People think that if you’ve been up close to suffering, human or otherwise, that it puts things into perspective for you. That you pick your battles carefully, that you don’t get bogged down with petty sorrows because you know how bad things can really get. They assume that you’ve had to grow a little tough, or else go crazy.
Maybe all that’s true, to some extent. But I’ve found that experiencing the suffering of others (in India, and in other places) along with some of my own, has given my heart stretch marks, instead. It’s made it baggy and soft and able to hold more–more sadness, probably, but I hope more love, too. My heart’s weaker than it used to be, and less efficient. I cry too much about things that used to escape my notice.
But that’s ok. It’s a price I’ve been willing to pay in order to get down low, and I don’t regret it. And, anyway, it just means that things like this,
So here’s to those of us with worn, flabby hearts that can’t keep things in proper proportion. I’m trusting there’s a reason for softness.