a way to reach for something beyond the darkness.
High above, nestled in the corner of the room, a pair of sparrows watched over the scene. Their tiny nest, woven from twigs and bits of string, was a testament to resilience, a small sanctuary in a world that had forgotten how to care. The mother bird, her feathers dusted with the same chalk that covered the children, held a slender twig in her beak. Attached to it were two small green leaves, fresh and bright, a splash of life amidst the dullness. The birds were silent, their presence unnoticed by the children, yet they seemed to hold a vigil over the room, their beady eyes reflecting the dim light, as if understanding the importance of what was happening below.
I stepped closer, careful not to break the delicate rhythm that filled the air. The boy glanced up at me, his dark eyes wide and searching, the light catching in them like sparks in a deep well. His gaze flickered to the door behind me, a momentary hesitation, before he returned to his work, his hands moving with renewed focus. The girl didn’t look up, but I saw the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her hand paused mid-stroke before resuming its task, her concentration intensifying as if to block out the presence of the outside world.
“What are you drawing?” I asked softly, my voice threading through the quiet like a whisper in a cathedral.
The boy didn’t answer immediately. He added another line to the figure’s face—a face that was more suggestion than reality, its features blurred and uncertain, like a memory caught in the fog. He stepped back slightly, his small body framed by the gentle curve of light, and studied his work with the intensity of someone trying to grasp the edges of a dream before it slips away. “It’s… someone who helps,” he finally murmured, his voice small, uncertain, as if he were trying to remember a story he had never fully understood.
The girl, her hands now resting in her lap, finally looked up, her dark eyes meeting mine with a calm that was almost unsettling. “We don’t know who,” she said, her voice as soft as the rustle of leaves, each word chosen with care, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile image they were creating. Her gaze drifted back to the waves she had drawn—waves that seemed to rise and fall with a life of their own, their crests sharp and jagged, yet stopped just short of swallowing the figure whole.
I looked at the wall, at the figure they had drawn together—a figure that seemed both ancient and timeless, emerging from the chaos of their strokes like a vision from another world. The boy’s careful lines had given it form, while the girl’s bolder, sweeping movements had imbued it with a sense of motion, a sense of life struggling to break free from the confines of the wall. The figure’s arms reached out, not in a gesture of command, but in an offer—an offer of something the children couldn’t name, but knew they needed.
The boy’s small fingers traced the outline of the figure’s hand, his touch light, almost reverent. “He… comes when it’s bad,” he whispered, more to himself than to me. His words hung in the air, as fragile as the light that bathed the room, a quiet hope spoken in the language of dreams.
The girl nodded, her eyes still on the waves. “It feels right,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath. “Like it’s what we see… when we’re afraid. When we close our eyes.”
Her words filled the space between us with a quiet truth—a truth born not of understanding, but of necessity. These children, caught in a world that made no sense, were reaching out with their chalk-stained hands, trying to grasp something solid, something that could hold them when everything else was falling apart. Their drawing was not a depiction of a known story, but a manifestation of their deepest fears and hopes, a dream made visible on the walls of an orphanage that had seen too much.
As I knelt beside them, the boy and girl returned to their work, their movements slower now, more deliberate, as if each stroke of chalk were a step into the unknown. The boy’s hand was steady, tracing the figure’s arms with a care that belied his age, while the girl’s strokes, though more fluid, seemed to carry the weight of something unresolved, something that lingered just beyond the reach of words.
Above us, the mother bird shifted slightly in her nest, the twig with its tiny green leaves still held gently in her beak. The light from the door began to fade, casting the room in deeper shadows, and in that moment, I felt a connection—a resonance with the children’s dream, as if I too were standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable. It was as if, in their chalk and dust, they had captured a truth that went beyond the surface, a truth that spoke of the need for salvation, for someone to reach out and pull them from the storm, even if they didn’t know who or how.
When I finally rose to leave, the children remained focused on their task, their world contained within the walls they had covered with the colors of their dreams. As I stepped back into the doorway, the light shifted once more, catching the dust in the air and making it sparkle like stars caught in a web of shadows. The door creaked as I pulled it closed behind me, the sound fading into the stillness of the room, but this time it felt different—softer, more like a sigh than a groan.
Outside, the ceasefire held, for now. But inside, in that small room filled with light and shadows, I had seen more than just a drawing. I had witnessed the fragile hope of two children who, in their innocence, had created something beyond their understanding—something that might save them, in ways they couldn’t yet comprehend. And as I walked away, I carried that hope with me, a small, flickering light that would guide me through the darkness still to come.
An Unfinished Dream of Peace
In the spirit of our forebears who dared to envision a new order amidst the tumult of their time, I now appeal to the hearts and minds of those bound by the sacred covenant of the Abrahamic faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. As they once sought to forge a constitution that would unite a fractured people, so too must we now rise to the occasion, compelled by the pressing demand for unity and peace among those who share a common heritage yet have been divided by strife. The trials we face are no less formidable than those that have tested humanity throughout history, but the call to establish a lasting and profound peace is more urgent than ever. This proposal endeavors to lay the foundation for a new federal union, one that rises above the divisions of faith and ethnicity, to confront and heal the deep-seated wounds that have long plagued our lands. It is a call to original thought and action, to transcend the ordinary and grasp at the extraordinary possibilities that lie within our reach, should we dare to pursue them with the same courage and conviction that guided our predecessors.
Over the past 87 years, this region has borne witness to an unrelenting cycle of conflict, marked by wars, political upheavals, and a relentless struggle for identity. The establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, the wars that followed, and the protracted Israeli-Palestinian conflict have left deep scars on our collective consciousness. These events have not only been shaped by local dynamics but have also been heavily influenced by the broader geopolitical currents of the Cold War, the rise of nationalism, and the competing interests of global powers. Each of these factors has contributed to the complex tapestry of grievances and aspirations that define our current predicament.
Recent history has seen the rise of extremist ideologies that manipulate religious fervor for political gain. The attack by Hamas on October 7, 2023, stands as a grim testament to the destructive power of such ideologies. This event, which resulted in immense loss of life and deepened the chasm between communities, did not emerge from a void. It was the culmination of decades of unresolved tensions, festering distrust, and the failure of previous peace efforts to address the underlying causes of discord. The attack was the bitter fruit of a tree whose roots run deep in the soil of history, nourished by the fears, resentments, and injustices that have been allowed to fester for far too long.
The atmosphere preceding the October 7 attack was charged with an intensity that could not be ignored. On one side, there was a growing sense of desperation among Palestinians, driven by the stagnation of peace talks, economic hardships, and the continued expansion of settlements. On the other side, there was a palpable hardening of attitudes within Israel, fueled by security concerns, political instability, and the rise of nationalist sentiments. The situation was further inflamed by the involvement of regional powers, each pursuing their own agendas, and by global actors whose interventions often served to exacerbate rather than alleviate tensions. The cynical exploitation of religious symbols and narratives by both state and non-state actors played a pivotal role in escalating the conflict, as did the pervasive use of social media to spread fear, misinformation, and extremist propaganda.
In response to these challenges, we must craft a new path forward, one that draws upon the shared heritage of the Abrahamic faiths while acknowledging the painful realities of our present circumstances. This proposal is not merely a plea for peace but a blueprint for a new political and social order—a federal union that recognizes the equal dignity of all communities and addresses the root causes of conflict. At the heart of this vision is the principle of shared sovereignty, wherein each community—Jewish, Christian, and Muslim—would maintain its cultural and religious autonomy while participating in a federal government responsible for common concerns such as security, foreign policy, and economic development.
This federal government would be structured to ensure equal representation for all three communities, with safeguards in place to prevent the domination of any one group over the others. The right to practice one’s religion freely and without fear of persecution would be enshrined in the federal constitution, supported by strict laws against hate speech, religious discrimination, and incitement to violence. Furthermore, economic cooperation would be a cornerstone of this new union, with a focus on joint ventures, shared infrastructure projects, and the equitable distribution of resources. These efforts would be aimed at addressing the disparities that have fueled resentment and conflict, creating a foundation for lasting peace and prosperity.
One of the most contentious issues in our region is that of land and expansion, particularly in the West Bank and Gaza. Recognizing that this land holds deep religious significance for all Abrahamic traditions, it is essential that it be preserved in a way that benefits the traditional residents. The central government would impose a reasonable tax or rent on any settlements, ensuring that any expansion respects the rights of the indigenous populations. These funds would be directed toward community development, infrastructure, and services that benefit all residents, fostering coexistence and mutual respect. In tandem with this approach, we must support the establishment of a two-state solution, referred to as "The Land of Abraham." This solution acknowledges the right of both Israelis and Palestinians to self-determination within their own sovereign states, while also promoting cooperative governance over shared spaces, particularly in areas of deep religious significance.
Education and cultural exchange would be critical components of this new federal union, with programs aimed at fostering understanding and respect among the different communities. The teaching of shared history and the promotion of interfaith dialogue would help to bridge the divides that have kept us apart for so long. Security and justice would also be paramount, with a unified security apparatus that serves all communities equally, and a commitment to justice, accountability, and the protection of human rights. This would involve the integration of existing security forces and the establishment of a federal judiciary to oversee matters of common concern.
To safeguard this new order, we must be vigilant against those who would seek to exploit religious and ethnic divisions for short-term gains. The treaty would include clear guidelines for identifying and addressing such exploitation, with mechanisms in place to monitor and regulate the use of religious symbols in politics, ensure transparency in governance, and hold accountable those who incite violence or spread fear for personal or political gain.
