“Indeed, I see heartbreak as the most proportional response to the state of the world – to say I love you is to say my heart breaks for you, and this sentiment resonates within all things, bringing a clarity to both the world before us and the world beyond the veil. Sorrow becomes a way of life, part laughter, part tears, with very little space between. It is a way of conducting oneself in the world, of loving it, of worshipping it.”
Nick Cave, Red Hand Files #331
I’m ever more grateful for connecting with Ted Leach, and for his eminently readable daily blog. Today he shared a link to this essay, You Can’t Love Jesus and Hate Immigrants, which sprung the first tears of the day just after noon.
More tears bubbled up reading a story on Daily Good about a woman rescuing cats from flood debris along the Guadalupe River. I chose to spend some work time reading about humans doing wonderful things, and weeping with awe.
A friend texted midafternoon from northwest across the valley to see if I was ok, because from his perspective it looked like Crawford was enveloped in heavy smoke. I drove up to get the mail to get a wider view myself, just to be sure, and sent him a picture looking north toward his mesa. It’s deceptive when you’re inside the smoke cloud looking out. Perspective is everything.
Aside from stepping out a couple times to water plants and shake off demon grasshoppers I spent the day inside, still not getting things done. When I went out in the morning I wore a wet mask, and later in the day the oxygen as well. For lunch I enjoyed a sandwich with the last of the chicken half I didn’t freeze, smoked Gouda, Drunken Woman looseleaf lettuce from the garden, and coleslaw from the first of five perfect little cabbages; while reading Dottie, a novel by 2021 Nobel Laureate Abdulrazak Gurnah.
Today’s daily guidance from the Mindful Life Community really spoke to me. This smoke roulette could go on all summer. Keeping patience and compassion alive is essential to a healthy perspective. It’s hard enough living with a biblical insect plague and apocalyptic wildfires. It could be so much worse: I could be an immigrant, or a pregnant teen in Texas, or a trans child almost anywhere in the country. May we all grow in compassion for ourselves, for each other, and for our precious planet.
You’re very kind, Rita. Thank you. On Sunday, a retired physician in our congregation offered the morning prayer. At one point she said (as I remember it), “Many of us struggle to balance staying informed without being overwhelmed by the news of the day.” Your blog posts help us.