aporia
This word comes from the Greek "aporos," impassable. In modern times the word means that one is speechless or at a loss for words.
Twice in my life I have suffered from lengthy, stunned aporia. The first was years ago after seeing the movie "Sophie's Choice." I could only imagine the rocking, wrenching despair of being forced into such a terrible, terrible choice. I could not speak, couldn't make sense of the seemingly meaningless trivialities of the world around me.
The second time came just a few years ago during and after a visit to the grounds of the Indian Residential School in Spanish, Ontario. I walked around those now-empty fields, hearing the voices of the children crying and moaning. I pictured them in their forced confinement, their loneliness and terror, felt the agony of their parents as they, too, were forced into terrible choices. I cried, hoping that somehow, someone had at least been kind to those children.
We cannot change the past, but we can make a different present. Moments of power are transformative, if we let them be.
Twice in my life I have suffered from lengthy, stunned aporia. The first was years ago after seeing the movie "Sophie's Choice." I could only imagine the rocking, wrenching despair of being forced into such a terrible, terrible choice. I could not speak, couldn't make sense of the seemingly meaningless trivialities of the world around me.
The second time came just a few years ago during and after a visit to the grounds of the Indian Residential School in Spanish, Ontario. I walked around those now-empty fields, hearing the voices of the children crying and moaning. I pictured them in their forced confinement, their loneliness and terror, felt the agony of their parents as they, too, were forced into terrible choices. I cried, hoping that somehow, someone had at least been kind to those children.
We cannot change the past, but we can make a different present. Moments of power are transformative, if we let them be.
