It's been a hellish week -- personally, nationally, and globally. The terrorist attacks in Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and elsewhere. Violence of all kinds in the United States, but especially the police-involved shootings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, and the murder of police officers in Dallas. These alone would be enough to send me into a fetal crouch in the corner of my house. Add to that the week of worry and caregiving for my husband, who is home now but not well, and facing surgery. Yesterday I came to the sobering realization that, with both children diagnosed with chronic illnesses, I am the only healthy person in my immediate family. So self-care and monitoring my own health becomes essential. I wish I had the energy and focus to respond to the world outside my house, but frankly, I don't.
So there's this blog, where I can put my swirling thoughts and jumbled emotions into words about "everything else". And the word for the day is love. I believe in the power of love to connect and heal. If love is a miracle, I believe in miracles. Otherwise, I don't. And sometimes love can feel like a miracle, when it comes out of nowhere -- from a stranger on the bus, or a Samaritan coming down the road. But love for others is as much a miracle as Dorothy's ruby slippers; it's the unused power we already have. (I wonder what the Wicked Witch of the East used them for? But I digress.) Love can overcome hate, but not passively; it needs to be made visible, transformed into action.
If my focus on Indian films seems escapist, you're right. But it's the best kind of escapism -- the kind that heals and help me keep going.