She hears us
I read a quote tonight, and I loved it:
“She was never quite ready. But she was brave. And the universe listens to brave.”
I loved it.
It’s empowering. It’s bold.
But—
Do we think bravery is all the universe listens to?
I think it’s dense to think that the universe has an ear but for one virtue.
That she’s deaf to the other sounds of the world—
The tear-stained,
(crying—so much crying)
heartbroken eyes, in his best friend’s arms, on the floor of a small condo in the A.
The laughter of a mother and her toddler boys in the bathtub on a Friday. Suds everywhere.
The clatter of a tired teacher hanging construction paper chains and preparing her classroom for the next day. A pencil in her bun. A yawn as she works past late.
The exhale of a dad putting on his best face after a double shift before he sees his children for a few moments at bedtime. His and theirs. He’ll be gone before they’re awake.
The nerves of a woman with a dream tapping her foot before a job interview. Don’t be too much. Just say what you know, but not threatening, she thinks.
The cries of “happy birthday” from a surprise party. Candles glowing on a summer’s eve in the backyard.
The booming silence between the seats and across the table of a couple in a bad spot. The sound of forks and knives and scraping plates the only reprieve.
The cranking of a transwoman’s mind, wondering which bathroom is safest for her at the library.
The yelps of a young pup running to greet the school bus when his girl steps off. "Trooper!" she laughs.
The brrrrrp of Grindr when two men find an evening of connection — their lives colliding for an instant. Never to speak of it, or each other…again.
The crash of the ocean beneath the feet of the widower. The sand between his toes. Exploring the world without the hand that once held his own.
The crack of children’s laughter beneath the fireworks lighting overhead. Red, then blue, then yellow. The smell of sulfur wafting down.
The whizz of Reddi-wip onto ice cream sundaes at a slumber party.
The yelling of the neighbors’ muffled arguing through the apartment wall.
The slow, teenage, arm’s-length dance of the planets across the heavens.
The shrill of police sirens flying to an armed robbery in the wee hours.
The songs of the humpbacks far below in the deep depths.
The ref’s whistle whirring, hands motioning, “it’s good.”
The fire of tanks and the pop of tear gas and the cries of refugees running in fear.
The blaring shriek of a flat line in the ER—
The explosion of a champagne-toasted rehearsal dinner. So many speeches and hopes of unlikely, endless love.
The sobs of a young woman listening to her parents’ fight: “God forgive her!…This is your fault!” (Pause). She just came out.
The humble strength of a doctor calling her patient. “Hey sweetie, the mammogram was bad.”
The quiet stretch of the dogwood trees growing across the Georgian forests.
The last high B the musician in the arena will belt before he OD’s.
The buzz of a phone and the smile of a boy. A text that reads, “I had a really nice time tonight.” On to date two.
The hand that holds the chin of God's head—
The wonder
and the pain
and the joy
and the terror
and the sadness
and the bravery too —
and the music —
the symphony of all the living happening and intersecting and breathing and moving and being —
all at once.
I think she hears more than bravery.
I think she hears it all.