Monday, 18 February 2013; blog post part one.
Waking at three, I knew I wasn’t going back to sleep. I lie beside my husband, wishing for him to stay in slumber, pondering today’s tasks, glad to be going back to work. A nice break for last week’s anniversary celebrations was necessary, but as my husband spent much of yesterday afternoon faffing with stereo equipment I did some editing. Hard to keep a writer from the words.
By three thirty, I got out of bed, considering today’s post, about returning to the work, or the work slipping into my brain’s cracks that aren’t able to filter that lovely joy. I’m always married, but on weekdays, once the PBJ is made, the husband kissed, his lanyard adjusted, it’s me, tea, and the computer. Yet when I wake early, it’s just me and the BBC News, my homepage. Shia unrest in Pakistan was the lead story, another bombing by militant Sunni Muslims, but Shia dead aren’t being buried after this latest atrocity, which hopefully will prod the authorities into tracking down those responsible for murder.
I don’t read any other news except the BBC, just to stay aware. Last week it was Oscar Pistorius and Reeva Steenkamp, which I read with heaviness in my heart for all involved. This morning it was Shia unrest in Pakistan, and a dead American country music singer. Mindy McCready shot herself on her Arkansas porch a month after the death of her boyfriend.
No way was I going back to sleep after reading that. I went to Google News to learn more, simultaneously reminding myself it’s better to stay away. Still, I rubbernecked; McCready had been suffering from drug addiction for ages, leaving two small sons, one not even a year old. What truly appalled was the relationship she had with former baseball star Roger Clemens from before she was a singer, meeting him when she was fifteen or sixteen, her age is disputed. They had a lengthy affair, so devastating to read how human beings can get so lost, even within their own lives.
Just as miserable as how Oscar Pistorius allegedly killed Reeva Steenkamp, details emerging that include a bloody cricket bat and her fractured skull.
This blog is about my writing. It’s also about me; I didn’t mean to wake so early this morning, I don’t want to be so affected by these things that happen far away. Lately women all over the world have been in the news for the trauma inflicted upon them, from India to Kansas City to Pretoria to one woman ending her life in Arkansas. As a writer, my imagination is pretty active, but this overwhelms, and this is just what grabs headlines. This is just the tip of the iceberg.
By four-something I was lying on the sofa, a crocheted blanket over me, deep in prayer. There are no viable explanations for these acts, except for me to appreciate my beloved, my sobriety, my sanity. And to recall 1 Corinthians 13:1 – If I speak speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gone or a clanging cymbal.