(sunset over Lake Champlain, August 2010. there is so much beauty.)
In thinking about how there are many, many masks to sadness, and of how we all deserve compassion and kindness, I am reminded of a beautiful poem.
A Word On Statistics (Wislawa Szymborska)
Out of every hundred people,
those who always know better:
fifty-two.
Unsure of every step:
almost all the rest.
Ready to help,
if it doesn’t take long:
forty-nine.
Always good,
because they cannot be otherwise:
four — well, maybe five.
Able to admire without envy:
eighteen.
Led to error
by youth (which passes):
sixty, plus or minus.
Those not to be messed with:
four-and-forty.
Living in constant fear
of someone or something:
seventy-seven.
Capable of happiness:
twenty-some-odd at most.
Harmless alone,
turning savage in crowds:
more than half, for sure.
Cruel
when forced by circumstances:
it’s better not to know,
not even approximately.
Wise in hindsight:
not many more
than wise in foresight.
Getting nothing out of life except things:
thirty
(though I would like to be wrong).
Balled up in pain
and without a flashlight in the dark:
eighty-three, sooner or later.
Those who are just:
quite a few, thirty-five.
But if it takes effort to understand:
three.
Worthy of empathy:
ninety-nine.
Mortal:
one hundred out of one hundred –
a figure that has never varied yet.
Love this! I’ve never seen it before, thanks for posting it. (And to think I used to think stats were so confusing…seems simple now…)
Thanks Lindsay for introducing me to this poem. Very interesting way to present “statistics” (a class I loathed in college).
I love this poem.
This made me sad:
Wise in hindsight:
not many more
than wise in foresight.
But this was comforting, knowing I’m not alone:
Balled up in pain
and without a flashlight in the dark:
eighty-three, sooner or later.
Those who love you and hold you in their hearts:
At least one hunted and one. Maybe a whole lot more.
Thanks.
XOXO
Hundred (vs. Hunted)
Darned iPad
Here’s to hoping that our random samples skew positive—and to love, the great and unifying anomaly to balance the certainty of mortality.
I love Szymborska, read another poem by him earlier today!
And the last stanza of this is the kicker, we are all mortal, aren’t we?