Early April had dawned coated in white; sounds softened by nature’s fluffy blanket. It was Easter weekend and life had been forced to slow down. This slowing of the daily rhythm I had grown accustomed to was not designed by me, but I gripped it tightly nonetheless. I needed the rest, a change of pace. My thoughts hadn’t realized this but seemingly my subconscious had. I also needed a break from having my thoughts led by the film or TV directors that usually provide me a type of respite after a long day at work. My eyes had started smarting and were sensitive from endlessly looking at screens and monitors. So, I sought to relax by having my imagination do some work. I picked up the book I was determined to get through. It was one of those books that forces introspection with its painful reality, yet the beautiful writing doesn’t let you abandon it.
And it was a real book, I promise you – pages and all. No kindle, no monitor or screen of any sort.
So, here I was; looking outside at snow swirling in the bright sunshine, the juxtaposition so stark and weightless, and reading about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict from 1948.
Ouf. What a contrast.
My eyes had been pulled towards the window by my thoughts, as they fought to stop reading for a bit. The poignant, weightiness of the stark nature of love and loss in the book was affecting me – making me consider life and luck. Maybe there was something fitting about these snippets of my thoughts as I read about the struggle of the people in Palestine (exiled victims of politics and man’s capacity to hate and fear that which is different) while the Christian world remembered Jesus’ struggle and his own relinquishment of life at the hands of men’s politics and hatred.
Humanity is a precious gift – maybe we do not think of this enough in our world dominated by the status symbols that have been built around the signs of material wealth. But, as I read about the happy sharing of simple food during a celebration in 1948 Palestine I thought of my mother making stuffed cabbage leaves so happily, to take to her friends for a simple Easter lunch a few days ago. I think of the Hubs who, after dutifully taking half a batch of the cheesecake brownies I had made for his birthday to share with a friend a 30-min drive away, had decided (with said friend) to drive to a third friend’s house to share the treat. His act of simple camaraderie and kindness to a friend who had just lost his mother, was made firm simply because of the occasion of sharing brownies.
Sharing is humanity isn’t it? The sharing of warmth, compassion and empathy – along with information and scientific discovery – begets kindness and tolerance, doesn’t it? Sharing of common purpose and divergent histories, isn’t that what writers say makes the best plots? The meeting of those who have been on different paths with their own mistakes, struggles and discoveries – aren’t those integral parts of the world’s most famous love stories?
But, animals share. My pups share their food every day – they go back and forth each taking bites, one after the other, until they’re full. Maybe sharing is something more base than humanity and it is that intrinsic nature that we have forgotten, that building block to humanity.
I must get back to this book I’m reading but my mind wonders when humanity is going to start loving itself again.
I feel immense gratitude that I’m able to put these thoughts to paper as they rapidly come to me. It’s been over a year since I’ve searched for a notepad and pen at my bedside to grasp the thoughts as they rattle around my head. I have had my own struggles that have tried to dampen my spirit. But, trusting my fingers to recognize the essence of that spark which still lives within me, I knew I would eventually find my writing implements in some form. This receptacle for the scratching of words and thoughts may someday be all that is left of me, and I am extremely grateful to have been able to find myself in my introspective musings. These words I could never say out loud because they would be alien and out of place, I can most certainly scribble onto a notebook with a pen.
In a way, reading has always saved me. Fantasy books take me away from the stresses of my world where I can immerse myself in magic, faeries and the triumph of good over evil. Reading well written, thoughtful books has rekindled the desire to try to do justice to my own thoughts, by writing. It’s all very cathartic in one way or another. Sometimes I end up blubbering away, my heart breaking at the thoughts and storyline that have emerged from someone else’s psyche. Sometimes I emerge energized and happy, wishing for magic powers and having the great urge to roar for the world to hear. Whatever my reaction, I always feel fulfilled after I’ve read a good book.
I look outside again as I finish my book. The snow can fall as the sun brightly shines. Is this duplicity, stark juxtaposition or simply a visualization of different elements coming handing in hand? Nature and humanity perhaps?
Nature and humanity – hand in hand. I think we must be mindful, don’t you?
Yes, yes. I’ll read a lighter book next time, promise!
