H2Omeloncholy: room at the IN

VOGUE copyright Conde Nast

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Writers love story. Some who never 'drop ink' live in story. For so many, fiction is

fact or vise versa. The eternal power of story is that narratives are Wonderland looking

glasses and Dorothy-ean ruby slippers. No matter how mystical, stories reveal me. And

you. Stories expose the me IN you and vise versa.

There is a story oft told this time of year. The protagonist is a Middle-Eastern teenage mother-to-be who has recently married a young man, allegedly not the infant's father. Apparently, the non-baby daddy knows this too but remains devoted. Holding the reins of a donkey, while the adolescent mother rides – doubled-over in labor pains, they are turned away from adequate lodging:

Luke 2:7 - And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

The couple of color - of rather humbled means - find a stable. Their 'stability' would soon be affirmed by a trio of men a little wiser.

J'adore walking Paris. A poet's paradise. It is one of the few strolls where those

cursed with too much imagination don't find themselves conjuring an alternate road.

There is no need to make more room. Even the subway signs evoke Art Nouveau sonnets.

And that makes sense in the City of Light because transportation is the Parisian experience

made manifest. I dig the cobblestones. Don't forget the rain. Parisian puddles are irresistible. Walking in Paris means bookstores - real bookstores of old - corner-boulangerie baguettes tucked under every, other arm, and scarves lifting the sagging necks of advanced-aged women into stylish statements to shame the cover of Vogue. Paris has no street life. The street is Paris; life is the street. Last week, on Friday the Thirteenth, the street was death.

The storied-girl, about to give birth, was nowhere near France. She sought shelter in Bethlehem. There were/are Syrian girls much like her. Before my adopted, beloved cobblestones...cracked? My own country - guided by the Star of Consumerism to celebrate the pregnant story on Black Friday - knew it could not promise refugees safe passage. However, if they survived tumultuous travel, Americans would make space:

"Come, we shall make room."

How to best honor the tragically departed remains an existential enigma. However,

Parisians did what they do best on a Friday night: they walked their streets. For living the

Parisian life, they died. Syrians are living the Syrian life now: fleeing for their survival

upon roads anything but their own. They walk. They walk with swaddled babies. They

walk with grandmothers so infirmed that the most fashion-forward choice is one foot, nigh bare, in front of the other. Last Thursday, American law makers, ostensibly, were open to making room for Syrians who cannot go home. Less than a day later, all hearts made room for Parisian grief, horror, and shock. The heart, unlike borders, is infinite in its capacity. Too, too many Parisian walks, back home, were aborted. Syrian walks to something, anything better than the ravages of war, plus the supplemental assault of international indifference, may well pay homage to those just lost if we - in heart and hearth - make some noice to make some room. Like the regal-robed Magi, may we follow 'light', ride high n' walk tall. And may we arrive bearing the gift of holding most reverent 'space'. To make space.

a clever as compassionate critique

on the implausibility of

POSTness

Til our next 'post', feast upon produce in season...

CV

Thursday, November 19, 2015

room at the IN

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