The sun is brilliant and is offering me hope, for my winter weariness has become as heavy as the weight of the snow in Boston and the surrounds. I am agitated, angry, and anxious. I have always liked alliteration.
Yesterday, there was news that a young human rights worker, only 26, was killed by terrorists. She had been held in captivity for over a year, but had written she was strong and believed in God. Today, the news is that three young Muslim students were shot to death in NC. They were studying to become dentists and had been involved in fundraising for medical/dental help for Syrian children.
As I watched the expressions of a sunset last night at a tavern with floor to ceiling windows, I was given the certainty and strength of beauty. But why must I wade through so much to get to this beauty? Not one, but three flat screen televisions were in that small tavern. While I drank in the sunset and a glass of wine, I listened to the background noise of the news. Death, snow, tragedy…the backdrop to the pink peach glow intensifying and slowly falling onto the earth. The marriage of light and darkness. The essence of the day laid down with the evening and dissolved in love.
I don’t understand why no-one at the bar wanted to stand or sit in awe at the windows? I don’t understand walking away from beauty and love and what is most important. I don’t understand why there is constant stark clamor of tragedy in every room we walk into. And that knowing it, seeing it, and hearing it brings a little death to our spirits and makes our hearts weak and numb. Next time I come to watch the sunset, I will bring my MP3 player with the recorded nature sounds.
I am off today with AAA and maybe AAAA for I also feel alone with winter shoved up against my office window, keeping me from seeing the sun highlighting the evergreen tree by the driveway.
And the other A – the agitation over spending $16.00 on a paperback by a new author with Simon & Schuster. Commas everywhere making for choppy writing, no flow in her prose, and awkward usage. Right off, she begins the novel with tragedy. I don’t know the characters. I can’t care about their god damn tragedy. I wrote a two star review. I rarely write bad reviews, for I know how it feels. But it will hardly make a dent in her new found success, this new author who writes poorly. I am angry, but not jealous, for I like my style of writing and have made peace with writing no matter the outcome. But I’m angry at the unfairness and cold winter reality. I have little chance at wide readership and success. And I should have success. Yes, I should. And the young, lovely aid worker should have lived and the three young Muslim students should have lived, but I’m already certain they had success.