Yesterday, an older gent said, "Young fella, you know you don't have to save the world, right? Peace, peace, peace." I didn't respond, but in the recesses of my noggin, I said, "older fella, thank you. How did you know I needed to hear that?"
The older gent must've known my thoughts because he said to me (without moving his mouth), "young fella, I've been a young fella before, too. It's the trying to save the world that put this crook in my back and this cane in my hand. Peace, peace, peace."
Again, I was silent and a bit mystified, and he musta picked up on it because while I was staring at him, eyes wide as moons, he said more words, words I've heard on a thousand Sundays, but this time he says them all telepathic-like, and he winks, and somehow that gives the words heft and meaning. He says to me, "stop striving. You ain't God, or a god, or demigod, or even some kind of nano-Bono."
It's the nano-Bono thing that got me, if I'm honest. And so, I looked at him all bumfuzzled and smiled.
I love that old gent, with the crook and cane that is somehow a comfort. His wisdom is older than the dirt under my fingernails. It's better than my best intentions, too.
And so, in light of his instruction, I leave you with the same encouragement: peace, peace, peace; in all things peace.
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