I hate that true things are born from pain.
That the ripping off of the bandage reveals what is really happening.
That the flash of light, after the blinding, shows us what was hiding in the shadows.
I hate that beautiful things are born from pain.
That both hurt and healing pour forth in music, in poetry, in breakup songs that become anthems,
In movies and books that fold into the creases of our brains.
I hate that there is never a good story that didn’t have a sad chapter or three.
No one wants the ache of the scene, yet the story is never as powerful without it.
A happy tale is for a beach read, but it leaves our hearts as quickly as the waves leave the sand.
A story of loss, of grief, of crushed hopes? Give me that one any day.
Because I won’t forget how it made me feel.
I won’t forget that there is not one of us who will not live unscathed, unmarked, unscarred.
I hate that strength comes from struggle.
That I could sit on my couch and never enter the arena,
But then I’d never know what it feels like to leave all of myself out on the dusty ground,
To hear the cheers of the clouds of witnesses,
To have the chance to win.
I hate that growth comes from dirt.
That the mounds of manure and soil must pile on.
That the soggy, rainy days have to line up in a row
So that I can see the first tender, surprising rise of the daffodils in the spring.
In order for life to explode into color all around.
I don’t know that I’ll ever appreciate the pain
But I’ll accept its gifts as treasures from the
Dark places,
Souvenirs saying that I have traveled this way,
That I lived to tell stories about my trip
And to leave the lights on for others who may follow.
