About a week ago, I went on a hike in the hills with Ruth. We were driving back, in my car, talking, and at the exact same moment that she said, "Look at that beautiful pink tree with all its petals," I found myself saying, "Look at that young man being arrested."
I was looking at her, and behind her, through the passenger side window, I saw a young black man being handcuffed and pushed into the back of a police cruiser. She had turned to face me, and through my window she could see a gorgeous cherry tree shedding its blossoms in the wind.
Both sights were true; they were both on the same street. As Carla would say, "Bittersweet."
That's what my life is now--if I look out one window, I see the fragile sweetness of Spring (yes, sorry, East Coast readers--we are playing tennis, and gardening, and hiking, it is in the 60s, beautiful warm sunshine, and the acacia trees are all yellow and the cherry trees are all pink and white, and everything smells good.)
On the other side of the window, Carla's ALS diagnosis, fears for the health of other people close to me, the economy going down the toilet (I dreamed about this last night,) war, and the kids everywhere who are not getting even the basics of what they need--a sustainable world. I can look in either direction. I think I have to look in both. To turn a blind eye to the half that is painful is to deny the whole picture. But last night, after a beautiful day of tennis and lovemaking and a good movie, a delicious dinner, phone conversations with my dad and my sister, I cried as I went to bed. I know all these things are fleeting. I fear losing the world.