Yesterday morning, I made oatmeal for breakfast.
The water heated up. I got out bananas, put away some dishes, rinsed off a bowl that was in the sink. And as I did these small, simple human things, I was, for some reason, thinking about history. Which does not seem small or simple.
History is huge battlefields, treaties being signed by powerful pen holders, thousands and thousands of refugees looking for a home, right?
Yes, I thought. But. It is not only that. There is a quieter history that unfolds on a human scale. And that is a history of love rising and brave art, of generosity, gentleness, of people with no power other than compassion standing up when others sat it out. It is a history that, no matter how hopeless the cause may seem, defies small-heartedness.
My oatmeal was in its bowl. I stood alone in my kitchen. And it occurred to me that here I was, holding this history in my hands. Just as you do, he does, she does, all of us do. We could drop it and walk away. Or we could do something with it.
So, I ate my oatmeal. And thought to myself, Today, tomorrow, the next day, and the next, I will do what I can, however small and simple it may be, to help write this history.