Standing in line under an umbrella with my daughter waiting for Santa, her nose met mine. People roamed the streets, giving out candy canes and small stuffed animals. No one gave her one. "I want to be shorter, again."
I want her to tower over me and anyone she comes in contact with. I want her to root her feet to the ground and build a sturdy shelter of her being. I want her to be solid in the knowledge of her identity. I want her not to be swayed by the wind, but fluid and flexible in her pursuits. I want her to be strong, wise and confident. I want her to be the best she can be and cast aside those who try to impede her journey.
"Ask her for a candy cane."
"She probably doesn't realize you're a kid because of your height. Just ask."
I want her to have a voice. I want her to use it. To be heard. To advance; to move; to flourish and grow. Isn't that what we want for us all?
Recent events, tragedies that have been taking residence in the press, in social media, and in our consciences share this desire for a voice. Not only to speak and be heard, but to move, change and evolve.
In the novel, "The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss, there's a passage about the late author Isaac Babel, "Daily, he turned out epics of silence… he knew that just to utter a single word would be to destroy the delicate fluency of silence…" And, when he was facing the firing squad, "As the rifles were pointed at his chest he wondered if what he had taken for the richness of silence was really the poverty of never being heard."
It's the poverty of silence that can keep us down. It's the poverty of silence in which we may believe we are found. All I want for Christmas is for us to find our voices and let them be heard. Make a mark. Make a difference. Make this all worthwhile.
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