I hate passing roadkill when I drive.
It’s depressing.
I can’t help but imagine the animal as a newborn baby.
At some point in time, that rotting carcass on the side of the road was some animal’s baby.
It was the most important thing in the world to its mother.
How sad that it would end up abandoned on the side of the road.
I was in the mall a few days ago, and passed an old man in a wheelchair.
He was alone.
His face had the saddest expression I’ve ever seen. His mouth was drawn down and his eyes had no sense of purpose.
I thought about the day he was born.
A proud mother held her tiny, screaming baby.
She held such hope for him.
What would she think if she could see him now?
If she had known the tragedy to befall her son, would that day still hold such hope?
How many of us would bring a child into the world, knowing how much that child will suffer?
Why is tragedy such a part of the human condition?
Short is the path between hope and dispair.
One of the people I respect most in this world gave me a very useful compliment.
He said I am aware of my insignificance.
One day I will be buried in a grave somewhere.
Abandoned, save for a stone marker.
My day-to-day actions seem to have little impact on that end.
Yet, I can argue that my day-to-day actions have everything to do with that end.
Perhaps we should not be measured by our greatest accomplishments, but by the most mundane of our day-to-day activities. Those are what constitute most of our being.
© November 14, 2006
