Why Me?
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain. One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself, forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. ―Albert Camus
You clothed me with skin and flesh, and knit me together with bones and sinews. You have granted me life and steadfast love, and your care has preserved my spirit. —Job 10:11-12
Above: A universal self-portrait (if we were really honest).
We have a tendency
to ask the right question
in the wrong way:
Why me.
One groans, “Why me?”
Another exclaims: “Why me?!”
Though the same five letters,
they are very, very different.
Four lines make square or
rectangle or both.
Like water, ice, vapor is
each a distinct manifestation
of the same substance.
“Why me?” groans the miser, to whom the world is owed.
“Why me?!” shouts the lover, for whom all is a gift.
They share the denotation,
not the connotation.
One is a protest,
the other: a prayer.
To each, He answers:
It was you.
It is you.
It will be always you.
“You are my beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
Through this, with this, in this,
Woe becomes wonder and melancholy, mirth.
Our pain is our peace and our power.
We make a choice every single day.
The way is clear, we just sometimes
stumble when grooves become ruts.
Thanksgiving sates our thirst
by thawing our long-frozen hearts.
Ashes fertilize.
Wounds heal.
The whale spits Job out.
We just have to invert,
always invert.