The challenges before us are indeed immense, and the wounds of the past run deep. Yet, if we are to build a future where the three Abrahamic traditions can live side by side in peace, we must summon the courage to confront the realities of our history and to work together to create a new social contract that honors our shared values while respecting our differences. This proposed federal union is not a panacea, but it is a starting point—a framework upon which we can build a just and lasting peace. Let us move forward with the understanding that our destinies are intertwined, and that only through unity can we secure a future of
Gabriel’s story is a journey of cultural fusion, resilience, and quiet determination—a narrative that reflects the complexities of identity in a world that often seeks to simplify it. Through his eyes, we see the merging of heritage and experience, the strength found in contemplation, and the light that shines even in the face of life's challenges. His is a story that deserves to be heard, understood, and shared.
On George: Between Duty and Tears: A Guardian's Revelation at Arlington
I watched in silence, my heart heavy as the man stood before the grave, can of soda in hand. The soft hiss of carbonation broke the sacred stillness, an ordinary sound that felt jarring in this hallowed place. As the liquid poured out onto the earth, I felt a deep, visceral anger well up inside me, an emotion I had long thought buried beneath years of discipline and duty.
This place, these graves, they were symbols of sacrifice, of lives given for something greater. And yet, in that moment, it felt as if all of that had been forgotten, replaced by a spectacle that had no place here. I wanted to shout, to demand respect, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I stood, rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed on the scene before me.
As the man turned to leave, his face impassive, I felt a tear slip down my cheek. It was not just for what I had seen, but for what it represented—a profound disconnect between those who understood the sanctity of this place and those who did not. In that moment, I found myself suspended between action and tears, between the duty I had sworn to uphold and the overwhelming sadness that threatened to consume me.
But it was in that space, in that painful collision of emotion and resolve, that I discovered something about myself. I realized that my strength lay not in the absence of emotion, but in the ability to act in spite of it—to stand firm, even when the world around me seemed to falter.
"Stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong." — Saint Paul, the Apostle
Years after the old guard's passing, a young soldier, new to the watch at Arlington, discovered a weathered notebook tucked away in a corner of the guard post. The pages were yellowed, edges frayed, filled with neat, steady handwriting. Among the entries detailing daily routines and reflections, one story stood out—a narrative of a moment that had shaken the guard to his core.
The young soldier read about the day a powerful man had come to the sacred grounds, and the act that had forever changed the old guard's understanding of honor and duty. The words were heavy with emotion, yet marked by a calm resolve. The story ended with a vow, a commitment to protect not just the place, but the ideals it stood for.
Moved by the tale, the young soldier quietly slipped the notebook back where he found it, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. From that day forward, he stood his post with a deeper understanding of what it truly meant to be a guardian of Arlington—knowing that, like the old guard, he too was now part of something much larger than himself.
This is the story that he read.
I’ve spent my life among the silent rows of Arlington, a place where time feels suspended, where every headstone tells a story of sacrifice. This sacred ground has been my world for as long as I can remember. As a boy, I walked these paths with my father, a stern man who had seen more than his share of war. He taught me the names on these stones, the stories behind them, and the weight of the duty we owe to those who rest here.
I enlisted as soon as I was old enough, knowing there was no other path for me. While others sought glory on distant battlefields, my calling was here—to protect and preserve this place of honor. Over the decades, my face has aged in the sun and wind, my hair turned silver, and my body grown stiff with time. But my resolve has never wavered. Every day, I’ve walked these grounds, my steps a silent vow to keep this place as sacred as the day it was consecrated.
That day, I stood as I always did, at my post, watching over the rows of white markers stretching out before me. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows that reached like fingers across the earth. There was a stillness in the air, the kind that always precedes something significant, though I didn’t know it yet. I had seen visitors come and go, some weeping, others standing in quiet reflection. Arlington has a way of humbling people, of reminding them of the gravity of life and death.
But then, in the distance, I saw him—a figure I recognized instantly. His presence was unmistakable, as was the entourage that trailed behind him. I had seen many high-profile visitors over the years, but something about this one made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. He was holding something in his hand, a can of soda, and I couldn’t help but frown. It was such an ordinary object, so out of place in this setting. I felt a tension building in the air, a sense of unease that I couldn’t quite shake.
As he drew closer, I could see his face more clearly. It was a face I had seen countless times on screens and in headlines—a face that had become a symbol of power and privilege. His skin was tanned to a shade that spoke of luxury, his hair meticulously styled in an unnatural shade of blonde. The lines of his face were sharp, but there was a smoothness to his features that suggested they had been carefully maintained, like a painting that had been touched up too many times. But it was his eyes that caught my attention the most—small, deep-set eyes that darted about restlessly, betraying a cold detachment that seemed to permeate his very being.
I watched as he approached a grave, one of the more well-known ones, and for a moment, everything around me seemed to freeze. My breath caught in my throat as I saw him pause, the can of soda still in his hand. I didn’t understand what I was witnessing. Arlington is a place of reverence, a place where every action, every word, carries weight. But what I saw next shook me to my core.
He cracked open the can with a loud hiss, the sound echoing unnaturally in the stillness of the cemetery. I stared in disbelief as he tilted the can, letting the soda pour out onto the grave below. It was a gesture I had seen before, but never here, never in this place. I knew the ritual, the tribute of pouring out a drink for the dead, but this was different. This was Arlington. This was sacred ground.
As the soda splashed onto the earth, a song began to play, one that I recognized immediately. It was “I’ll Be Missing You,” a song of loss and remembrance. But here, in this context, it felt like a mockery. The scene was surreal, almost absurd—this man, standing before a grave, pouring out a can of soda while a pop song played in the background. It was as if the solemnity of the moment had been stripped away, leaving something hollow and disjointed in its place.
I felt a surge of anger rise within me, a deep, visceral reaction that I hadn’t felt in years. This was a place of honor, of dignity, and what I was witnessing felt like a violation, a desecration. The man’s face remained impassive, as if he were simply going through the motions, as if this moment meant nothing to him. There was no sign of understanding in his eyes, no recognition of the gravity of where he stood. I wanted to shout, to demand that he stop, that he show some respect. But the words caught in my throat, trapped by the shock of what I was seeing.
As the entourage moved on, the quiet returned, but the damage was done. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the grave, now stained with the remnants of the soda. My heart ached with the weight of what I had just witnessed. Arlington had always been a place of dignity and respect, but in that moment, it had become something else—a stage for a spectacle that had no place here.
I felt a tear slip down my cheek, the first I had shed in years. It wasn’t just for what I had seen, but for what it represented—a profound disconnect between those who understood the sanctity of this place and those who did not. I had spent my life protecting this ground, and yet here I was, powerless to stop what felt like an affront to everything I believed in.
I don’t know how long I stood there, lost in thought. Eventually, I bent down, my old knees protesting, and began to clean the grave. It was all I could do, a small act of defiance, a way to restore a fraction of the honor that had been lost. As I worked, I whispered a prayer, asking for forgiveness—not for myself, but for those who had forgotten what it means to truly honor the fallen.
That day changed something in me. It was a reminder that even in the most sacred of places, there are moments that challenge our beliefs, that force us to confront the reality of the world we live in. I had always believed in the power of this place, in its ability to transcend the everyday. But now, I understood that it was not just the ground itself that was sacred; it was the way we treat it, the respect we show, the reverence we carry in our hearts.
As I finished my task, I stood up slowly, feeling the years of my service weigh on me more heavily than ever. I looked out over the rows of graves, each one a reminder of the ultimate sacrifice. And I vowed, as I had every day before, to continue to protect this place, to honor the memories of those who rest here, and to never forget the lesson I had learned that day: that respect, once lost, can be hard to reclaim, but it is worth fighting for with every fiber of my being.
In that moment, I found myself suspended between the desire to act and the tears that threatened to fall. It was a place I had rarely been, a place where emotion and duty collided. But it was in that collision, in that brief, painful moment, that I discovered something about myself. I realized that my strength, my purpose, lay not in the absence of emotion, but in the ability to act in spite of it. To stand firm, even when the world around me seemed to falter.
As I walked away from the grave, I felt a strange sense of peace. The anger, the sadness, it was all still there, but now it was tempered by a deeper understanding. I had faced something I never thought I would, and I had emerged on the other side, changed but resolute. This place, these sacred grounds, had always defined me. But now, I knew that it was not just my duty to protect them—it was my duty to protect the ideals they represented, to ensure that even in the face of indifference, respect and honor would endure.
In the end, it wasn’t the tears that defined me, nor was it the actions I had taken. It was the space between them, the space where emotion met resolve, where duty met compassion. That was where I found myself, where I found my purpose. And that, I knew, was what would keep me going, what would keep me standing guard over this sacred place, no matter what challenges lay ahead.
On Matthew: Perpendicular to Mecca
There was something almost dreamlike about it, and yet not a dream—dreams, after all, have a logic of their own, a coherence even in their strangeness. This was something else, a sense of being on the cusp of understanding something just out of reach. I noticed the chimes then, their delicate notes caught by the wind, rustling the leaves in a way that seemed almost intentional, as if to remind me of something I had forgotten. The birds sang their evening songs, distinct and clear, yet they too seemed part of this larger silence. Even the creak of the pool gate, a sound I had heard countless times, faded almost as soon as it was made, leaving only the stillness behind.
