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All the King's Horses

I watch our kids this morning. All super colorful individuals. All super broken, torn and fragmented by the cruelties and injustices of life and endless war . We collect kind of Humpty Dumpty kids. Those who had a great fall and then the King's horses trampled on them en route to another battle somewhere out there.

Our Kids. Their young lives have been turned and spun around and around. From country to country, on the run, fleeing, seeking asylum. Their life resembles our empty plastic water bottle, squished out of shape and empty.

To the background of music they sat quietly, with total focus, cutting pieces of colored paper, laughing and singing as they worked. Torn, discarded paper that others would have trashed without a second thought.

As the glue and the paint appeared I watched with interest as a new dynamic invaded the atmosphere. A hush ( very unusual here ) hovered with expectancy. Something was about to happen.

The happening being the discarded becoming important. The torn, complete. The broken, whole. Fragmentation becoming unified as the glue of love and care and sheer we-wont-quit-determination pulled fractures into a new, stronger and more vibrant structure of great beauty and value.

The looks of sheer astonishment were not from this world. Can this be true? Can the broken become beautiful after an infinity of time and place. Can there be color in War? That look which says, " The last butterfly I saw was in Aleppo..can a butterfly live in War?" It can.

All the King's Horses. They couldn't. Maybe all the King's men?

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