The Rhetoric Becomes Real

I struggle with the necessity of war.  I have thought about its place in the world.  I have studied the concepts of pacifism, wrestled with the validity of “Just War”.  And I have come to no definitive conclusions. 

Conflict is a part of human interaction.  I am idealistic enough to believe there are better ways to resolve conflict than aggression.  Conversely, I am not so naive as to believe aggression is entirely avoidable.  It is one thing to want to believe the best in people.  It is another to cleave desperately to that belief when it is being disproved before your very eyes.

I have been opposed to the Iraq War for many reasons.  Diplomatic options were not exhausted.  The legality of the declaration of war was questionable at best, both from an American and an international standpoint.  It was foolish to tie up so much of our country’s resources in a conflict which did not make our nation safer.  Sacrificing the lives of men, women and children on both sides of the conflict was unnecessary.

I wrote letters. I attended protests.  I supported politicians who were opposed to the war.  I would debate my opinions of the matter openly.

I, like many of those with whom I had discussed the war, did not have a true connection to the subject matter.  While one of my strongest opposition to this war and war in general was the loss of young Americans and its impact on their families and communities, I observed this from a distance.  I was disconnected.

I did have a family member stationed in Afghanistan.  We had been involved in each others lives when we were younger, but grew apart as is the case with extended family scattered to the four winds.  We heard about his life’s progression in Christmas letters from his father’s new wife.  He married.  He had lovely twin daughters.  He joined the military.  He received commendations for his service.

When I would discuss the impact of the war on military men and women and their families, I did not necessarily think of this relative.  I was aware of his service.  He was in Afghanistan which wasn’t the same as Iraq.  I had a more fluid opinion of that conflict.  I still believed the devastation on both sides was excessive and unnecessary.  I still mourned the lost potential.  I still grieved for the families and communities impacted.  But I did not make the connection between this family member to the losses I railed against, because he was not lost.

That changed on Christmas Eve.  He was lost when his outpost on the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan came under enemy attack.  The family was told he fought bravely.  He died a hero.

He was a good man who loved in his country.  He was a father who loved his daughters.  He was a husband who loved his wife.  He was a brother, and a son.  He was a hero to those people everyday.  And his life came to an abrupt end far from home engaged in conflict with men and women he had no conflict with.  His wife is now a widow, his daughters are without a father, his father must now endure the pain of outliving his son.

If someone could explain to me why this was necessary, perhaps I would find it comforting to know he died a hero.  I would accept the pain his loss has caused for his family and by extension mine was in pursuit of something larger than all of us.

I do not believe his loss was necessary.  I do not believe it was justified.  And I find myself saddened far more greatly than I would have expected.  This was not simply another story of a soldier lost.  There have been so many of those we have almost become desensitized to it. 

This was a man whom I had played with as a child.  This was someone of whom my father was incredibly fond.  This was an individual who mattered a great deal to people I love.  This was a person to whom I had connections. 

So now my theoretical conversations involving the devastating impact of war on those it leaves behind has become real.  And I find that my theory was sound.  But there is no comfort in that.  I would gladly be wrong about it all in order to stop the suffering of those to whom I am connected by blood, love and a broader sense of family.

Happiness Is…

A good friend and I were having a conversation about happiness.  I told him, “My life might be crazy a lot of the time, but I am, for the most part, happy.”

 

Then I realized how true a statement it was.  When I step away from the events or situations that have caused difficulty or pain I feel a deep contentment.  I have beautiful daughter, fantastic friends and supportive family.  I have a safe home, clean water to drink, healthy food to eat and many amenities that other citizens of the planet consider to be luxuries.  I do my best to be a good person and although I am far from perfect, I am good enough.

 

Everybody experiences hardship.  Everybody experiences sadness.  Everybody experiences frustration.  I have clung to those emotions and made my world about them at certain points in my life.  But what became clear to me last night is happiness is not the absence of those emotions, it is the acceptance of them.  And not a defeated “my life is total crap” acceptance.  A “how would I appreciate the light without the dark” acceptance. 

 

Happiness is not:

 

·         A geographic location

·         who you are with

·         what you own

·         where you have traveled

 

Happiness is:

 

·         a state of mind

·         who you are

·         what you have accomplished

·         peace in your heart

·         acceptance in your mind

·         comfort in your skin

·         love of yourself

 

Nobody can give it to you and nobody can take it away.  You are responsible for your own and no one else’s.  If you do not care for it, you may lose it.  If you nurture it, it will grow.  I for one am recommitting to fostering my own happiness.  I think we all should.

In the Dark Hours

In the dark hours our demons come home to roost.

 

The woman stalked about the house like a ghost, trying to stay quiet enough not to stir the sleeping creatures from their dreams.  Pacing, up and down, up and down.  Trying to knock something loose in order to slow the spinning of her own wheels.

 

In these late hours the woman felt powerless to stop the momentum of her ponderings.  Her thoughts whirled through her brain like dizzy dancers.  Sleep was not a possibility, movement was necessary.  So she wandered around in woolen socks, attempting to lull herself into complacency.

 

The woman’s midnight ambulations caused the timid dog to raise her head with curiosity.  She uncurled from her place on the couch and padded to her mistress who was too distracted to notice.  The dog nuzzled the woman’s cold hand with her wet nose.  Deep brown eyes looked expectantly upward.  The woman smiled at the dog and moved to the corner where the winter clothing was hung.

 

The woman added layers of warmth to her frame and went to the back door.  It was a cold, clear fall night.  The stars were twinkling brilliance and the moon was a soft smile. The dog followed her out into the backyard and down the hill to the leaf-strewn picnic table.  The woman could smell the edge of summer on the table as she laid back on its sturdy wooden top.  The dog jumped up beside her and nestled into the curve of her waist.

 

At first there was the heavy sensation of thoughts like a locomotive out of control.  Lost opportunities.  Beautiful afternoons.  Unintended consequences.  Shared tenderness.  All blending together into a thick fog.  She shook her head, trying to clear it.

 

The woman closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply, feeling panic creeping into the corners.  The air tore at her lungs.  She kept breathing and tried to hold the hounds of fear at bay.  Her thoughts began to slow until they eventually became discernible from one another once more.  She opened her eyes and kept breathing.

 

The stars shined down.  Clouds of crystallized breath formed, dissipated and formed again.  The dog radiated warmth.  The woman’s internal rhythm of pounding heart slowed to a gentler beat.  And in that moment all was still.  The woman was at peace.

 

In the dark hours our demons can be laid to rest, if only for a time.