And then she appeared—this unknown woman who drew every eye not with familiarity, but with an air of quiet gravity. There was something about her, something unspoken yet unmistakable. She stood there, a figure defined by the present yet carrying an undefined past, a beauty shaped by time’s careful hand, and eyes that held secrets, or perhaps just shadows of secrets.
"Do not grieve, indeed Allah is with us."
— Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), Quran 9:40
Matthew, frail near the end of his long life, stood before the simple, unmarked grave, the early morning air cool against his skin. The earth was mounded in the traditional way, a small stone at the head and another at the foot, aligned perpendicular to Mecca. In his hand, he held the worn notebook—the story of the unknown woman who had lingered in his thoughts like a prayer unanswered. He placed it gently beside her resting place, a quiet offering to the mysteries of her life. Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving the wind to whisper through the trees, carrying with it the secrets he knew he would never fully understand.
This story was in that notebook.
In those days that seem to stretch like a veil between the known and the unknown, I often find myself reflecting on the nature of time—how it lingers between one season’s warmth and the chill of what is to come, reluctant to release its hold on either. It was during such a day, warm with summer’s remnants yet already touched by autumn’s cool breath, that we gathered by the pool. The scene was familiar, yet the air was thick with a detachment I could not name, as though I were merely an observer in a world I no longer fully inhabited.
The rooms surrounding the pool were filled with people, their presence demanding life and noise, yet all I perceived was a silence clinging to the edges of their conversations, an unspoken pause in the rhythm of their lives. I sat by the water, feeling the cool ripples against my feet, deliberate and inevitable in their movement. The clinking of glasses and muted exchanges floated insubstantially, as though they could vanish with the slightest breeze. The light danced across the pool’s surface, flickering briefly before dissolving into the lengthening shadows, as if even the day itself hesitated to move forward.
There was a quality to that moment that bordered on the dreamlike, yet it was not a dream. No, dreams have their own logic, a coherence even in their strangeness. This was different, a sensation of standing on the cusp of understanding something just beyond reach. As the chimes caught the wind, their notes rustling the leaves with a kind of intention, I felt a stirring—a reminder of something almost forgotten. The birds sang their evening songs, each note distinct and clear, yet they, too, seemed woven into the fabric of that larger silence. Even the familiar creak of the pool gate, a sound I had heard countless times, faded into the stillness as quickly as it came.
And then she appeared—draped in soft folds of fabric, her presence pulling every gaze as if she were the axis around which everything else turned. Her skin, warm as the earth, her features softened by time and yet defined by something more, something ancient. The light seemed to gather around her, as if drawn to the dark depths of her eyes that spoke of distant places, of stories that lingered just below the surface. The air around her felt different, as if even the breeze was gentler in her presence, unwilling to disturb the quiet gravity she carried with her.
I felt the cool ripple of water against my legs—a tangible moment that anchored me even as everything else seemed to drift. It was then that a voice broke through the delicate tranquility—a mother’s voice, at first fragile, then rising in panic. “My baby... my baby...” The words pierced through the air, drawing our collective attention to the unknown woman, who, with a calmness that seemed both human and divine, lifted the small child from the water. Her hand, so delicate yet unwavering, reached into the depths as though she had always known she would find the boy there, not as a savior but as one who fulfills a role written long before.
We watched, not immobilized by fear, but held by the sheer gravity of what was unfolding. Even as I recount this, I struggle to grasp what it was that anchored us so. The water stilled, the ripples fading into nothingness. The light softened, as if time itself had paused to bear witness, or perhaps to ease our recollection. The usual sounds—the clink of glasses, the murmured conversations—fell away, leaving only the presence of this woman and the act she had performed, a gesture that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.
Yet beneath it all, there was something more, something I could not name then and still struggle to define now. Time seemed to stretch, each second pulling at the edges of my perception. I moved, though I cannot explain why, toward the child who was now pressed close to my chest, his small body warm and real against me. And then... everything stopped. The woman’s arms, which had been so full of purpose, froze in a gesture that should have signified triumph but felt more like surrender.
She was gone before I could fully process what had happened, her body pulled from the water, lifeless yet still imbued with a presence. The world seemed to continue, or perhaps it didn’t—it’s difficult to say. There was a sense of slipping, of reality losing its hold on something essential, but what that was, I cannot tell. In the aftermath, a profound stillness filled the air, thick with unspoken truths, something just beyond the reach of words.
In those moments, I felt the faintest whisper of something—a presence, a touch, perhaps a memory that wasn’t mine. It was as if the act I had witnessed carried a weight far beyond the mere rescue of a child. There was something in her sacrifice, in the way she moved with such quiet certainty, that spoke of a greater truth, one that eludes my grasp even as it brushes against the edges of my consciousness.
As I reflect on that day, I find myself circling it, trying to understand, but perhaps some things are not meant to be fully comprehended. Later, I learned, or thought I did, that she was known to some—a figure who returned each year to watch over the children, a presence both tangible and spectral. Stories were told—quietly, almost reverently—of a life that had defied time, of someone given only months to live, yet who had stretched those months into years, perhaps through sheer will or something more. Her beauty remained untouched by time, but there was a wisdom in her eyes, a knowing that I could only glimpse.
Even now, I wonder whether that day was her final act or merely another in a series of miracles I had only just begun to perceive. In her actions, in the space she left behind, I sensed a presence that defies explanation—a reminder that some things in this world cannot be fully understood, only felt, only witnessed in the quiet spaces between what we know and what we will never truly know.
On Isabella Rose: The Luminous Echoes Dancing Between Shadows and Light
She stood bathed in the soft glow of the evening light, her dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of midnight. The deep red dress she wore hugged her form, its rich hue reflecting the warmth of her skin. But it was her eyes that held the true magic—deep, captivating pools that seemed to draw the world into their depths.
In those eyes, there was a reflection—a faint, almost ghostly image of him, standing at a distance. The intensity of her gaze, combined with the calm curve of her smile, spoke of secrets shared and a connection that transcended words. The world around them blurred into the background, leaving only the silent conversation between their souls, captured in the reflection within her eyes.
"Trust the past to the mercy of God, the present to His love, and the future to His providence. In all things, let your heart burn with the fire of love, for it is in passionate trust that we find true peace."
— Saint Augustine
In a forgotten loft just west of the Loop in Chicago, a contractor renovating the space stumbled upon an old, leather-bound notebook hidden beneath the floorboards. The cover was worn and weathered, but inside, the pages told a story of love between two people, Daniel and Isabella, through their intertwined writings. The notebook was a chronicle of their relationship, starting with Daniel's account of their first meeting in a downtown café. He described how he was instantly captivated by Isabella, a woman in a striking red dress who seemed to command the room. Isabella’s corresponding entry revealed that she felt the same magnetic pull toward him, as if they were destined to meet.
As the entries progressed, the notebook captured the evolution of their relationship. Daniel wrote of their first kiss, the tender mornings they spent together in the loft, and the quiet, unspoken bond they shared. Isabella’s writings mirrored his, reflecting on the peace and contentment she found in those moments. However, as time went on, their entries began to reveal cracks in their relationship. Daniel's words became more desperate as he wrote about the growing distance between them, while Isabella’s entries expressed her doubts and fears, wondering if their love could survive the strain.
The notebook ended abruptly, with no final resolution, leaving their story unfinished. The discovery of the notebook, now dusty and forgotten, preserved a fleeting and intense love that had once filled the loft with life. As the contractor put the notebook aside, it became a relic of the past, a testament to Daniel and Isabella's love, forever captured within the pages of that small, worn book.
This account was inside.
The train rattled beneath me, a rhythmic pulse carrying me through the city’s veins, through a blur of noise and light. The hum of urban life—a symphony of clattering wheels, distant voices, and flickering lights—merged into an indistinct melody, leaving me suspended in a moment that felt both timeless and fleeting. I held the cool metal pole, grounding myself in the physicality of the present, yet my mind was drifting, carried away by the current of the city and the thoughts that lingered just beneath the surface of consciousness.
And there she was.
Stepping into the golden light, as if summoned from the recesses of a dream. The platform was her stage, an old, worn canvas upon which she painted herself with every graceful movement. Her red dress was not merely an article of clothing but a living entity, a bold stroke of color that clung to her curves, accentuating the lines of her body with a precision that seemed almost deliberate. The fabric whispered against her skin, creating a melody in harmony with the subtle vibrations of the train beneath me, a sound so faint it might have been imagined.
As the train approached, the warm, humid air of the tunnel swept through, embracing her like an old lover, familiar and intimate. Her dark hair, slightly damp from the day’s heat, framed her face in loose, tousled waves, each strand catching the light in a way that made it shimmer, as if her very presence transformed the mundane into the extraordinary. Her skin, luminous and glowing in the dim light, glistened ever so slightly, not with the artificial sheen of cosmetics, but with the natural, irresistible allure of someone entirely comfortable within their own skin.
Her eyes—ah, those eyes—were deep wells of molten amber, captivating and fierce, holding within them the secrets of a life lived with intensity, a life that had tasted both the sweet and the bitter with equal fervor. When our gazes met, I felt a sudden shock, as though the ground beneath me had shifted. In that instant, she unraveled me, stripping away the carefully constructed layers of composure and revealing something raw and unguarded beneath. The air between us thickened, charged with an energy that was both exhilarating and terrifying, a force of nature that neither of us could deny or resist.
