I’ve been contemplating the place the stranger occupies and our relation to it.
Who is the stranger? When does someone cease being the stranger, or the specter, in our eyes?
How did we come to calling the stranger our enemy? I suppose my spirituality predicates many of my views on the stranger as the one who is truly the familiar and it has informed my belief that we are all connected in our uniqueness — all divine expressions of the same source no matter what you want to call it.
In my first poetry collection, I consider the stranger my familiar — my lover, my beloved, and my dearest friend.
Today, my Dad asked me why I sign books for someone I’ve never met and left it there with no clue who may be receiving it.
And as I’ve told you now, I communicated the same message in kind to him.
I believe no one is truly a stranger.
I believe we share this moment and all the ones which came prior.
And if you greeted me on the road, asking for my solace and my embrace, would I not give it?
Would I not call you friend?
The Muse of Idle Stars 