I can't get this image out of my head. It's my sister, Miriam, holding her daughter.
Tonight I talked to an old friend who's mother is dying. Every day, her family faces the reality of losing the apex, the cornerstone, the gentle stream that is their mother.
Then I flipped through some New York Times photos of the day. Those get me every time. Who is caring for all the Somalis? Are there enough caring for all the Afghani children and earthquake, bomb and flood victims? My heart throbs and aches. My head reaches to understand.
There are so many humans to care for. And most of them, in our own very small radius of contact.
I am busy. I tell myself that I will raise my daughters to take care of people until their fingers are sore. But what if they grow too busy?
As a little girl I used to cry for people in my bed at night. I used to cry for animals. Why do people shoot deer, why do people shoot each other? How incredibly sad it made me.
I've grown up and the suffering seems so much worse on an adult scale. It depresses me. It keeps me up at night.
There is hope, of course. That's what helps me enjoy my life. And the buckets of joy in my life counter that nagging feeling that something needs to be done. But it never goes away. And I don't think it should.