And so, as I stood there, rooted to the spot, my mind began to weave narratives, each thread pulling me deeper into the possibilities that her presence suggested. What would it feel like to touch her, to trace the line of her jaw with the tip of my finger, to feel the warmth of her breath against my skin as she leaned in to whisper something only the two of us could understand? I imagined the softness of her lips, the way they might taste—sweet like honey, or perhaps with a hint of something more complex, something that lingered long after the initial contact. There was a daring in her gaze, a challenge that beckoned me to step forward, to close the distance between us, to see if the reality matched the fantasy.
Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the delicate line of her collarbone visible above the neckline of her dress. My eyes traced the curve of her throat, imagining the sensation of my lips following the same path, exploring the smooth expanse of her skin, discovering the places where her pulse beat strongest, where her breath quickened. The scent of her reached me then, carried on the faintest of breezes—a blend of jasmine and something earthier, something that spoke of late nights and whispered secrets, of intimacy and trust.
She moved with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, the hem of her dress lifting slightly with each step, revealing the smooth, inviting curve of her leg. The light played tricks with my senses, making her appear both ethereal and grounded, a paradox of flesh and spirit that defied easy categorization. Her hair, tousled and slightly wild, shimmered as she moved, each strand catching the light in a way that made it seem alive, as though it too was part of the dance she performed.
The train doors began to close, but I found myself unable to move, trapped in a moment that stretched on endlessly. Time itself seemed to slow, each second a lifetime as I drank in the sight of her, the way the light caressed her skin, the way her eyes held mine with a promise of something beyond the physical, something more profound, more lasting. What would it be like to know her in all her complexity, to explore the layers of her personality, to discover the thoughts that lay hidden behind those enigmatic eyes? I could imagine the conversations we might have, the way she might challenge me, provoke me, push me to see the world through a new lens.
Her face, illuminated by the soft light, was a study in contrasts—soft yet strong, delicate yet powerful. The lines of her jaw, the fullness of her lips, the high arches of her cheekbones—all combined to create a face that was both timeless and immediate, a face that drew you in and refused to let you go. Her lips, slightly parted as if caught mid-thought, were an invitation, a gateway to something unknown and tantalizing. They held a slight curve, a hint of a smile that spoke of secrets and desires, of experiences shared in the dark, away from the prying eyes of the world.
My thoughts grew more vivid, more intense, as I imagined the possibilities that her presence suggested. I could see her standing close to me, her fingers brushing against my skin as she leaned in to speak, her voice low and filled with meaning. What would it be like to be close to her, to feel the heat of her body against mine, to lose myself in the sensations that her presence evoked? I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the blood rushing through my veins as the anticipation built, the tension between us a palpable force that neither of us could ignore.
And then, as the train began to move, the moment of decision arrived. The platform started to slide away, and with it, the connection that had sprung up between us. But just as I thought the moment had passed, she moved her hand ever so slightly, lifting it to her lips. My breath caught as I watched, entranced, as she blew a kiss in my direction—a slow, deliberate gesture that held within it a world of possibilities. Her eyes never left mine, and in that moment, I felt the tension between us break, replaced by a wave of warmth that spread through my body, leaving me breathless and wanting more.
Her eyes softened for just a moment, and in that brief instant, I saw something more—vulnerability, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of the connection we had shared, even if only for a moment. And then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the fierce intensity that had first captured me. The platform continued to slip away, the distance between us growing, but the memory of her lingered, as vivid and tangible as if she were still standing there, as if her hand were still against my cheek, her breath still hot against my ear.
The train sped on, but my mind remained with her, tracing the lines of her face, the curve of her lips, the way the light had played across her skin. The scent of her lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of the train, creating a heady mix that kept me grounded in the moment, even as the world outside moved on. My body still hummed with the energy of our connection, a connection that had not been broken by the closing of the doors, but had only grown stronger, more intense.
As the train continued its relentless journey, the city outside blurred into a wash of lights and shadows, the world rushing by in a cascade of movement that seemed distant, irrelevant. My mind was no longer tethered to the physical reality of the train, the rumble beneath my feet, or the dull hum of life outside. I was ensnared in a web of memories, sensations that clung to my consciousness like the lingering scent of her perfume in the air.
Each flicker of a passing streetlight outside the train window cast fleeting images of her—moments that replayed in my mind with a vividness that bordered on obsession. The way her hair had caught the light, glinting in hues of deep brown and black as it cascaded over her shoulders, the way her lips had curved into that knowing smile, hinting at secrets only the two of us could share. Her eyes, those amber pools of molten intensity, had spoken to me in a language older than words, a language of primal connection that transcended the banalities of everyday life.
As the train sped on, I found myself tracing the contours of those memories with an almost painful clarity. I could see the way the fabric of her dress had clung to her body, moving with her like a second skin, accentuating every curve, every subtle shift in her posture. The color, that deep, almost sinful red, seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a living entity that captured the essence of desire itself. It was as though she had been crafted from the very elements of passion—fire, heat, and something raw, untamed.
My body responded to the memory with a deep, primal longing, a need that was both physical and emotional. It was a craving that went beyond mere attraction, something more profound, more elemental. It was as if the moment we had shared, brief as it was, had unlocked something within me, something I hadn’t known was there. The energy between us had been palpable, a force that had drawn us together, even as the physical space between us remained.
In that brief encounter, she had become more than just a woman on a platform. She had become a symbol, an embodiment of everything I desired but had never been able to articulate. She was the fire that burned within me, the spark that ignited my deepest passions, the embodiment of a connection that I had longed for but had always found elusive. And now, having tasted it, even if only for a moment, I knew I could never go back to the way things were before.
The train continued its journey, the world outside a blur of lights and shadows, but I was no longer a part of that world. I was somewhere else, somewhere between reality and dream, where the memory of her was as real and vivid as the ground beneath my feet. My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions, each one pulling me deeper into the memory of her, of the connection we had shared, however brief.
I knew, with a certainty that bordered on the irrational, that this wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be. There was a reason our paths had crossed, a reason why the universe had conspired to bring us together in that fleeting moment. The connection we had shared, the energy that had passed between us, was too powerful, too profound, to be a mere accident.
The realization settled into my consciousness like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the calm surface of my thoughts. I would find her again. I had to. The city was vast, the world even more so, but the bond we had formed, the silent promises exchanged through a single glance, was stronger than distance, stronger than time. It was as if the universe had set a course for us, a trajectory that would inevitably bring us back together.
As the train pulled into the next station, the doors hissed open, and the cold air of the night rushed in, pulling me out of my reverie. People shuffled in and out, their faces blurred into anonymity, their presence barely registering in my mind. I was still caught in that moment, still tethered to the memory of her, the way her eyes had held mine, the way her presence had filled the space around us. It was a moment that had stretched into eternity, a moment that had changed everything.
And then, as the train picked up speed, a thought began to take shape in my mind, a realization that settled into my consciousness with a quiet, undeniable certainty. This wasn't the end. This couldn't be the end. There was a reason our paths had crossed, a reason why the universe had conspired to bring us together in that fleeting moment. The connection we had shared, the energy that had passed between us, was too powerful, too profound, to be a mere accident.
I knew, with a certainty that bordered on madness, that our paths would cross again. The universe, in its infinite wisdom, would find a way to bring us back together. And when it did, when we found each other once more, the fire that had sparked between us would ignite into something more, something unstoppable. It was a promise, a vow that had been made without words, a bond that had been forged in the space between us, in the silence of that moment.
The thought filled me with a sense of anticipation, a thrill that tingled through my veins, setting my heart racing. The world outside might be rushing by, the train might be speeding through the city, but I was no longer a part of that world. I was somewhere else, somewhere between reality and dream, where the memory of her was as real and vivid as the ground beneath my feet.
The rest of the journey passed in a blur, the stations, the people, the noise all fading into the background as I remained lost in the memory of her. It was as if I were suspended in time, caught in that moment of connection, of desire, of unspoken promises. And when the train finally pulled into my stop, when the doors hissed open and the cold air of the night rushed in, I stepped off the train with a sense of purpose, a certainty that I hadn't felt in a long time.
As I walked through the station, the lights casting long shadows across the tiled floor, I knew that I would find her again. The city was vast, the world even more so, but the connection we had shared was stronger than distance, stronger than time. It was a connection that would draw us together, that would lead me back to her, no matter where our paths might take us.
And when that moment came, when our eyes met once more, the fire that had been ignited in that subway tunnel would blaze brighter than ever before. It would be a fire that consumed everything in its path, that burned away the shadows of doubt and fear, leaving only the raw, unfiltered intensity of our connection.
The night air was crisp against my skin as I emerged onto the street, the sounds of the city filling the space around me. But even as the world continued to move, I was no longer just a part of it. I was something more, someone changed, transformed by the encounter that had seared itself into my soul.
I walked with a sense of purpose, my mind still filled with the memory of her, the way she had looked at me, the way her presence had filled the space around us. The city lights flickered overhead, casting a warm glow across the streets, but I was still caught in the golden light of that platform, still feeling the heat of her gaze, the promise of something more.
As I moved through the bustling streets, the memory of her lingered like a whisper in the back of my mind, a persistent echo that refused to fade. I replayed every detail of our encounter, each glance, each breath, each unspoken word. The sensation of her presence was still tangible, as if she were walking beside me, her hand brushing against mine, her scent filling the air around us.
