What balm is there in being right? Especially rightness, righteousness grounded in bitterness-- are you joining me in my misery?
I do not want my happiness to come at the expense of yours-- as if there were some limited supply of it; some small cupful-- snatching at the drops that fall.
If I want compassion+mercy extended to me then I **** well better extend it to others.
And so I go forward, waving olive branches.
Will you grasp back?
This is a reflection on the impact of my mother's alcoholism on my life. But it also seems appropriate for our current circumstances.