There's a dissonance here, Mr. President. And even from the standpoint of political calculation-- of the coldest Machiavellian calculation--this dissonance does not have to be. Last November the people rejected the politics of fear, rigidity, half-truths and lies, and embraced the politics of unity and truth. This was a tribute to our ability to discern and to the authentic nature of your message. A message of hope to be sure, but one that calls not for ease but sacrifice. And perhaps above all we came to appreciate a creative and compassionate vision that is tempered, at long last, by reality. Your vision represents the best and perhaps last hope for our children and for theirs.
You forged a bond with the people, Mr. President. But the glue hasn't set and the glue will not set if you do not re-calibrate your message.
The last and most important question: what is to be gained by leveling?
You may be familiar with this quote from the poet, Sylvia Plath. "If only you could see me forge my soul, fighting and fighting to forge my soul."
Sylvia Plath succumbed to her despair, committed suicide in 1963. But her words still stand, maybe now more than ever, as tens of millions face the potential, at least, of entering the forging fire. And should that come to pass the people will look to you, just as the British looked to Churchill, for guidance, solace, and above all hope in the midst of their despair.
And where does my twenty-year dance with the fire fit into all of this? Where do you and I intersect? What have I learned that could possibly be of use to the President of the United States? What have I learned that might help this good man forge the soul of a nation?
Maybe something. Maybe nothing. But for what it's worth I offer a glimpse of my journey and a couple of nuggets I've picked up along the way.
The first nugget?
That we forge our souls not for ourselves but in order to be better disciples of compassion.
And how does an obscure writer and former prison teacher make a contribution this late in the day with a timeline, in all likelihood, of months?
Below, an excerpt from a recent note to the doctor who saved my life on numerous occasions over the past two decades.
... Suffering may teach but it is not an end in and of itself. And when the pain abates, during windows of peace, I write.
I have a book to complete before I die. It is different from the others. I want to leave something behind that may serve as a source of solace to a reader here or there; a reader who wrestles with despair during this era of incomprehensible suffering.
All those high-risk infusions? The fatal infection you warn me about? And my choice to continue, to run the risk, in order to buy time to write?
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