The city seemed different now, as though it had been painted with new colors, shades I had never noticed before. The lights were brighter, the shadows deeper, and every sound seemed to carry a resonance that matched the rhythm of my heartbeat. It was as if the world had shifted, as if everything had been realigned to lead me back to her.
I found myself wandering through the streets with no particular destination in mind, letting my feet carry me wherever they wanted. The night was alive with the hum of activity, the rush of people going about their lives, but I was no longer a part of that current. I was adrift in a sea of memories, each one pulling me further away from the present, deeper into the past, into that moment when our eyes had locked and the world had fallen away.
Every corner I turned, every street I crossed, I imagined seeing her again, standing under a streetlamp, her red dress glowing in the light, her eyes finding mine across the distance. I imagined the look of recognition in her gaze, the smile that would curve her lips, the way she would walk toward me with that same grace, that same confidence that had captivated me on the platform.
The anticipation of finding her again, of reconnecting, was a driving force, an obsession that fueled my every step. I knew it was irrational, knew that the chances of finding her in a city this vast were slim, but the pull was too strong to resist. It was as if the universe itself was guiding me, leading me through the labyrinth of streets and alleys, drawing me closer to the moment when our paths would cross again.
Time lost its meaning as I wandered, the hours blending into one another in a blur of lights and shadows. The city, with all its noise and movement, became a backdrop to the thoughts that consumed me, thoughts of her, of the fire that had ignited between us, of the promises that had been made in silence.
At some point, I found myself standing in front of a small café, its windows glowing warmly in the night. The sight of it brought me back to the present, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air, mingling with the cool breeze. It was a place of comfort, a refuge from the restless energy that had driven me through the city. I pushed open the door and stepped inside, the warmth of the café enveloping me like a blanket.
I took a seat by the window, the glass cool against my fingertips as I traced the outline of the city outside. The streets were quieter now, the rush of the day giving way to the stillness of the night. The café was nearly empty, the few patrons lost in their own worlds, their faces softened by the dim light. It was a moment of calm, a pause in the endless motion, a chance to catch my breath and reflect on everything that had happened.
As I sipped my coffee, the warmth spreading through me, I let my thoughts settle, the frantic energy of the night finally ebbing away. The memory of her was still there, vivid and bright, but now it was accompanied by a sense of clarity, a realization that went beyond the initial rush of emotions.
What had happened between us was more than just a fleeting encounter. It was a connection that had touched something deep within me, something that had been dormant for far too long. It was a reminder of the intensity of life, of the passion that could still burn even in the most ordinary of moments. And it was a promise of something more, a future that had been set into motion by that single glance, that single moment of recognition.
I knew that finding her again would not be easy. The city was vast, and the odds were against me, but I also knew that the universe had a way of bringing people together when the time was right. The energy that had sparked between us was not something that could be easily extinguished. It was a force that would continue to pull us toward each other, no matter how far apart we might be.
As I finished my coffee and prepared to leave, I felt a sense of peace, a quiet confidence that everything would unfold as it was meant to. The night was still young, the city still alive with possibilities, and I was ready to face whatever came next.
I stepped out of the café and into the night, the cool air invigorating, the streets once again calling to me. I walked with purpose, my steps sure, my mind clear. The memory of her was still with me, but now it was a guiding light, a beacon that would lead me through the darkness, back to her.
The city, with all its twists and turns, its noise and silence, was a maze that I was determined to navigate. Somewhere out there, she was waiting, and I knew that I would find her. The universe had brought us together once, and it would do so again. It was only a matter of time.
As I walked through the night, the lights of the city shining brightly around me, I felt a sense of anticipation, a thrill that tingled through my veins. The journey was just beginning, the story far from over. And when I found her again, when our eyes met once more, the fire that had been ignited between us would burn brighter than ever before.
It was a fire that would consume everything in its path, a fire that would leave nothing but the two of us, standing together, connected by a bond that was unbreakable, undeniable. It was a fire that would burn through the night, through the darkness, lighting the way forward, until there was nothing left but the two of us, entwined in a dance of desire and trust, a dance that would never end.
The night was alive with possibilities, the city a labyrinth of streets and alleys, each one leading me closer to the moment when I would find her again. And when I did, when our paths crossed once more, the universe would conspire to bring us together, to reignite the fire that had been sparked in that fleeting moment of connection.
The journey was just beginning, and I was ready for whatever came next. The fire within me burned bright, the memory of her guiding me forward, and I knew that our story was far from over. It was only the beginning.
And there she was.
Her story, the story of Isabella Rose, is a powerful reminder of the beauty in fleeting moments and deep connections. It speaks to the magic of a single glance, a shared moment that lingers in our hearts long after it's over.
If Isabella's story resonated with you, please share it. Let others feel the impact of this connection, and help keep the spark alive. She would love to hear your thoughts or your own stories—let’s continue this journey together.
Don’t hesitate to reach out to her directly at: n+IsabellaRose@orangeyouglad.org
Your words matter, and she’s eager to connect.
On Jude and the Golden Thread: A Journey Through Shadows
A newborn baby, with soft dark brown hair, peacefully sleeps on their first day of life. Bathed in warm light, a gentle smile graces their face, capturing the pure joy and innocence of new beginnings.
"Pray, hope, and don't worry. Worry is useless. God is merciful and will hear your prayer."
— Saint Padre Pio
I was in Orson's attic, the air thick with dust and the scent of forgotten things. As I browsed through the old bookshelf, tucked between faded paperbacks and forgotten classics, I found a notebook. It was small, with a worn leather cover, hidden away as if it held secrets not meant to be found. The pages, yellowed with time, whispered stories of another era, and in that moment, I felt like I had stumbled upon a piece of Orson's soul.
Dear Mr. Orson,
I hope this finds you well. Lately, I’ve been revisiting a moment that’s lodged itself deep in my mind—the time when an old man in a wheelchair said to me, "I've been there." It was like hearing the hum of a familiar tune in a noisy room, one of those phrases that slip past without leaving much of a mark, like a casual "How you doin'?" thrown out into the wind. But something about the way he looked at me caught my breath—his eyes didn’t just see, they understood.
In that gaze, I felt the weight of unspoken truths, the kind that stretch across lifetimes. It was as though he carried in his eyes the echoes of every path I’d stumbled along, every moment when I’d felt like a ghost drifting through a world that wasn’t made for me. The world of white steeples and Sundays, where the spaces between "us" and "them" are drawn like battle lines. But in his eyes, those lines blurred, softened. "Stay safe," they seemed to whisper, "We’re all in this together. You belong here."
That simple phrase—"I've been there"—shifted from background noise into something sacred, like a bell tolling in a quiet room. It echoed in me, again and again, a golden thread stitching together the torn edges of my world. Each time it rang out in my mind, it dug deeper, wrapping itself around my thoughts like a vine around a trellis, guiding them toward a light I hadn’t known I needed.
The man in the wheelchair wasn’t a figure that demanded attention. His frame was thin, fragile—a silhouette against the backdrop of time. His skin was pale, the color of forgotten things, and his hair, silvered by years, caught the light in a way that felt almost otherworldly. But it was his eyes—deep wells of shadow and light, full of the stories he didn’t tell—that held me. They were maps of a life lived on the fringes, where the only rule was survival. His jacket, worn to a soft whisper of green, and his wheelchair, polished by care and necessity, spoke of journeys taken and battles fought, quiet but relentless.
My mother is another story, one that weaves through the heat and dust of Radio Park, where the sun bears down like a judgment. She’s a recovering addict, a ghost trying to find her way back to solid ground. Our lives touch only through the thin threads of the system, where paperwork and protocol are the only language we share. It’s a connection like smoke—tangible for a moment, then gone. She’s out there, piecing together a life from fragments, while I stand on the edge, trying to make sense of the one I’ve built.
My wife is the counterpoint to all this, a melody of quiet strength. Her face holds a gentle light, the kind that softens the edges of a room, making even the harshest corners seem welcoming. Her smile is a homecoming, a promise that no matter how far I wander, there’s a place for me to return to. Her eyes, deep and brown like the earth, carry a wisdom that calms the storm inside me. When she holds our daughter, that light grows, wrapping them both in a halo of protection.
And our daughter—she’s the bridge between what was and what will be. Her eyes carry her mother’s warmth, but there’s a spark there, something new, something that belongs only to her. Her skin, a blend of us both, is soft like the dawn, full of promise. When she smiles, it’s as if the world pauses, basking in the purity of it. In her, the past dissolves into the present, and the future takes on a shape that feels less daunting, more full of possibility.
It’s funny how everything can pivot on a few words from a stranger. That man in the wheelchair, he still sends me birthday cards, each one a reminder of that moment, of the connection that runs like a thread through all our lives. His words have become a mantra, a quiet reminder that we’re all part of the same tapestry, no matter how frayed the edges might be. And in those moments when the world seems too much, I hold onto that thread, let it guide me back to where I need to be.
We’re all just trying to survive, Mr. Wells. In that struggle, we find our common ground. We live, we die, and in the end, we’re all in this together.
Blue,
J
On Mei: The Notebook of the River’s Wisdom
Mei stood quietly, her posture straight and dignified, a reflection of the strength she had cultivated over decades. At fifty, she wore her years with grace—her hair, still dark and pulled back into a neat bun, framed a face marked by both the joys and trials of life. In her hands, she held a well-worn notebook, its cover faded and softened by time. Colorful bookmarks peeked out from its pages, reminders of the wisdom she had collected along her journey.
