How can I write about all of the things that make it hard to swallow, that make the centre of my chest ache, that fill me with both protest and longing?
I hear about how more and more adults under forty are deciding not to have children because of the anticipated severity of climate change in their lifetime.
A radio report on the bombings in Sri Lanka tells me one woman lost three children. Three children. I pray she has more children who are still alive- not because I think it will take away the agony of loss, but because they might keep her breathing.
A friend tells me she has cancer. The fact of this sinks in. She is refusing chemo, as is her right. This fact sinks in. The thing that people don’t tell you about getting older is that this time of life is filled with losses. Do we ever get “good” at this- whatever “good at” might mean?
I sit still and let it all wash over me. And I notice the tree nearby has buds not yet unfurled but swelling with possibility.
I watch the small children running and squealing in the park next door, One falls and another stops the game to help him up, giving him a quick but enthusiastic hug with short arms, brushing debris off his jacket (although I’m pretty sure the dirt was more rubbed in than brushed off.) It makes me smile.
I listen to the sounds of construction on the building where I live. I watch the men- including those who hold a jackhammer for the better part of a day- wondering what that does to their bodies, knowing they are working to provide for themselves and those they love.
Everywhere, even in the aching places of loss and trepidation, I hear the world around me whisper, "Live!" ~Oriah
Thank you to Karen Davis at Open Door Dreaming for this small visual anthem to spring and beauty and life.