When I was a child, Reader’s Digest was my favorite magazine. It was a window to the world, and I loved curling up with it. Cystic Fibrosis? I learned about in in RD. Cholesterol? RD. Elvis Presley? RD. Pope John Paul II? RD. By the way, he spoke 12 languages. I was in awe. Mother Theresa? RD. Iran? RD. I hounded my grandmother and mother for copies, and scoured back issues at the library. It was in Reader‘s Digest that I first read of The Troubles between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. I don’t know why that stuck with me. For the next several years, I was drawn to both factual and fictional stories. I don’t know why exactly, but the idea that sometimes it’s very hard to sort through what is and isn’t righteous anger is hard work resonated. Equally hard is figuring out who the good guys are and what’s the appropriate path for building bridges. I didn’t yet know that sometimes we are all of the things and none of the things. I didn’t yet know that we can both know and not know simultaneously. Last year, about this time, I finally went there. I didn’t spend a lot of time talking about my trip. I rarely do. How does one convey the feeling of being cracked open, depleted, yet full, constantly both energized and on empty. Neutral, yet pulled back, like a rubber band, ready to pop? There are some things I struggle to say without diluting it. Besides, everyone is sifting their own thoughts, and there is enough noise. It takes me awhile to decide what if anything I want to share. It takes a while to assess risk. This week, I have been reminded of that trip. This morning, I was reminded of my visit to the Ulster Museum in Belfast. Struggling to take it all in, I carried a notebook dumping all my thoughts as quickly as I could write. I wrote all the questions. All my hatchling ideas. It was The Peace Train that was my undoing. Derided by some, it was the pie in the sky effort to create a movement in which real people across the two countries and many cities, towns, and villages shared their personal stories of The Troubles. It was meant to highlight their collective and authentic humanity, grief, and resolve to find a way forward. If I could have laid on the floor beside the glass case of index card stories, I might have. It felt like a Holy and sacred space. Even now, I am almost breathless with the enormity of that moment. These days, I spend a lot of time thinking about our own Troubles. I wonder when, if, and how we will find a way forward that doesn’t suck the joy, ingenuity, resilience, and humanity of our nation. I desperately want to believe this is just a hiccup and that we’ll regain footing. I know from every time I’ve ever lost balance, that I need to regroup, reframe, and rebuild. Sometimes, I have to take some steps back to properly assess. To be human. To be a Phoenix. I loved that story when I was a kid. I go back and forth. Am I more Phoenix or my more recent love, giraffe? In the end, I am neither. Not really. I’m just a flawed, incomplete person who desperately wants to figure out how to hear all the stories and find the best home for them. I do not have my own Peace Train, I don’t even know if I could be a depot. But maybe I could be. Maybe strangers will keep sharing their stories with me. Maybe friends will keep sharing their first hand accounts and other friends will take time to hear and see them. Like an old school party line operator, maybe we’ll all listen in, and maybe instead of using that to fuel our despair, distrust, anger, and grief, maybe we’ll take what we learn and choose hope, humanity, and healing. The flag is out at the Phoenix-Giraffe stop. Stories rarely stop here; they always get get passed along in some fashion or form. Ripples across the pond.