Her eyes, dark and clear, held a depth that spoke of resilience born from struggle. Yet, beneath that strength was a gentle warmth, a compassion that she carried with her always. As she looked out into the distance, the faint outline of a temple behind her, Mei felt the weight of her past, but also the lightness of hope. She knew that, like the river she had so often spoken of, life would continue to flow, and she would continue to navigate its currents with both grace and resolve.
"Many, many people hereabouts are not becoming Christians for one reason only: there is nobody to make them Christians."
— Saint Francis Xavier
In a quiet second-hand bookstore, Mei discovered an old notebook tucked between dusty shelves. Its worn leather cover and colorful bookmarks caught her eye. Opening it, she found passages marked with familiar words: “Life flows like a river. We can fight against the current, or we can pray for the strength to endure it.” Another bookmark led to, “Shàngdì hears our prayers, guiding us through the journey of growth, ài, and faith.”
Tears welled up as she realized these were the very teachings that had guided her through her hardest times. The final page read, “You are not alone. Hold onto your xìnniàn, and the river will lead you home.”
Clutching the notebook, Mei left the store, her heart lighter, knowing she was guided by a wisdom shared across time.
In the heart of Austin, Texas, where the skyline reaches for the heavens, I, Mei, have learned that life can be as unforgiving as it is unpredictable. I have always carried with me the strength of my ancestors, their wisdom and traditions woven into the fabric of my being. But these past few years have tested my resolve in ways I never imagined.
My son, Li, is the light of my life, yet his light has been dimmed by an illness that the doctors here do not seem to understand. Each visit to a new yīshēng (医生) fills me with a xīwàng (希望)—hope—that we might finally find answers. But that hope often fades, replaced by the familiar sting of disappointment. They speak in terms I don’t fully grasp, with words that seem to swirl around me like míngyì (名义), empty names without meaning. And I find myself growing weary, hěn lèi (很累)—so very tired—of this endless struggle.
There are days when I feel the anger rising within me, like a storm ready to break. My tears come in waves, and I retreat to the solitude of my room, where I can let them fall without shame. In those moments, I cry out to Shàngdì (上帝)—God—asking why my son must suffer so. I think of Saint Ren, whose strength in adversity is a story I have come to know well. "Why?" I ask, "Must we endure this river of pain?"
It was during this dark time that I met Ren. He is not Chinese, not even Asian, but an American with a gentle heart and a soul that seems to understand my suffering. I did not expect to find a friend in him, but there is something in his spirit that draws me closer. He speaks of ài (爱)—love—and compassion, and in him, I see a reflection of the Christian faith I have come to embrace. Ren has his own burdens, and in sharing them with me, we have forged a bond. I call him "Brother" now, and he calls me “Sister,” for he is as close to me as any blood relative.
Ren often speaks of life as a river, a metaphor that resonates with me deeply. "Life flows like a river, Mei," he says. "We can fight against the current, or we can pray for the strength to endure it. Sometimes, we must do both."
His words remind me of the teachings of Saint Teresa, who faced many trials yet never lost her faith. Xìnniàn (信念)—faith—has become my anchor in these turbulent waters. With Ren by my side, I have found a new strength, a lìliàng (力量) that comes not from resisting the current, but from trusting that God will guide us through it.
My search for a good doctor for Li continues, but I no longer feel as though I am alone in this struggle. With each step, I hold onto the belief that Shàngdì is watching over us, that He hears my prayers even when they are whispered through tears. I have learned that sometimes, the answers do not come in the way we expect. Sometimes, the answer is the journey itself—the growth, the ài, and the faith that we cultivate along the way.
Together, Ren and I face this river with courage. We understand that while we may not control its course, we can choose how we navigate it—whether by fighting, praying, or simply letting go and trusting in God’s plan. In this, I find peace, knowing that my son and I are held in God’s grace, just as Saint Teresa was.
And so, in my moments of anger and sorrow, I remember that I am not alone. I have found a brother in Ren, and through him, a deeper connection to the faith that sustains me. I continue this journey with a heart full of ài and a soul anchored in xìnniàn, knowing that the river, in its wisdom, will lead us where we need to be.
On Arthur: The Trinity of Radio Park and the Graph of our Existence
Arthur sat quietly at his desk, the morning light casting a soft glow over his frail figure. His hands, though trembling slightly, held onto the thin, well-worn notebook that rested in his lap, bound by a simple rubber band. Two pens, one blue and one black, were neatly tucked into the band—tools that had become his lifeline in a world that often moved too quickly for his body to keep up.
His wheelchair creaked slightly as he adjusted his position, the familiar sounds of its worn-out parts blending into the background of his thoughts. Arthur’s eyes, sharp and full of a deep, almost unearthly intelligence, scanned the pages he had filled over the years. Each line, each carefully crafted word, was a testament to the battles he fought—against his own limitations, against the confines of a body that often betrayed him.
But if there was one thing Arthur had learned, it was that the mind could soar where the body could not. And soar it did. His thoughts danced in circles, weaving together ideas and memories, compassion and creativity, all while he struggled to remember the details of a world that sometimes felt just out of reach. Yet, in those moments of forgetfulness, there was an unbounded love that poured from his heart into every word he wrote, into every conversation he practiced in the quiet solitude of his room.
Arthur was a man who had come to understand that while his body may have been limited, his spirit was infinite. And as he sat there, with the notebook that had become an extension of his very soul, he knew that his life, though marked by struggle, was one of profound meaning.
"Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal rule."
— Siddhartha Gautama (The Buddha)
[R]Arthur, a meticulous solicitor, always carried a thin, worn notebook bound by a rubber band, securing two pens—one blue, one black. His life revolved around careful preparation; every conversation he would have was first scripted in that notebook. The blue pen drafted his dialogues—greetings, questions, and rebuttals—while the black underlined key points and tones.
Each morning, he rehearsed these conversations, ensuring he was ready for any interaction the day might bring. To the townspeople, Arthur’s words always seemed perfect, his eloquence admired. Yet, they didn’t know that behind his carefully chosen words was a quiet ritual, performed in solitude.
One day, Arthur was invited to speak at a prestigious gathering, a task requiring more spontaneity than he was accustomed to. He felt the familiar pang of anxiety but sat down with his notebook, drafting every possible scenario.
With his notebook in hand, Arthur arrived at the event, his heart steady. Though the conversations flowed unpredictably, his preparation gave him confidence. In a world that valued quick wit, Arthur found peace in his rituals, knowing that even in spontaneity, he was ready.
This letter was found within.
Life, in all its unpredictability, often leads us down paths that twist and turn, shaping us in ways we could never have foreseen. My journey began with a curious event—an unforeseen strike to my visual cortex, coupled with a rare cerebellar disease, that set the course of my life in motion. This unusual combination has woven a mind that dances between realms, forever tethered to the dream world, yet unable to linger in either for long without the sharp reminder of pain. From a tender age, I was drawn not to the simple pleasures of childhood but to the profound depths of thought and philosophy. While others played, I was already navigating the complex waters of Jung, much to my mother's quiet bemusement. She often recounts with a soft smile how I would insist she read passages of depth while the world around me was just beginning to reveal itself.
As I grew, the labyrinth of life presented challenges that no amount of early wisdom could have prepared me for. I found myself grappling with tests that strained under the weight of my thoughts. My mother recalls the numbers—162, a figure etched in her memory. But to me, they were blurred, tangled between 155 and 160, marked by the enigmatic ">" sign, a symbol that seemed to mock the very essence of my being. These were more than mere scores; they were reflections of a mind perpetually on the edge, troubled yet striving for brilliance. I still remember the day I glimpsed those forms, tucked away in the 'learning disabled' office, as I prepared for a college entrance exam. The sight of them sent my heart into a frenzy, as if the true depths of my soul had been laid bare, open to judgment by the world.
Over time, however, a deeper understanding began to take root within me—a realization that no test, no label, could ever truly capture the essence of who I am or define the boundaries of what I might achieve. The battles I’ve faced—inner doubts that gnawed at my confidence, societal expectations that tried to box me in, and the barriers others erected in their ignorance—have been formidable. Yet, these trials have also been my forge, shaping me, tempering me. My journey has been one of relentless growth, a continuous odyssey of self-discovery. In moments of quiet reflection, I find myself attuned to something universal—a soft whisper of the Holy Spirit, reminding me that we are all intricately connected, from the dust beneath our feet to the vast cosmos above, bound together by love, passion, and even suffering.
This deepening understanding has guided me through some of the most profound moments of my life. I can still recall, with vivid clarity, standing on the brink of 14, at the threshold of my first love. It was her mind that first captivated me, drawing me into a world I had only glimpsed in my solitary musings, and then her presence, which solidified the connection. It was during this time that I began to truly understand myself: love, pure and untainted, came first; from it, compassion naturally followed. This marked the beginning of a journey into the deeper mysteries of life, mysteries that would continue to unfold in ways both wondrous and challenging. Glory be to God for all things, and forgive me, for I am a great sinner.
But my journey with faith began even earlier, at the tender age of 7, when I first encountered the divine as I grappled with the loss of my beloved grandmother. She had suffered a stroke, and in the aftermath, I was the only one who could still understand her. This connection, forged in the crucible of her suffering, has never left my heart. It was also during this time that I first experienced the dizzying effects of what I would later come to know as vertigo—a sign of the disease that would shadow me in the years to come. If that wasn’t a miracle, I would still call it a brush with the boundaries of God, a fleeting touch of the divine in a moment of profound human experience.
