Simply Human

      I find myself occasionally touched by the humanity of...well, of humans. That all of us can be touched by the same story, the same circumstance, regardless of social status, age, or race. Our very humanity reaches out to one another, a solidarity in knowing that we share a common feeling or belief. A common emotion.

     Today I saw The Book Thief at the local cinema. It is a heart-wrenching story about a young girl in the middle of World War 2 and the losses she overcomes, the humanity she manages to keep in a world that seems void of it. It has its sad moments of course, expected in a film about a world at war; but it isn't until the end that we find our feelings billowing up our throats to burst out our eyes. The very end climaxes into grief and then relief, when all the built up sadness can take it no more. It was then that I was struck by what everyone in that crowded theater shared. As I held back the tears tearing at my throat, and I wiped an escaped tear with my sleeve, I heard a quiet sob coming from somewhere across the room. I then noticed various sniffles dotted about and even more quiet sobs. Here we were, strangers, coming from different walks of life, male, female, old, young, single, married, black, white, gay, and straight, and yet we were one, united in a common emotion. All touched. All equal. All human. Here we were, watching a movie about the Second World War, the very war that went against all beliefs of equality, led by a man who believed in one master race that was worth more than all others, one people with one belief, one walk of life. And here we were, all different, all equal, all crying in our own way, watching the Americans finally occupy Germany, winning the war, while we too, in our own unity, won. We won that war, in more ways than one. Every day, we show this world, we show each other, that no matter what differences we have, we still have one thing in common, one thing to bring us together. We are all, simply human. So what is there to hate?

Wish Upon A Star

Wish |wi sh |

verb [ intrans. ]

feel or express a strong desire or hope for something that is not easily attainable; want something that cannot or probably will not happen.

     Wishes are something we live with. They're all around us. We wish on stars. We wish on eyes-lashes, birthday candles, 11:11. We wish all the time, for things we don't have, things we may never have, things we so desperately hope for. But why? Why do we always want and want. Why are we thankful for what we have on one day, and the next, trample people for more. Because we're human? Well we could use the human card for just about any excuse under the sun. So what's the real reason? We're discontent. We just want more. We want what's next.

     When we're young, we want to be old. When we're old, we want to be young again. When we're single, we want a relationship, and then we spend our relationships fighting and arguing and wishing things could be simple again. We spend our car rides wishing we could hurry up and be there already. We spend our walks, jogs, runs, and bike rides wishing we could just be done already. We spend the time working a nice little job at at the local cafe wishing we could just start our careers. We spend school time wishing for graduation day. Then one day we're 87 and the kids we wished would hurry and grow up and get married and move out are in another state living their lives. We realize that we forgot to fight imaginary dragons when we were children, we forgot to enjoy the freedoms of summer and the learning of school days. We missed that little cafe when things were simple and there were days off. We didn't enjoy the days of wooing our spouse, and spending the simple days drinking tea by the fire. We didn't see the fields and the mountains through the car windows. Just the world passing by while wished we could skip it. We don't remember the valiant flowers growing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. We can't recall what the air smelled like in that cul-de-sac where we lived. We try hard to remember the kid-isms our children said. But we can't. Life was a blur where we wished for more and forgot what we had. The next step, the next milestone, the next thing expected of our lives. We missed it. And now we are 87, with nothing to show but our certificates and trophies. Paper and plastic, and children, five states away.