But…the ugly is all around. Sometimes it weighs you, wants to grind you to a nub; it wants to claim you. What do you do? What do I do?
All I have against the ugly are my own infinitely tiny steps, my own small voice, my own actions. How can they be enough, in the face of everything? Somehow, sometimes, they are. Enough for me to get from waking moment to waking moment. And then I see the others, walking too, speaking too, acting and making their own tiny dust mote miracles. Here I am, here we are—here we shout!—all we mere specks, speaking out.
And I am lifted by wonder.