As I reflect on these experiences, I am drawn to consider the broader human condition. My own struggle with homelessness, juxtaposed against the backdrop of my older sister’s time in foster care, has taught me that these experiences, though seemingly disparate, are in essence the same. The world can be a harsh, unforgiving place, often indifferent to the struggles of those who find themselves on its fringes. Yet, through these trials, I have learned the importance of spreading warmth—the kind of peppery heat that arises from genuine intention and compassion, even if some have yet to discover how to harness it fully.
I’ve come to believe that our capacity for understanding, for true empathy, is what draws us to recognize these qualities in others, even in the most unlikely places. The path of self-discovery that I’ve walked—a path that few who identify with my cis white maleness have traveled—seems to resonate with those who carry unique identities: foster kids, veterans, the disabled, and those whose experiences paint the broad spectrum of humanity, from black to bronze, green, gold, and all the shades in between, including those of the LGBTQ+ community and all who carry open hearts. My identity, however, is something different. By a stroke of luck, perhaps a touch of privilege, I have managed to find acceptance in certain circles. But I remain acutely aware that both my mind and my body, much like many of our Polish cousins, were once prime targets for hate—a kind of 'Nazi bait.' And so, I am deeply grateful for the good you do, with a similarly compassionate heart.
As the years have passed, I’ve learned to separate cultural heritage from the soul that dwells within—a soul that, much like a child struggling with Freud while attempting to debate Kant and Jung in a language that feels foreign, yearns for deeper understanding. My mind, ever the dreamer, contains within it a Mork, operating through a framework that sometimes falters, yet is always brimming with energy, reflection, and the desire to connect.
In this complex inner world, I’ve discovered another mind as circular as my own, though he is my opposite in many ways. His actions may lean toward destruction, but I sense within him the weight of humanity’s collective suffering. It’s a silence that speaks volumes, a quiet cry for connection, for understanding. This contrast has deepened my own understanding of compassion, showing me that even in the midst of destruction, there lies a desperate longing for connection, for redemption.
In these moments of reflection, I find it necessary to express gratitude often, perhaps as a way to anchor myself in a world that sometimes feels fleeting. My memory, with all its quirks, compels me to remind people of their worth, to call them an 87 as a token of my appreciation. You, Father, are an 87. I wish I had the time to share more of my life’s story with you, but if you read Psalm 87, you’ll grasp the essence of it. Everything finds its place when viewed through that sacred lens.
When I think of my children, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of pride. Both of them know Pi to more than 40 digits, and one, recognized by the institutions of "higher" learning, knows it to 150—a skill I trained them to master by ear. My daughter is emerging as a master orator, her words flowing with the grace of one who understands the power of language, while my son, with his boundless compassion, inner strength, and an empathetic smile, is poised to lead the future with wisdom. Their faces, a beautiful blend of Ethiopian heritage and my own, radiate warmth, their deep, expressive eyes holding within them a world of curiosity and wisdom. They carry the legacy of their ancestors with a grace and spirit that shines brightly, illuminating the path forward.
And then there’s my wife—the saint of our family. While I was lost in the spectacle of fireworks at the Washington Monument, she was awakening to the news of a war drawing near, with the eerie sound of a burning factory echoing through the night. Her soul is vast, her heart a boundless reservoir of love and resilience. The language between us is one of love, pure and unwavering. While I was supposed to be earning my high school diploma, I found myself being trained in the intricacies of neurology by a boy named Jason. It was alongside Kerry and Andy—each of them facing their own unique challenges from birth—that I delved into a world where every day was a lesson in the fragility and resilience of the human mind. Sometimes, I must admit, I lose track of my point, like a sneeze that perpetually hovers on the brink of release. But in the end, that’s all right because I no longer see these accomplishments as my own, but rather as part of a greater good. Glory be to God for all things.
My wife, with her incredible mind and spirit, speaks four languages, capable of profound thought in three of them, though she is lovely in all. We call all that has come from our love "in the middle," a testament to the life we’ve built together. It’s why my art name is what it is—it forms the first sound of our names, a blend of who we are and what we’ve created together.
In closing, I want to thank you, Father, for everything you do. Your compassion and kindness do not go unnoticed. I may not recognize you the next time I see you, but that only means I look forward to meeting you again and again, each encounter a fresh opportunity to connect, to understand, and to share in the journey we are all on.
And now, I look at the souls in Radio Park, isolated by trauma, taught to escape the harshness of the world, and realize - they to have the dream, like me.
So, forgive me,
RA
PS, you can listen to my innermost generally intelligent dialog here: https://soundcloud.com/soundofset/sets/the-meditations-of-zera-yacob
On Serena: With all my love, always and forever.
A highly successful Black woman in her mid-forties sits in her sleek, sunlit office, her confident exterior masking the weight of a difficult choice. As she ponders the decision before her, the open notebook and family photo on her desk hint at the deeply personal stakes involved. In this moment, she embodies both the strength of a leader and the vulnerability of someone facing a pivotal crossroads in life.
“Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase.”
— Martin Luther King Jr.
This heartfelt letter was penned in a well-worn notebook while sitting in the quiet corner of a health clinic's waiting room. Surrounded by the hum of everyday life, the mother took a moment to reflect on her family’s legacy, pouring her love and wisdom onto the pages. With each word, she wove together the strength of generations, offering her daughter a message of empowerment and choice, written in the midst of life’s ordinary yet profound moments.
Dear Baby Girl,
As I sit here, reflecting on our family’s journey and the remarkable women who came before us, my heart overflows with pride and love. You belong to a lineage of powerful women—your great-grandma, your grandma, and me—and I know the weight of those legacies may feel heavy at times. But I want you to know that you are never alone in this journey. You carry within you the strength, wisdom, and grace of all who came before.
Your great-grandma was a true pioneer, a woman ahead of her time. At a small liberal arts college, she united the Universalists into their Unitarian body, ensuring the word "God" was a guiding light. For over 30 years, she taught about the universe, shaping 28 brilliant minds at a time. Her journey was one of intellect, spirit, and unwavering commitment to wisdom. Even when she met your great-grandpa later in life, she cared for him with the same trinity of reason, spirit, and love that defined her life’s work.
Your grandma, too, walked a path of greatness. With a mind sharp as steel and a heart full of compassion, she wielded logic, diplomacy, and protection with unmatched grace. She saved over 100 million lives, earning recognition from five presidents for her valor. She was a protector, a negotiator, and a guardian of justice. Her legacy is one of service, courage, and dedication to the greater good.
And then, there’s me. My work may not be widely known, but I’ve poured my heart and soul into it. I helped birth both the internet and artificial general intelligence, touching billions of lives through my professional endeavors and millions more through my art. Though my name may not be celebrated, I know that my contributions have made a difference, and I give all glory to God for guiding my path.
But here’s what I want you to understand, baby girl: true success is rooted in goodness. It’s about opening your heart to others and letting your light shine in a way that inspires, uplifts, and transforms. Just as Thelma Berlack Boozer and the women of Alpha Kappa Alpha knew, it’s not about the accolades but about the impact you have on the lives you touch. Your fast mind and open ears are gifts—use them to listen deeply, to learn, and to lead with compassion. You’ve already made a mark on this world, and you’ve only just begun.
Remember the wisdom passed down through our family: "Given the choice, one may seek to control the body, but never at the cost of the mind." This is the essence of true empowerment—the understanding that your mind, your spirit, your essence, are the most precious parts of you. They are your strength, your legacy, and the force that will guide you through life’s challenges. Protect them, nurture them, and let them lead you to new heights.
If you decide to embrace motherhood, and if you’re blessed with daughters, know that they, too, will inherit this rich legacy. But always remember that the choice is yours. You have the power to decide what path you will take, and whatever you choose, you will carry with you the wisdom, strength, and grace of the women who came before you.
You are not just enough—you are extraordinary. You are a reflection of every woman who came before you, and you are blazing your own trail, too. You are one of us! You carry our legacy, our strength, our fire. And you, my love, will rise to every challenge, overcome every obstacle, and leave your own mark on this world.
Never doubt for a moment the power that lives within you. Keep your heart open, baby girl, because that’s where true power lies. That’s what makes you unstoppable. That’s what makes you one of us.
With all my love, always and forever,
Mama
On Gabrielle: Reflections in Shadows: The Struggle for Light
Her face, touched by time yet gracefully so, bore the marks of a life lived with quiet strength. High cheekbones framed eyes that held deep wells of wisdom, each line around them a testament to both resilience and compassion. There was no need for embellishment—Gabrielle St. Claire's natural elegance spoke volumes, her features reflecting the quiet power of a woman who had faced life's trials with unwavering grace.
"The soul that is quick to turn to speaking and conversing is slow to turn to God."
— Saint John of the Cross
The attic was thick with dust, the air heavy with the scent of old paper and forgotten memories. Among the piles of books stacked haphazardly, two large, leather-bound psychology textbooks sat side by side, their covers faded and worn. They hadn’t been touched in years.
As she reached out to move them, the heavy volumes parted just enough to reveal a small, slim notebook wedged between them. The cover was plain, almost unremarkable, but its hidden placement spoke of secrets kept. She carefully pulled it free, dust drifting into the air as the pages shifted.
The notebook had been concealed, tucked away and forgotten, sheltered between the weight of knowledge and time. It waited silently, its contents unread for years, until now.
