At Portia's Request...

On Main Street, right next to a gallery of paintings of light, there is a kind-hearted woman who owns a small doll orphanage. There are dolls from floor to ceiling. Little boy and girl dolls in varied dress. Each doll is unique. Their eyes stare out at you with such emotion, almost as if saying, "Please, choose me." I looked at the dolls for a long time before the right one found me. He has a full head of hair, and a knowing look, but no smile. "Does he know a secret?" I wondered. "Perhaps he is sad because he is alone?" I thought to myself.

The orphanage is well-maintained. I could see that the dolls are loved, and treated with care, but the little fellow who called out to me was in need of family. I decided to adopt him. I told the shopkeeper that he would need new clothes, as he was wearing hand-me-downs. I purchased blue shorts, a white short sleeved shirt, and a striped school tie. On the adoption certificate I wrote his name, Paolo Alessandro. His father had been an Italian diplomat stationed in Shanghai. His mother had been a Chinese national. But, due to tragic events, Paolo was left utterly alone, that is until the apron attired shopkeeper saved him. "Promise me you will love him." She said. "I promise." I answered. "He is vanilla scented to help you bond with him."

I thanked her, and walked out of the doll orphanage, holding Paolo Alessandro close to me. He was slightly smaller than the other boy dolls. His clothes were two sizes too large. Perhaps that was the reason my heart went out to him. "He is so small." I thought. "He needs extra large doses of love to help him grow."

A letter came in the post today, from a beloved friend on the East Coast. In the letter, my friend asked me to consider signing a petition to create a September 11th National Holiday. Just the thought of that day is enough to make me cry. Is there anyone in our beloved country, perhaps even the world, who does not remember where they were on that day?! I wrote my friend back, and asked her to read a beautifully written book titled, The Day The World Came To Town by Jim Defede. It is the story of the kindness of strangers during hellish circumstances. In a time of fear, and hate, the citizens of Gander, Newfoundland responded with ineffable love to stranded Americans at the airport.

"The quality of Mercy is not strained." Shakespeare wrote. Meaning, we should be generous with mercy, allowing it to flow from ourselves freely. But, this is easy to say, or do during times of comfort and ease. Can we as fallible human beings rise to the call for Mercy during times of strife, and overwhelming suffering? Perhaps, it does indeed take a very special kind of Human Being to give and give and not count the cost?

How much physical strength does it take to forgive? How strong does one actually have to be to let go of past hurts. To what extent must Time pass before we can remember past pain without the sting?

I'm not sure I have any answers to these questions. I simply held the vanilla-scented doll in my arms, and breathed in, as I walked up the hill, headed for home.