Electric Word, Life
The rooms of my house, should they be visited by strangers and aliens, would act as a time capsule of my life. Regularly I sit and meditate on how far I have come, on how much I have traveled in time, just looking at pictures and tchotchkes. It’s encouragement, these reminders that though suffering is imminent, omni-present, getting through is possible. That I’ll learn something along the way I may never have had I not had my experience. This kind of idea though, wrapped up in the notion of free will and borne on the downslide of experience, of a breaking of innocence, is cold comfort to those who suffer intensely. Those I know who have lost children to tragic circumstance got through, are still getting through. How do they do this? To live with grief so close, it sits on the skin; it remains in the breath; it lives in the heart. Both a weight and a lifting. How else are we to think of the loss of someone young, relative to his or her experience of th...