The Good Fight

I was born with a heart for justice built into the core of my being. The line between right and wrong is ever clear in my eyes and always present in situations, people, and propositions.

It wretches me to see people go by without so much as a reprimand for their ill consorts or their mismatched actions. I have lost sleep, lost breath, lost heart over the accomplishments of the wicked and the success of the incorrect.

My compassion goes awry in the face of wrongdoing. In truth I have little compassion to begin with, but what I do have turns into an indignant torrent of speech that illuminates the misgiving and demands the groveling apology that SHOULD be given by those guilty of their grievance.
In my mind, I'm right.
In truth, in the eye of the peaceful and wise, I'm also being a horrible person.

It burdens me so, to know that maybe (maaaybe) my fight for justice is the least of things in a grander scheme of life. That my inability to trust and give compassion is no fault of the person's wrong doing but perhaps just a reflection on the character of mine.

Yuck. I shiver to think that I could actually be the one that needs to give the apology: all I'm doing is fighting for what's right. And that's good, yeah? I'm the better person then, yeah?

No.

I've recently been trying to learn a lesson on humility, and the genuine essence of character. I say trying because it's truly been an effort that I feel like I'm failing more than anything. However what I've got so far is that a character of admirable integrity is one that is steadfast and true. True to something far beyond the being of themselves.

What I also realised in my battle for justice is that far too often the line of right and wrong lay on land that wasn't mine to fight on. The land had underlying roots and rots that I was in no place to account for and certainly no place to call out from.

The constant process of realizing injustice and then painstakingly having to pull myself away from the point of proving was hard. Is hard. I'm still not good at it.

Teaching my head and heart the difference between what is right and what is best is a harder task than one might imagine. Well, for me at least. Perhaps it should be easier, but you tell that to the supreme court system I've got in session in my head.

However the truth I've chosen to prescribe to seems to go beyond the least of actions and applies the beauty of grace to the matter; a beauty of grace which I'm still trying to master the art of. However I seem to be stuck in the battle of the self and it's rights against the canvas of compassion.

Friends have taken to chuckling at my pursual of the good fight. The hours I've probably clocked up in their faces describing exactly what is wrong, who did it, how it should have happened, and how it should be fixed is probably in the hundreds by now. Most importantly, despite the accuracy of my calls for justice my fight has gained me nothing. In honesty it's probably lost me the integrity of my character because despite what good my argument was, the illuminance of my indignance and haughty claims really just left me red faced and stubborn.

I wish I had the peace and grace to see everyone as the very best of their being and leave it at that, and I certainly do try to, but it's a constant battle on an increasing gradient to be benevolent.

I do not feel embarrassed or ashamed of the passion for justice I harbour, I feel embarrassed for how I choose to express it. It's not pleasant, or nice, or representative of the character I wish to possess. And though I am still a firm believer in being right (who knows if this indignant value will ever leave me) I also want to be a believer in the best of people, in the motion that denies a balance of beings and instead says "it's okay" and let's it go.

Perhaps my stubborn fear of allowing someone to get away with something still needs more work to be conquered, but at least at I'm at the point of realisation. I will probably still lose sleep over it, I will probably still feel the fire of injustice sweep across my chest as my cheeks burn and my brain spins. It happens, like clockwork, so often. Yet I still can't manage to stop the cogs from moving and throw a spanner in the works of plausible frustration. If only the peace of grace would rescue me in my fiery dispositions! Hopefully, fingers crossed and heart on the line it will.

Every day injustice is created and despite my efforts, I cannot fight it all. And as I have come to realise, sometimes the wars I fight in aren't even necessary battles. It is what it is, and 'it' needs to 'be', whether I agree or not.

To justice I raise my glass, to injustice, I raise my glass too (with a grimace, but also with hope).

Clink.