Every renaissance comes to the world with a cry, the cry of the human spirit to be free.
Today I am thinking of the twelve Thai boys trapped in the flooded cave with their soccer coach for over two weeks. They’re almost all rescued now; the world holds its collective breath for the news that the final boy is free, as well as the coach, to be saved last.
They wrote letters, the boys. To their parents, telling them not to worry, that they love them.
Parents wrote letters to the boys . . . telling them not to worry, that they love them.
The letters are now a celebration of life. Of freedom. Of overcoming those long, unimaginable days in the depths of the cave, at the mercy of an unpredictable sea, of hunger, of separation, of darkness.
Words of hope . . . for, as Alexander Pope wrote long ago: Hope springs eternal in the human breast.
Words of survival. I think of Anne Sullivan’s words on “the cry of the human spirit to be free” and how, as a teacher, despite the magnitude of the task, that it was uncharted territory, she reached into the depths of Helen Keller’s dark, silent, anguished world to give her a voice, to set her free.
Helen’s own words: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.”
A freelance writer recently told me: “I teach writing to prisoners in North Carolina. It’s a powerful thing to see, someone with no voice suddenly having a voice. Despite all the restrictions, if you can write, you are free.”
The cry of the human spirit.
That is, above all, why we write.
For ourselves, for one another, for freedom, for hope.