Comforting Campfires
There’s a comfort to being wrong.
Like a blanket wide and long,
snug opinions thick and strong,
assure me I’m all right.
Even nights of frigid doubt
can’t douse conviction’s fire out.
I stir up embers and then blow out
some righteous indignation.
I strum an old familiar song.
Loyal friends come sing along.
Who cares if the words are wrong?
We know that we are right.
Sure, some left our true devout
to camp in lies on rival routes.
They weren’t brave to face their doubt.
They’re cowards for damnation.
What matters is we get along
fine here in our circled throng.
Pass some s’mores. Let’s sing that song
‘cause I’m sure that we’re all right.
Author’s Notes:
I think most of us have not had the experience of seeing our parents or someone we respect truly wrestle with long-held beliefs and come out the other side having shifted their perspective.
And because change is not the norm, most of us lack the guidance and courage for the daunting journey of deconstructing and rebuilding our world view.
It is a kind of death and resurrection. And no one wants to die.
So, unable or unwilling to change, each generation puts hand to the plow of the politics and religion they inherited–digging ruts in a familiar field, never seeing what fertile grounds lie in fields around them.
Or indeed that there is a bigger world than what they’ve plowed all their lives.
