The Observer

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Wednesday, 02 September 2026

Written by Eve Moore

The Observer

The Observer

I was drawn to be a journalist early in life.
Studied its course, landed a first job as such.
It fit. Until it didn't. Until I saw the cracks in the
veneer of "unbiased truth" covering like a hood
its engine: profit.

I plied my trade elsewhere, reluctantly. And quite cynically.
Having learned, however, a bit more profoundly than I'd
grokked, a lesson about the world into which I'd grown.

Now in the August of my life, I'm aware of how very
deeply, continually, that learning has shaped my lenses.
And how, true to the call of a would-be journalist, the
observational tilt to which I've been inclined has plunked
me smack dab amidst that which I'd rather not observe.

In truth, the tilting began with the parentage chosen in this
life. Dad an alcoholic—"recovered" in my early childhood—
who gave up the booze, mostly, but never could give up
the pain that sought the booze. Mom, a nurse, learned
a level of detachment in wounding, in pain. This made for a
sober impression on my tender, wide-eyed seeing.

Difficult to witness, hard to understand, what fertile ground
to look back upon from a place where wisdom has grown
out its serial first-hand encounters with living. Loving.

Setting me up to find within myself—after years of puzzle-
piecing and head-scratching, not to mention disavowing
the wounding passed down by birthright as mine "to tend,"
hence a series of relationships that played according to the
same playbook—a level of compassion that could bear
witness, draw near the aching maddening of the world
at large, at arm's length, without succumbing
to the rip of its tide.

It took some time. Time in fear, confusion, seething anger
(and its raw underbelly, sadness), time in judgment of this
thing I saw, kept seeing, so external, so hitched to my
reality. This thing called addiction. A true pandemic across
our kind, addicted, I've come to realize, to having—rather,
not having—thus wanting and wanting.

Why is it never enough, I'd ask silently. Loudly. Repeatedly.
Which inevitably led me to see the not enough I'd
internalized as my reality projected onto the mirror that was
held up to me to see in this person, that person, in me.

I was not enough. Yes, judge, prosecutor and jury.
And discoverer.

Recognizing the mirror, the projection, is a skill that cannot
be learned other than through deep immersion into the pain
of this core wounding—direct experience.

Not just seeing all the difficult to behold, the traumatic, the
violent, the inconsolable and unconscionable, the long slow
suicide wrought by such evisceration of a person, of a
world—but living with and in it, feeling it, the grief, despair,
the endlessness of intimate brutality, without getting drawn
into or attached to the suffering—even its lack—itself.

Coming to truly accept what is as what is. Without
intolerance, without resistance, without shame and blame
and shadows of perfectionism's dense conditions—which
only leads inexorably to the "need" to quell, to fix, to
change, to medicate imperfection, the mechanical basis of
a life, a creation that is ever and constantly creating.
Change.

The serenity prayer speaks so beautifully to this:
grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom
to know the difference.

Empathy allows mutual feeling, but it becomes compassion
only when I am conscious that this wounding is not mine to
fix or control or condemn, only to witness. In me, all around
me. Allowing me to choose response (response ability)
over reaction to any person, situation—eventually—as I
grow the space of time in the presence of any and all that I
face. Especially in the mirror.

"We attract what we judge until we no longer judge
what we attract." —Polymath, Robert Edward Grant

To be touched, human to human, without getting identified
to the trauma drama we are here in this space/time, this
lifetime of lifetimes to experience, methinks, is to be made
whole once again. Returned to our divine birthright of
polarity that remembers spectrum wherein healing
finds itself reborn in all its shades. Dark to light.

A rainbow that can never be without the rain.

A Grinch—bless you, Dr. Seuss—who watches, sees, what
devastation can bring to a community that holds its being
connected, together, above its having or not having: pure,
unadulterated love. And finds his heart coming
back to this brimming fullness of life.

So like the child that I am coming to see through
god's eyes—such love, such admiration, such
playfulness in my plenty, even when it appears,
seems, feels not enough—looking back
at my own. Wink.

Perhaps the essence of existence is a foray, undertaken
by god/dess, a nomad, polymath, a writer and reader of
multiversal existential braille, an artist, collector, a force
of nature seeing into, through and beyond a creation
created to ceaselessly create, playing in the dark just so it
can witness its, our, my, your manifold facets of light again
and again and again, and know them as good.

Indeed, it is all good.

∞|∞

Author

Eve Moore Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well.

For more of Eve Moore's amazing and heart-centered poetry and writings, click here!

http://www.crystalwind.ca/eve-moore

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem/prose was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.

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