When does the suffering stop?


Time flies.
Ah, my favorite idiom. And quite accurate considering it seems like only yesterday I was sun worshiping on a beach in Spain.

Today is a different story.
I’m knee deep in paper–all the way from toilet paper destined to be stocked, to receipts that date as far back as the Bush administration.

You’d think it would be easier to toss everything in a Hefty bag and be done with it (something I seriously considered when the pile grew so much, I thought I’d have to name it).

But I’m glad I didn’t. If I had, I would not have come across a little folder titled, “The Son’s Poetry.” Not very eloquent on the outside, I agree, yet what lay inside brought tears to my eyes.

Though truth be told, I think most mothers will agree there’s not much a child can do, create, or perform that won’t bring us to tears. But I digress.

On this occasion, I chanced upon a series of poems written by the Son for one of his high school English classes. One of them, not only left me bawling, but also perfectly captured my sadness after the recent tragedy in Paris.

This piece raises the rhetorical question of when does it end?
When does the slaying of innocent lives stop? When can we stop blaming the thirst for power for our suffering? When do mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives, and children stop grieving for the loss of a loved one who has died at the hands of murderers?

I’m afraid that like most rhetorical questions, these do not have a definitive reply.

We will continue to seek answers until we realize world peace can never be achieved while there are those willing to kill to obtain power.

Yet in spite of this gloomy outlook, the idealist in me believes there is strength in unity; that together, we have what it takes to spread love. We can start in our homes, with our spouses, our children, our neighbors, our colleagues.

Kindness, respect, and compassion will reign, but only if they are present in our lives.

That said, I want to share the Son’s poem with you. May it incite you to reflect, not only on the recent tragedies, but also on why devastating circumstances such as these are still a reality.

The tragic loss of it all

We sit on the couch my mother and I
Enveloped by warmth we deeply sigh
The TV blaring we both scream out why
The pain, the torment, just makes us cry

Out in the Congo, people are dying
killed by the rebels it’s not a lie
Women and children everyone dying
The pain, the torment, just makes us cry

And in another corner of the planet
A father and neighbor senselessly die
A ten year old boy shamelessly planned it
The pain, the torment, just makes us cry

The waves of terror rise but never fall
The killing the torture at a mighty high
They fight for their lives, the old and the small
The pain, the torment, just makes us cry

And much as they try to put up a fight
The battle will never result in a tie
Victims keep dying night after night
The pain, the torment just makes us cry

Pastors and peacekeepers try to advise
Preach and bring peace as bullets fly by
Deep seeded faith is our only device
The pain, the torment just makes us cry


Note: The Son has allowed me to publish this piece and it has not been modified in any way. It is just as I found it.

Why doesn’t love live here anymore?

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One of the many perks of spending my summers in Spain is running into old acquaintances. Such was the case last night when the elevator I was waiting for opened to reveal two old friends.

After exchanging excited greetings, we found ourselves sharing a bottle of cheap Spanish wine while catching up. We discovered who was pregnant, who had a new grandchild, and sadly, who’d passed away. We found out who tied the knot, remarried, or filed for divorce. While this may sound like a typical gossip fest, I assure you it was not.

Why? Because what started off as a simple exchange of information, deepened into a high order discussion of identifying “the why.”

One minute, one friend was revealing details of her brother’s marital break up, and the next, the other was admitting she’d been in a loveless marriage for twenty years.

Wine glasses were quickly refilled to cover up the awkward silence that ensued. However, the question hanging in the air was, “Why?” The friend in question did not have an answer.

The conversation that followed was so interesting, my friends have allowed me to share our results. But first, I should point out that our first question was, how different is staying with someone in a loveless marriage from an actual divorce? The answer is, not much.

We identified that in both cases, the individuals have become distant; estranged. They no longer share common interests and exchanges of affection are either rare or nonexistent.

Conversation is limited to current events, the weather, and the daily conundrum.

They never make time for one another and everything else always takes precedence.

Romantic, intimate moments, and sex are just a hazy memory. They claim to be busy, tired, or stressed. One has a headache, the other has to get up early the next morning.

Time continues to pass. One year turns into five, then into ten, and before long, they’ve spent two decades in the company of someone who is nothing more than a roommate.

You’d think all things considered, they wouldn’t want to spend a moment in each other’s company, let alone a lifetime. Yet together they remain.

Our discussion revealed the typical reasons for this being so: religion, financial difficulties, and the famous, “it’s in the best interest of the children.” However, we wanted to go deeper. Much deeper.

We wanted to discover what had the power to hold two peole hostage and force them to wake up in a state of misery day after day.

We were convinced a justifiable reason existed.

I want to tell you we were successful. I want to tell you we had an “aha” moment, that one of us screamed, “Eureka!”. But alas, such is not the case.

We were more confused at the end of our conversation than when we started. We bid each other farewell, disheartened and frustated.

This morning, an empty coffee cup by my side, I continue to look for answers.

My brain tells me perhaps it’s fear.

Fear of the unknown.
Fear of abandonment.
Fear of starting over.

Or perhaps it’s conformity–blind acceptance that this is the hand destiny has dealt.

Or maybe people are just too tired, lazy, or believe themselves unworthy of something or someone better.

I’m certain each case is different. Individuals in these circumstances are sure to have personal reasons for remaining. However, something tells me many, if not all, have one thing in common. They all want to know why.

Have you found yourself in a similar situation, and if so, why do you stay?


Have you missed me?

diary writing

I want to think that I’ve been missed. I want to suppose someone has wondered why I haven’t posted in a while. I need to believe someone, anyone, has asked himself or herself where I am.

The truth is, I’ve been held hostage. Or more accurately, I’ve held myself hostage. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. Readers who follow my blog can attest to the fact that my going AWAL has become rather habitual; that my rants have become fewer and far between.

But like I said, I’ve been in self imposed captivity.

How? In thinking the only time I can write is when circumstances are right; when all my ducks are in a row; when everything else has been handled. Only then, can I set my imagination free so as to give birth to creativity.

However, I’ve come to realize that I am never going to have enough time. My ducks are never going to be aligned and something will always have to be handled.

That’s life; the way things are. It is not going to change.

So after much pondering, I’ve concluded that if I don’t take action, this blog is going to die. My virtual friends are going to disappear, and if I wait longer, no one is going to wonder where I’ve gone.

Some time ago, I read the following phrase: “A true writer is unable to stop writing. For a true writer, it is easier to stop breathing than to stop writing.” Don’t ask me where I read that. I’m afraid I don’t remember. Nevertheless, the message stayed with me.

I thought of those words today, and while I agree there are times writers are unable to stop writing, I disagree that only those capable of doing so are true writers.

Which leads me to ask myself, am I truly a writer?

This question is what prompted me to think about what direction this blog should take; before it dies; before you forget about me.

And I’ve decided that more than a writer, I am a communicator. It is vital to my existence for me to communicate; to share with others what touches my life. As such, no longer will I wait for the perfect time to crank out what I believe to be a writing piece worth reading. Instead, I am going to communicate more.

At times, it might only be through a photo of something that caught my eye. Or an anecdote of someone or something that infuriated, impressed, or shocked me. Other times, it might simply be a haiku.

I truly hope you will continue to accompany me on this journey. I promise to try and make it an interesting one.

Who calls shotgun?