When we describe what the other person is really like, I suppose we often picture what we want. We look through the prism of our need. ~Ellen Goodman
Head in hands, he sat mute, staring at the depths of the waiting room floor. How did he find himself at the courthouse? How had it gotten to this point? He shared of his family and how his wife was trying to keep him from his little girl. Oh how he desired to see her. Today a judge would decide.
His mother sat next to him. Her despair written on her face. Her maternal instincts set on preservation of this shattered family. She wondered what would tear them apart. Who would be so vicious.
Their stories plucked my heart, playing a sorrowful dirge. Wishing them well, I roamed to another waiting room in search of my acquaintances.
Down the hall, another room with flickering florescent. The only colors contrasting the drab decor, purple and blue that painted her face. She sat crying. Her mother had accompanied her as well and tinkled the chin of a swaddled baby. Through her tears she told of nights filled with terror. Blows rained upon her fragile form and a desperate attempt at escape. Today a judge could grant that freedom.
The pitch of the music changed, my heart sick. What could I offer, in silence I pondered.
Each story, a reflection of the same light traveling through a prism. As I looked at each facet, the light changed to reflect the view of the story teller. Having only heard one, without looking through another, how my opinion would be different. Even my own lens of experience, changes the view.
Through what prism will you view?