I keep sitting here thinking about what I should write. Originally I had searched my photo archives for a photo of my old self. One before I struggled so much with my weight, with how my beauty measures me. Then, in the wake of this week’s tragedy in Orlando, I thought I should go that route. Remembering a time when we didn’t have to talk to our children damn near weekly about how horrible our planet has become. Neither seems to fit. I don’t know if it’s the sadness or the mess of thoughts and questions in my brain preventing me to write about either coherently.
We are living in a broken world. Broken. And it seems to shatter more and more with each day.
Remember when, when it was easier? Or it seemed easier. I remember summers at my Grandma’s house walking down the street to the “candy man”. He’d open the door with joy and a small wicker duck full of hard candy and each visit, we’d take one. Sucking on the treasure while stuffing leaves in mailboxes. We’d be gone hours, safely riding our bikes all around. It was different then. There wasn’t a tremendous fear of everything, all the time. At least how I remember it. Because we remember things with nostalgia and often without all the truth.
I think though it’s unfair to judge history as if there were no flaws. I watch Call the Midwife each week and weep at the Thalidomide family’s stories. My husband lost a friend to an accident on a bike when the child didn’t have a helmet. I saw teen pregnancy and drug addiction. I watched in horror as Columbine happened in my backyard. We’ve made mistakes in all the generations. There was no perfect time. I think we just remember it with fondness because we are so wrapped up in the worry of the present that we forget that rape, murder and mass death are not new things.
I think what I take from all this is that we have to make the best of the good moments. Remembering to hug our children and forgive our enemies. To let go, something I struggle with. I want my children to have the memories of new adventures and beautiful things and not just the uncomfortable talks in the kitchen or car about rape or why we either agree or don’t agree with the semi automatic weapon thing. They deserve some joy to remember. They deserve to remember their childhoods as happy and not in a bubble or surrounded with fear. They also deserve to know that our world is dangerous and scary so they’re not shocked when they grow up and out of their bubbles.
I want them to say someday, “remember when mom tried to make it all okay.” Even if okay was just for a moment, it’s better than nothing.
My thoughts and prayers go out to all those affected by the Pulse tragedy. No mother should have to bury their child like that. No friend or family member or anyone should have to mourn a loss so tremendous. My feeds are riddled with hate and horror and I can hardly take the emotion of it all. So much sadness, so much hate.
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