Dear World

Dear World, you’re breaking our hearts. In some ways, you always have. But now, today, with more news scarring us, scraping our souls, it’s too much to hear. How are we to bear this? And what are we to do?

I read of London’s latest horror surreptitiously for it’s “screen-free Sunday”. Our attempt at respite from the ever noise. Some quiet etched out on this crisp Winter’s day.

I sneak a look and feel a hideous thud. A whack to my chest. My heart is actually aching.

We’re at a loss, or at least I am. Who knows how to proceed? Something is broken. Something has always been broken. But now, being older, and at a time when it’s our turn to take up the reins, to act, to respond, to assist…what do we have to offer? What are we to do?

I can’t comprehend the complexities of our political-religious-cultural-historical-socio-economic-human mess. I am ignorant despite reading and wondering and reading some more. I can’t wrap my head around it. Who actually can? Whatever we’re doing isn’t working. How should we go on? How many layers of sorrow are there? How many degrees of violence? How much yet to learn? We’re in this together. We are brothers and sisters and always have been. All of us.

Overwhelmed, I go back to basics. I start small. I recognise my own inability to love even those I profess to. My own judgmentalism. Violence. Stupidity. At-a-loss-ness. Inaction.

I recommit to fierceness and compassion. To opening. To trying to listen…I will try. We keep on trying. We keep on falling down.

The three musketeers meanwhile are full of silliness. They giggle through an impromptu performance in the corridor. The doors are closed tight. The lights off. And we are asked to sit and watch.

They scamper past. It is so dark. Too dark to see their bodies though I can feel them grinning. Arms bangled high with fluorescent glow sticks. Waving wands of pink, yellow, blue bright light. Suddenly tossing them in the air and squealing as the orbs shine and fall. My eyes glisten. Such loose delight.

I can’t breathe properly. I whisper to my husband “do you feel like you’ve been kicked in the chest?” and he says “it’s so full on.”

As my mind fills with images of panic and death and bewildered horror, our little ones light the dark.

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