love and horror

I ache when I read the headlines each day: dozens more killed in Iraq. It has become a constant refrain and I am becoming numb. I remember living in Berkeley, and in Peru, learning to shut out the beggars. It was not possible to help them all. I had to choose. I feel the same about human rights organizations and other worthy causes. I cannot help them all. I write a check to fund the arts at my son’s school. I write a check each month to my church. Those checks have direct impact on me and my family, so they don’t really count as charity. I write other checks through the year to a variety of organizations, but I cannot help them all. I don’t know if I can help even one of those poor Iraqi children.

I still read the papers each day, so I don’t live totally in denial. I also escape into the woods each day. I escape to my yoga mat, into the dance. I find a place of internal bliss that can’t be quelled. This is the hope of the human spirit: the internal bliss that cannot be quelled. I bought a picture book last week of photos from the Iraq war. It includes the bombs, the explosions, death and horror. It also includes photos of soldiers cradling babies, a shackled and hooded man holding his son. In the horror of that photograph is the hope of life and love. This is the promise of planet earth: the beauty of life continues to emerge in the midst of tragedy; love cannot be quelled by even the worst of horror.