The last few weeks have been full of bad news, so much so
that events in San Bernadino, while distressing, seem less shocking than they
would have a decade ago. And while I don’t know any of the people whose lives
have been uprooted by recent violence that made the news cycle, there have been
less noticeable tragedies among my circle of friends, the sort of everyday
nightmares that too often pass mostly unobserved.
I say ‘mostly,’ because I’ve witnessed an outpouring of love
and concern, gifts of money and time and compassion in some of the darkest
hours the human mind can comprehend. And while I wish my friends weren’t
struggling, I’m also grateful that their pain has not gone unnoticed. We’re all
part of a pretty amazing community of creative people, and that energy pours
out at the right moment.
Whether it’s boosting a project or helping a new mom,
covering moving expenses or sharing experience so someone can better navigate
the storms we’ve passed through, there’s a world of generosity out there to
counter the truly horrific challenges our society faces.
Friendship gets stuff done.
Tuesday’s post about kindness grew out of a conversation I
had at Readercon in 2014, with a friend I’d known online for years. We took a
long walk and talked about life, our goals as writers, moms, and human beings. That
time spent with her at the convention, the first chance we’d had to talk face
to face, is also a gift.
In a few months, I’ll have a poem in Mythic Delirium. That
one was inspired by pictures and photos a couple of friends posted on social
media. At a time when I found myself discouraged and struggling to write, they
inspired me. (A lot of writing has to be done alone, slogging through the word
forests, but I’d bet any writer you talk to will tell you we couldn’t get
through on our own. Those of us who are lucky find a community of kindred
spirits and dreamers who sustain us through the difficult times and celebrate
with us when the good news comes in.)
There have been other times, too, when friends have saved
me. Living with chronic depression means choosing to fight for my life every
day. Some days it’s fairly easy, and other days it’s not. On those other days, being
able to talk with the people who understand has sometimes made the difference
between life and death. There are letters and texts I’ll save for as long as I
can, because they’re like arteries running between souls, carrying life and
hope.
I’m posting this late, I know. Sorry about that, but I had
to do something for a friend.
It's really dusty in this El train all of a sudden...I love you.
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