P o e t r y

Some thoughts ...

God is our collective obsession. We cannot help but turn towards Him, and by nature it is impossible for us to not seek Him, for it is written on our souls. Individually we may desire Him, but He is not the obsession of every individual. That is a state more aptly applied to the whole human race, who is given to the instinctual tendency to return time after ceaseless time to the attempted apprehension of the Maker and Fashioner of our selves and our world. Out of the depth of our common psyche comes forth the repeated, though often inadequate, reach for the Great Beyond. Humanity yearns for the Heavenly Father like orphaned nomads in a desert land, sensing somehow that the horizon of water and refreshment in the hazy distance is more than just a mirage.

The Truth Of The Matter

Were we to see the thick layers of consumerism peeled back, we’d turn our queasy gaze aside. We’d want to gag at the monstrous greed, lust, and abuse exposed. We’d stand aghast at the reality of our own makeup-coated participation. We couldn’t handle it. We wouldn’t watch it long enough to let the reality sink in. We’re numb from overexposure, so things like exploitation and poverty get washed out against the fine luster of advertising made to jolt us from compassion, truth, and community. If the desire to buy actually began to feel foreign, or conscience over the ramifications of this materialism nightmare broke icy surface for breath, they’d pop in the latest CD and lull us back to sleep with happy-happy-joy-joy celebration songs. Eventually we’d forget the sunken faces, the sorrowful eyes, the exploited suffering millions. They’d swirl away into nothingness as we’d sit back in our new car and gulp another burger, thinking about which restaurant we’ll go to this weekend after a long day of shopping. And that cute sweater on sale at Macy’s for $89 will be too soft, too lush, too perfect to utter nary a word about the life of its young seamstress Mukti, whose name ironically means ‘liberation’. It won’t make a peep about how lucky she feels to earn 20 cents an hour instead of 9, but that’s only because the man in charge of her sweatshop occasionally does more than ‘think’ she’s cute.

Sara Newbury