There are basic needs:
Food, shelter, safety from
violence—
Needs that you die from if they
aren’t met.
Then there are needs,
Needs you won’t die for lack
of,
But without which, life is sad, dark, and
small:
A comfortless grey drizzle that oppresses
by degrees
Until you wonder if life itself is
really
Such a wonderful thing.
Friends, affection, sexual
intimacy,
A sense of contribution and
sharing,
Community, belonging—
These are the soul-needs,
Needs nature hammered into
us
More subtly, but no less
certainly.
In the country where I was
born
Basic needs are a given,
But millions are afflicted by the
wounds
Of unmet soul-needs.
I am one of the wounded, bleeding
slowly,
Always bleeding
Like Amfortas wounded by the Holy
Spear,
Trying to hold the heart-wound shut with
my hand,
But wounded seemingly beyond
healing.
Life is too hard,
Sorrow too omnipresent and
inevitable…
Livelihoods are threatened and brought to
ruin.
Friends drift apart. Friends
die.
Lovers sometimes betray.
Sickness, aging, and loss await
everyone.
There must be some balancing
measure,
Something to brighten the
drear,
Else what futility!
I have named that measure
Yet I somehow have not found
it,
At least not with a certainty I can take
hold of.
George Chadderdon © 2005