The Irony of Suffering

The Irony of Suffering

I see the large swath of burned land, trees gone, black and hollow.

How could we allow such destruction? Suffering.
Not just the land, now it is within me too. Empty.
Do I have a right to feel this loss? May I feel without suffering? Must there always be suffering with pain?
The forest burned, loss. Is there suffering only because we said it should not be so? Is this how we assign ourselves to victim-hood?

I draw my eyes in closer to the blanket of beautiful, sweet-smelling, wildflowers, filling some of the empty spaces.

Amongst the embers, there is room now. Flowers.
Perhaps there was no suffering at all, unless I make it so. Choice.
Should I judge destruction as negative? Must I responsibly suffer? May I allow to be as it is?
I let the emptiness sit as it is. It feels like loss, even destruction. But it also feels good, even alive.

I am making room now, for flowers.