Stendhal said, "One can acquire everything in solitude except character."
Character lives in the spaces between us.
When plunged into the texture of faces—the smell of others—
our character is molded and carved;
is struck, stymied, woven, wondered.
In crowds we experience the numinous firsthand.
No need to question the miracle of infinity: it is before you.
No need to force gratitude from a miasma of loneliness—
gratitude is on the menu at dinner.
Separate universes—wholly other—
Friends may look familiar
but they bring us to our knees time and again.
They condone, condemn, digress and dismay.
They steal our gold, then donate their last dime.
They heal our wounds and sustain our hearts as we die.
They slap us down and raise us up.
‘Midst them we are builded. Gilded. Filled with holiness. Given life.
------------------------------------------------------------(rhonda)
