The particularly nasty cold being passed around Port Townsend came my way earlier this week. Nothing unique or long-term. I’ll be fine.

But being sick has me thinking about those of you who live with much more serious pain, conditions and limitations. You share with me your fears about the state of this uncertain world; but also your personal struggles just to meet the day.

Thinking about all this I was reminded of a poem from the late writer, David Budbill, titled “A Poem About Pain”: 

“[When the pain] is so great you can’t think about or pay attention to anything
but your own pain, the rest of the world and all other life, it don’t matter. 

I think about my friends with dementia, cancer, arthritis, and
how much more pain they are in than I am, but it does no good. 

Their pain is not mine, and therefore, no matter how magnanimous
I might want to be, their pain is not as important to me as my own.”

What sounds selfish about this poem falls away as some of you share what it’s like to be you. Suffering is not an either/or thing. Not a contest or a “best guess” estimate when medical staff ask us to rate our pain from 1-10. It’s the sheer fact that you’re hurting, and your hurting goes wherever you go.

It’s a comfort, the reality that we’re bound together by our pain. There is power in knowing we’re not alone. But sometimes that knowledge alone isn’t enough.

So here’s to all who are not callous or lacking in compassion for others. Those whose hearts, minds and bodies are stretched thin to the point of breaking. You’re doing the the best you can with what you’ve got. Blessings on you as you meet your days.