Uncomfortable

I read about some inequality or hatred that I’ve never heard about or even thought about before…and I squirm a bit in my seat. Scootching to the side, I leave room for my familiar friend Uncomfortable to join me. I may not like it, but I have to remind myself that Uncomfortable doesn’t always equal Bad. Uncomfortable means that I’ve noticed, that maybe even if I want to look away, my heart-gut is saying, “Listen up…this is important.”

So instead of shying away, I sit with the Uncomfortable. Let it weigh heavy on my chest and really wrestle with it. What does it mean? What does it mean for me? Do I dare to even ask?┬áMaybe…maybe…I’m supposed to do something. Write a letter to the editor. Stand up for someone who might not be so easy to stand up for. Go do that thing that my heart is telling me to do. Or, possibly harder than any of those, change. Change my heart, change my mind. Changing isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of growth.

I think I’m growing now. I walk around with the uncomfortable weighing down my pockets. I hide it there, thinking no one will notice. And it’s not, like it’s been a hundred times before, that I’m uncomfortable in my own skin. Quite the opposite, really. Certainty is the belt holding up my heavy-pocketed pants. But how long can I drag around these stones of hurt and frustration and disconnect before I tire my own self out, like a toddler runningrunningrunning until – all of a sudden – I stop.

I open my head, my heart, my hands…waiting for something, anything.
And, for now, this is all I find:
You must love each other, just as I have loved you.

I think that’s enough to keep me busy for a while.

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