Dangerous Compassions


“Sometimes I try on other people’s perceptions of me.  Like a little kid trying on too-big dress-up clothes,” I told Ming.

“I never did that,” Ming said.

“I’ve seen kids do it,” I said.  “Like D’s, or G’s, or my mom’s, or someone who doesn’t like me.  All those opinions, they’re not me.  What am I?  What I am is a mystery, right?  Unfathomable.  I don’t even know what I am.”

We were driving home from radical mental health.  I was dazzled by a bike event at a bar where we parked while Ming picked up a pizza from our favorite pizza place.  Bikes everywhere, hundred of them, bikes lit up with Christmas lights, bike riders wearing black vests covered in patches.  I laughed, delighted by the sea of bikes.

It had been a good meeting–good moods, kindness, nice balance.  Our friend facilitated the second half, a welcome break for me, and he did a good job.  It amazes me, the smart, stimulating things people say.

I’m thinking how much I enjoy when people talk about the things that matter most.  How we really feel, what most want, our fears, our needs, what we think about ourselves, what’s worked for us.

There we are, ten vibrant people, including the mystery man holding the camera.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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