This morning in the NYTimes, a photo of a Japanese father dressed in his 15 year old son's clothes at his graduation in Sendai, holding his photo; the son is missing in the tsunami.
Then the story of the four American journalists kidnapped in Libya and how they were beaten and taunted by the out-of-control military.
and in my studio, my dear dog violently tears apart his little stuffed hedgehog, ripping out the stuffing, acting out the hunting instinct which kept his ancestors alive.
Last night as I shared deviled eggs with friends, I mentioned my gratitude to the chickens, and we all realized the act of eating an animal or its egg is not one of total pacifism.
It all just seems so much sometimes.
and I don't want to forget that.
To become numb.
To just focus so much on the joy, and the transmutation of pain into joy, that I ever forget the very true and very real suffering in the world.
and how some give their lives for others.
“Heartsick, heartbroken —
To know love is to know pain.
What could be more common?
Even so, each broken heart is so singular
That with it we probe the divine.”