The Power That Moves Through the World

Winter day in Los Angeles

I was sitting at the table with Sophie this morning, feeding her breakfast. She wasn't eating very well and by that I mean she'd take a bite but then forget how to chew for a moment or two. Saliva collects in the front of her mouth and falls out and down her bib, carrying the raspberry and the panettone. I imagine her motor planning to be scrambled. She will look at the food, coming toward her mouth, and I swear I can see the gears turning in very slow motion. I like to think that I look serene, but I know that my mouth is tight and my eyes are hard. Caregiving. Sophie had two big seizures in the early hours of the morning. She hadn't had any for about two weeks, so I guess it was time. I woke up at about three this morning to find her sitting on the floor beside her bed. After changing her and putting her back in the bed, I climbed in with her and closed my eyes. I guess it was sometime after 4:00 or so that she had the first seizure, in her sleep. Her stiffened arm hit my nose. When that one was finished I dozed off again for a couple of hours before she groaned and stiffened next to me, then began jerking. It only lasts for a couple of minutes, and I won't type but. I got up, made myself some coffee and put raspberries and panettone on a plate for Sophie.

Sophie is warm, nourished, housed and loved. She lacks for absolutely nothing.




But. 





If I look outward, I see the citizens of Syria coated in white dust, the children's' faces bloodied, their little mouths downturned. Some people say I can't watch those videos or look at those pictures. I feel compelled to do so. It's not because I am one-quarter Syrian. It's not because I am on the highway rubber-necking the accident on the side of the road. The necessity of being a witness. As one of my friends said, I will look at this and work to try to understand.


I will look at this and work to try to understand.












Sheep in the Winter Night

Inside the barn the sheep were standing, pushed close to one
another. Some were dozing, some had eyes wide open listening
in the dark. Some had no doubt heard of wolves. They looked
weary with all the burdens they had to carry, like being thought
of as stupid and cowardly, disliked by cowboys for the way they
eat grass about an inch into the dirt, the silly look they have
just after shearing, of being one of the symbols of the Christian
religion. In the darkness of the barn their woolly backs were
full of light gathered on summer pastures. Above them their
white breath was suspended, while far off in the pine woods,
night was deep in silence. The owl and rabbit were wondering,
along with the trees, if the air would soon fill with snowflakes,
but the power that moves through the world and makes our
hair stand on end was keeping the answer to itself.

Tom Hennen, via The Writer's Almanac