Saturday, December 29, 2012

The Comforts of a Snowy Saturday

 I've been reading "The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday" by Alexander McCall Smith (re-reading, to be clear) while I figure out what the future of my bibliophile tendencies are going to become based
on the recent library 'critter' news.
This blog post gracefully, I hope, borrows McCall Smith's title and skews it for this Toronto winter day, as I sit, pajama-clad again, looking out onto the landscape, snow quietly falling, the metal of the plow hitting the asphalt of my condominium parking lot, which is my view out the window, which is really not nearly as bad as it sounds.
Coffee, I need coffee, as I was just emailing to my friend H.
I was telling her about this blog post I found on this blog, which I love, and
it's author does a stellar Friday round-up of blog entries that are nominated by other bloggers, readers, et al. She then does a little write-up (go check it out) and the chosen entries are usually unusually well-written, thoughtful, and original.

Like this one.
I've rolled the thought about this whole Newtown thing around and around, the agony for the parents of imagining last moments. I imagine them myself. I travel in thought to the last moments of my own father and how hard I had to work to get past those images even though I owned them in my mind. This post is not an easy read, but for me, it was a necessary one.

If you don't feel like reading the whole thing (please,, then just read this.
It helped me, even though I didn't think I needed help today.

From Planting Dandelions:

I’m not sure what I believe about afterlife, but there’s no scenario I can accept in which the victims of tragedy want the rest of us to remained trapped in the burning house, the hijacked plane, the terror-stricken classroom. I believe that they have moved on, and so should we in due course, with all honor, gravity and respect. In dealing with grief, we need to go with its flow, but not let it take us under.

Remembering someone’s life does not mean reliving their death. When the faces of those little children from Sandy Hook come to me, I try not to drag them back to the scene of horror, or into my own personal nightmares. Instead, I imagine them as a neighbor’s children, sent to my door because their loved ones need help bearing the unbearable. They have run out of hope, and peace, and breath, can I lend them some of mine?

written by Kyran Pittman

Amen Kyran. And thank you.

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