A World this Bruised and Beautiful

Even as Carla and I travel through Europe, we remain very aware of the pain, division, and deep unease so present in the world right now. And sadly, so much of it seems to be coming from our home country, the United States. We do not look away from that, and we do not pretend it is not happening. It saddens us deeply.

But travel has also shown us something else, just as clearly: how much beauty, kindness, tenderness, and love are still happening around us every single day.

And if we forget that, or simply fail to notice it, we not only miss so much of the good around us, but, I believe, we also stop seeing life clearly. Because life is not made up only of what is loudest, harshest, or most broken. It is also made up of small acts of love, fleeting moments of beauty, and ordinary grace that are always here, whether we notice them or not. That is one of the things our travels continue to show me.

I wrote the poem below because it lies at the heart of what I want to say during these very trying times and, somehow, it is easier for me to say it in poetry than in prose. Thank you for taking the time to read it.

Still, the Sun Rises

Yes, there is much now

that is disturbing.

Much that is cruel.

Much that leaves the heart

tired and aching.

We cannot pretend otherwise.

We cannot look away

from what is broken,

from what is hateful,

from what is being done

in full view of the world

and, so often, in our name.

That sadness is real.

It belongs.

But so does this.

The sun rises again

without asking

whether we deserve it.

Morning light spills itself

across rooftops, trees,

the sleeping face of a dog,

a cup on the table,

the quiet body beside us.

And evening comes,

its fading light settling

across the hillside, trees,

and the whole worn world

made beautiful again

for a little while.

And in between

there are the small graces.

Someone says,

I love you.

A dog licks your face

with ridiculous devotion.

A stranger smiles as you pass.

Someone laughs.

A hand finds another hand

without needing words.

These moments seem small.

But they are not small.

They are the quiet greatness of life.

They do not shout for attention

the way anger does,

or hatred,

or fear.

That is why it is easy

to think darkness is winning.

Darkness is loud.

It floods the screen.

It seizes the room.

It keeps us staring.

But love is quieter.

Beauty does not always announce itself.

Wonder rarely screams.

It waits.

In the warmth of coffee.

In light across the floor.

In a child’s voice from another room.

In the tree moving outside the window.

In the kindness of a friend.

In the simple fact

that the heart can still be touched.

This too is reality.

Not a lesser reality.

Truth itself.

Because if we only honor

what is broken,

we are not seeing clearly.

If we only name

the cruelty and division,

we are naming only the wound.

But life is not only the wound.

Life is also the hand

that tends it.

The birdsong entering the morning.

The tears.

The smile returning.

The resilience of the human spirit.

The astonishing fact

that tenderness still lives here,

that beauty keeps appearing,

that love has not left us.

We do not have to choose

between seeing the sorrow

and seeing the beauty.

We can do both.

We can grieve honestly

and still be grateful.

We can face the madness

and still notice the roses.

We can tell the truth

about this moment

and still let ourselves be healed

by the small mercies

that arrive each day

full of grace.

Perhaps that is part of our calling now.

Not to turn away.

Not to become naive.

But to remember

that the world is still giving itself to us

in a thousand tender ways,

and that to notice this

is not weakness

but wisdom.

Because what is beautiful

and loving

and sacred

is not absent.

It is here.

Everywhere.

Always arriving.

And if we let it,

it will heal us.

It will steady us.

It will remind us

that hate is not the deepest truth.

That discord is not the final word.

That beneath the shouting,

something gentler and stronger

is still alive.

Something holy

in the ordinary.

Something that asks of us

only this:

Pay attention.

Be grateful.

Stay open.

And do not forget

that even now,

in a world this bruised and beautiful,

there is still so much

to love.

Simcha Weinstein