Last night, my therapist asked me to read this poem aloud to her and to Seth. She said that when she read it, it reminded her of me. I must confess to tearing up while reading it, and today I have found myself thinking of it several times.
I think it is by Leo Ralston - I've found it all over the internet, credited to various people but usually to him.
In some way, however small and secret,
each of us is a little mad.
Everyone is lonely at the bottom and cries to be understood.
But we can never entirely understand someone else.
Each of us remains part stranger, even to those who love us.
It is the weak who are cruel; gentleness is expected only from the strong.
Those who do not know fear are not really brave, for courage is the capacity to confront what can be imagined.
You can understand people better if you look at them -- no matter how old or impressive they may be, as if they are children.
For most of us never mature; we simply grow taller.
Happiness comes only when we push our brains and hearts to the farthest reaches of which we are capable.
The purpose of life is to matter, to count, to stand for something, to have it make some difference that we have lived at all!
Beautiful sentiments, no?