I grew up in a world where the truth was something to be twisted and manipulated, a tool to be wielded by those who understood its power. My mother was a master of this art, a woman who could charm a room full of strangers with her smile while hiding the darkness that festered within. My sister, molded in her image, learned to craft her own façade, becoming a mirror of the woman who had raised her. And my father, caught in the web they spun, became both a victim and a perpetrator of the lies that held our family together.
From an early age, I recognized that our family was different. But it wasn’t until I began studying psychology that I truly understood the depths of their dysfunction. Narcissism isn’t just a personality flaw—it’s a calculated way of life, a means of controlling others to create a veil of cover, allowing the narcissist to operate in disguise. My mother and sister were adept at this, each in their own way. They manipulated those around them, drawing them into their world where they could be controlled and used as pawns in their never-ending game.
Their strategy was simple yet effective: they molded others to take on the traits that would best serve their needs. My father, once strong and independent, was slowly turned into a dependent, a man who lived for their approval and feared their disapproval more than anything. He became their enabler, defending them against any perceived threat and attacking anyone who dared to challenge the fragile balance they had created. My sister, in turn, was shaped into my mother’s image, a younger, more ruthless version who would carry on the legacy of manipulation and control.
But it wasn’t just within the family that they exerted their influence. My mother was a master of creating a public persona that was beyond reproach. She was charming, successful, and always seemed to have the best intentions. But behind closed doors, she was a tyrant, using her charm to deflect any suspicion of wrongdoing. My sister followed suit, learning to hide her cruelty behind a veneer of friendliness and good humor. Together, they created a world where they could operate with impunity, their true selves hidden behind the masks they wore.
As I grew older, I became increasingly aware of the role I was expected to play. I was the one who was supposed to maintain the peace, to smooth over the cracks in our family’s carefully constructed façade. But I could never bring myself to fully submit to their control. I saw through their games, recognized the lies they told themselves and others, and refused to become another pawn in their game. This made me a threat, someone who had to be neutralized or brought into line.
My refusal to conform didn’t go unnoticed. They saw me as a danger, someone who could expose the truth and bring down the house of cards they had built. They tried to mold me, to break me, but I resisted. I fought back, not with anger or violence, but with knowledge. I studied psychology, learned everything I could about narcissism and psychopathy, and used that knowledge to protect myself. I learned to set boundaries, to practice compassion, not as a weakness, but as a form of strength. I became adept at recognizing their tactics and countering them, refusing to be drawn into their web of lies.
But even as I fought to protect myself, a darker fear began to take root within me—a fear that perhaps I was no different from them. That somehow, growing up in their world had tainted me in ways I couldn’t fully comprehend. Was I capable of the same manipulation? The same cruelty? Had I unknowingly absorbed their traits, becoming a mirror of the very people I despised? This fear was soul-crushing, a shadow that followed me no matter how far I tried to run.
This fear crept into my relationships, into my work. It became a constant undercurrent, pushing me to question every decision, every interaction. I worried that my drive to succeed was rooted in the same need for control that had defined my mother and sister. I feared that my need to help others was a twisted reflection of their manipulation, a way to prove to myself that I wasn’t like them. But the more I feared, the more I fought against it. I set boundaries so high they were almost walls, practiced compassion so rigorously it became a discipline. I sought out therapy, not just to heal, but to understand. To dissect every thought, every action, in the hope that I could root out any trace of their influence.
Yet, the mirror of empathy is a painful one. When I looked at my mother and sister, I saw not just their darkness, but their light, too. I saw the wounded, vulnerable parts of them that were hidden beneath layers of control and manipulation. And in seeing them, I also saw myself—the parts of me that could have been like them, that sometimes felt too close for comfort. It was a painful realization, one that made me question everything I thought I knew about myself. But it was also what kept me moving forward, kept me striving to be different, to be better.
The climax of this struggle came one evening, standing face to face with my mother, the woman who had shaped so much of my world. The light in the room was dim, casting long shadows that danced across her face, a face that was both familiar and alien to me. I saw in her the lines of age, the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the piercing eyes that could cut through steel when she wanted them to. There was a family resemblance there, undeniable in the curve of her lips, the arch of her brow. But what I saw most clearly was the emptiness behind those eyes, a reflection of something other than love.
Her face was a landscape of contradictions, where light and shadow played a game of hide and seek. The soft glow of the lamp caught the edges of her features, tracing the outline of a woman who had once held all the power in my world. But in the shadows, I saw the truth—the cold, calculating mind that had always sought control, the darkness that had seeped into every corner of her soul. The light, so fleeting, seemed to highlight the mask she wore, a mask that had cracked with time, revealing glimpses of the pain and fear that lay beneath.
Her skin, once smooth and glowing with the vitality of youth, was now lined with the years of deception and manipulation. The shadows deepened the creases around her mouth, around her eyes, giving her an air of both vulnerability and menace. Her eyes, so often hard and unyielding, flickered with something almost human—an emotion that was quickly buried beneath the coldness she projected. But in that brief moment, I saw the struggle within her, the battle between the light she had buried and the darkness she had embraced.
It was in that moment that I realized the true depth of our connection. We were bound by blood, by history, by the pain we had both endured and inflicted. But where she had chosen control and dominance, I had chosen a different path. I saw in her face the path I could have taken, the reflection of a life shaped by fear and the desperate need to protect oneself from it. But I also saw the possibility of something more, the faintest glimmer of the love that had been lost in the shadows.
It was a face that both repelled and drew me in, a face that mirrored my own in ways that were both haunting and comforting. The resemblance was there, but it was not a reflection of love—it was a reflection of the choices we had made, the paths we had walked, and the darkness we had both encountered. The light and shadow that played across her face were the same that played across my own soul, a constant reminder of the struggle we both faced, the struggle to find light in a world filled with darkness.
It wasn’t until my niece was born that I truly understood the stakes. I had gone no contact with my family for a few years, a decision that had brought me a sense of peace I had never known before. But when I heard about her birth, I knew I had to intervene. I couldn’t allow her to be drawn into the same cycle of abuse that had ensnared me. I knew that my sister, despite her public persona, was capable of continuing the generational trauma that had been passed down to us. I knew that I had to be there to protect my niece, to be ready to step in if the situation became dangerous.
Most people can’t understand why I did it. They don’t see the danger behind the masks my family wears. They don’t understand the lengths I had to go to protect my niece, to be ready to step in and save her if the need arose. My friends in psychology get it. They know what it’s like to see the darkness in others and know that it’s real, that it’s not something you can just wish away. They understand the toll it takes to constantly be on guard, to always be ready to act, knowing that the slightest misstep could have devastating consequences.
As I look back on my life, I see a pattern of resilience, of emotional setbacks that have forged my heart into something stronger than I ever thought possible. Every time I felt like giving up, I remembered the little boy I used to be—the one who deserved so much more than what he got—and I pushed forward. My heart, though scarred, is strong. It is a heart that has been forged in the flames of adversity, a heart that beats with the rhythm of someone who has chosen to give back to humanity rather than succumb to the darkness he was born into.
Now, as I stand on the precipice of even greater success in my field, I know that I am not just a survivor—I am a warrior. I have fought battles that most people cannot even begin to understand, battles that have tested me to my core. But I have emerged stronger, more compassionate, and more determined than ever to make a difference in the world. I refuse to let their legacy define me. I refuse to let them win.
And yet, that lingering fear remains—the fear that perhaps I am no different from them. But instead of letting it crush me, I use it as fuel. It drives me to be better, to be kinder, to create a world where people don’t have to live in fear. I may never fully escape the shadow of my past, but I will continue to fight against it, to push forward, and to build a life that is a testament to resilience and hope.
In this journey, I’ve come to understand that even those who seem irredeemable are often trapped by their own fears. My mother, my sister—they weren’t born monsters. They were shaped by their own wounds, their own desperate need to protect themselves from the pain they couldn’t face. Their need for control was a shield, a way to keep the world at bay, to ensure that they would never be hurt again. But in building that shield, they lost something precious—the ability to connect, to be vulnerable, to truly love.
It took me years to see it, but I now understand that their darkness was intertwined with their light. They had potential, gifts that could have been used for good, but they were blinded by their need to control, to dominate. And while I cannot excuse the harm they caused, I can find compassion for the wounded parts of them that drove their actions. In doing so, I free myself from the bitterness that once consumed me.
I choose to believe that everyone, even those who hurt us, carries a duality within them. We are all capable of great darkness, but also of great light. The key is in the choices we make, in the paths we choose to follow. I have chosen to walk the path of compassion, to use my experiences to help others heal, to be a beacon of hope in a world that so often feels dark.
And so, I move forward, not just as a survivor, but as a warrior, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead. I am no longer a victim of their games. I am the one who sets the rules now. And as I stride forward, I know that I am unstoppable—not because I am unscarred, but because I have learned to wield those scars like armor. I carry with me the understanding that even in the darkest of souls, there is a glimmer of light. And it is this understanding that fuels my compassion, my drive to make the world a better place, one small act of kindness at a time.
But even as I strive to move forward, I know that the trauma of the past keeps me in a constant struggle. It is a battle I fight every day—a battle to rise above the shadows of yesterday, to choose light over darkness, to keep walking the path of resilience and hope, no matter how difficult the journey may be.
If you or someone you know is struggling with similar issues, please don't hesitate to reach out for help. You can contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or visit their website at www.thehotline.org for support. Remember, you are not alone, and there is help available.