They would not listen. They sat looking at the rubble, the twisted shards and broken pieces of their “glorious” dream.  I had called several places for assistance but none came. They all were booked or busy or otherwise occupied. I watched these two feeling the disgust rise in me. The Rebel sat on a broken wall strumming a guitar and composing a beautifully romantic song about freedom and the exquisite pain found in loss.  He wept as he repeated the strain again and again. The Priest was rambling on and writing about some obscure theo-philosophical concept. He spoke most profoundly about the Weak Forces of the universe and the creative destruction necessary and expected in life.  He was drawing parallels between Quantum theory and the theological constructs of death and rebirth.  I was “at once” sick of, and perversely attracted to their efforts. I needed them to get anything done, and here they sit in a heap writing poetry and philosophy.  What a waste. I began to worry that a storm may roll in while we sit here. I realized that they were not going to be any help, and none was coming. I looked down at the broken wall at my feet, considered the damage a storm might do if we had no shelter of any kind.  I knew I could not do much without them but I can pick up a brick. That’s all I know to do.  Exhausted, weak, and discouraged but I began. I moved. I did something.  And as I began my clumsy ineffective effort, the music and pontification began to fade. I was soon joined by the two. The Rebel attended to stylistic and comfort concerns and the Priest had an eye for the structural and safety issues. Before too long there was at least a place to find some shelter. It was not much and it was temporary but it was something and not nothing. Which may be all one can do at such times.




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