It’s 10 o’clock in the morning here in California. Cumulus clouds float overhead in the cerulean sky like giant dollops of whipped cream on blue raspberry Jell-o. On top of the mountains across the valley, the clouds look like they’re on the wrong end of an ice cream cone. The highest peak, Mt. Baldy, breaks through this mass of clouds; her top is covered in blinding white snow. It is so stunningly beautiful in contrast to the green of the trees that, from my deck, frame the mountains, I fall to my knees and utter a prayer of gratitude to our Earth Mother.
And when I return inside, I learn of yet another school shooting, and at least 18 children and 9 adults are confirmed dead.
My prayer of gratitude vanishes, replaced with tears of anguish.
When I look at my beloved mountains, and see such amazing beauty, it is hard to imagine anything ugly in the world. At least, for a few moments I am able to convince myself of that.
Eighteen children. Dead. Innocents every one. Nine adults. Dead. There to make sure children get an education, helping to improve their lives. Good people, undoubtedly.
I cannot wrap my mind around such ugliness. I cannot imagine the anguish of mothers and fathers rushing to this school, praying their child is all right, the crushing horror of learning they are not.
Tears flow more freely now, like the rivulet of water streaming off our hillside, making its way to the valley floor below.
Outside, I cry over this rivulet of water. My tears join their raindrop sisters, rushing, always rushing, down the hill. Oblivious to what is happening elsewhere in the country, oblivious to death, to the rivers of blood, to the agonizing wails of pain and grief.
The ravens are chattering. Acorn woodpeckers echo their wacka wacka wacka through the trees. Even the mockingbirds are singing their chaotic song. Everything is green, because unlike so much of the rest of the country where winter is either the beige of a fallow landscape or white with a blanket of snow, here in LA winter is the season of vibrant, living green.
The green of the living.
I stand over the rivulet of rain, now its own rivulet of grief, and watch as the rainwater envelops my tears. My tears become the rain; the rain becomes my tears.
Eighteen children dead. Nine adults. Their river runs red.
So hard to make sense of it all, when much of it doesn’t make sense. Such profound tragedy. Grieving is like a constant backdrop these days. So much to grieve. And, yes, beauty too. “I walk in beauty. Beauty is before me. Beauty is behind me. Above and below me.” Big hug.
Yes, Lisa…important at times like this to remember the Navajo Beauty Way. Thank you for reminding me of this.
Like you, Smoky, I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around the horror. I had to step outside to get a fresh breath and find my balance. Prayers to all the children and families.
Yes. Outdoors, breathe in the crisp winter air. Look at the mountains, at the snow-capped mountains, and remind myself beauty IS.
I don’t understand one instance, much less the multiple instances of mass shootings, multiple dead, and nothing left afterwards but a flimsy motive. No motive is an excuse, though huge wrongs leading to revenge might at least be slightly understandable. But little upsets leading to :Eighteen children dead, Nine adults, Their river runs red,” there’s not an ounce of sense in that.
Malcolm
No. There isn’t. It’s pointless to look for the sense in slaughtered babies.
I’m glad you had some words. I have none… at least not yet. It is beyond understanding and I’ve seen a lot of awful things.
I’m not even sure they were my words, T.K. They just flowed from my fingertips without my giving thought to them. The grief just took over, I think.
Eloquently spoken. We are so sad for these families, indeed for their whole community.
Sadness, too runs like a river, doesn’t it, Yvonne?
No words. Just tears.
Ours mix together, making that rivulet a torrent.
This tragedy will rank with me right up there with 9/11. Imagine sending your child off to school one morning and then not being able to see him come home. All because of madness. I have a hole in my heart.
I had to call my babies yesterday after I heard of this, just to hear their voices. They may be 28 and 22, respectively, but your baby is always your baby, no matter how old, and times like these, you just want to hold them close.
Radio off all day, not turned on ’til I was in the car on the way to pick up my grandest granddaughter. Oh God. Breaking News. Heart broken once again, I couldn’t wait to see and hold my little one. Please parents, when you see your child acting way out of normal, don’t ignore it. Don’t be ashamed or think he’ll outgrow it. Please.
Good advice, Charmaine. But I wonder if any parent could believe their child capable of such an act?