Tuesday, March 22, 2016
this Morning, Trying to Blog
Even before this morning's tragic news, I've been disinclined to move to the written word. Unwilling to attend to the impact of having our home listed online, of having a For Sale sign at our gate, I have been happily distracted by my daughter and granddaughter's visit. I had thought, before I saw the news out of Belgium this morning, to share a photo or two, directing you to follow my Instagram account for the next little while until I get my blogging energies organised again.
Momma loves her some leopard, and I was going to show you a photo I took, my last visit to Rome, of her wearing another pair of leopard shoes, ones I'd bought her when she visited us in Bordeaux last fall
Here, for example, is a photo I posted on Instagram yesterday of Toddler Girl from Rome trying on her Momma's shoes.
Next, I was going to direct you to R's own blog, where she managed (finally!) to squeeze out a lively post on our Bordeaux shopping expedition and her love for the leopard...
But now I've read the morning reports, the horrors that reduce all of our lives to so much rubble. My anxieties over where Pater and I will live next in this overheated market of a city; my sadness over leaving a home; my excitement about making a new one; my dismay and protectiveness over my daughter and granddaughter's horrid flight; my quiet pleasure in being able to help ease both of them back into comfort; my joy at coaxing my granddaughter to accept me as a (poor second) substitute for her Momma's arms; my eager anticipation of having the whole family together at dinner later this week---every aspect of my life trembles in the enormity of these gross acts of terrorism. Even writing that last sentence reveals my petty narcissism, my privilege.
And yet. And let me be trivial. I stand accused. I accept the label. I have no other way through. The tiny daily pleasures, keeping an eye out for beauty while yet being willing to witness horror, is it not the only way forward? If forward is ever an option rather than a convenient metaphor, an organising narrative to help us keep stepping, one foot at a time, doing the only best we can.
Words are so dangerous, and I'm wishing mine might fade, here, as if written in water on pavement. They're only an effort, I know they're inadequate. May whomever is hurting today forgive me their apparent ease and take solace in their attempt at solidarity.
And I will leave you with images of yesterday's fleeting pleasures, because inadequate as beauty and love and happiness might be to assuage pain and despair, I find little else to put faith in this morning