In times of sorrow, of inexplicable tragedy, of senseless violence, of grief,
I have no comfort to offer. No comfort to offer, but this:
Bury your nose in your dog's fur.
Walk outside and look up at the expanse of the night sky, breathe in the cool air.
Blow raspberries on a baby's soft skin and listen carefully to their laughter.
Walk barefoot in the grass.
Say a kind word to your neighbor, your mailman, a stranger at the store.
Sip hot coffee and feel it warm your whole body as you swallow.
Daydream. Allow yourself to imagine something wonderful.
Notice everything you touch: soft carpet, smooth handles, sticky little hands.
Don't run from the rain. Stand in it. Spin in it.
Turn off the television.
Put away the phone.
Make eye contact.
Write a letter. Pour your outrage, your hurt onto paper with pen. Stamp it, send it.
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Returning from a long weekend of fun, travel, family, and joy, I expected to be posting a lighthearted, picture heavy wedding recap today. Instead, the above poured out. Sometimes when I'm feeling overwhelmed by what's going on in the world, like the unthinkable tragedy that just occurred in Las Vegas, all I can do is write.
My kids are still too little to explain this to, so I sit with my thoughts during the day. I think about how fragile life really is. I think about how mad the world has become. But I also think of all of the good. I think of the helpers, the brave, the heroic, the ordinary people who risked -- and in some cases gave -- their lives to save others. I think of bodies covering other bodies like shields. I have no comfort to offer, nothing to say to those who are mourning today, except I am so deeply sorry. I have no comfort to offer, but this: the small, the everyday, the good, the sweet, the kind, the hopeful; It's still there.
