my days are work, Ever and Lola and phone/FB w. Ian and Dakota, Mr. Curry, our backyard cat and two dogs, writing, housework, running/work-out and read/netflix/sleep. repeat.
i am a lucky human being who has had much bad luck in life. there is a lot of outcry that we should not 'measure our pain', that our pain is what it is and not in relation to anything else. i cry foul. everything is in relation to something else, even the very essence of what we think of as 'reality'. there is a theory in quantum physics that nothing is real which changes with perspective, and this would therefore include the components of space itself, our astral bodies, our ancestors and home. my own theory of relativity includes the reality that during Queen Mary's reign ( Bloody Mary ) where she burned heretics- in the hundreds for her few short years of sovereignty- one was a pregnant woman named Perotine. you can decide for yourself if you can bear to read poor Perotine's story, but the unbearable reality of what she experienced kept me awake in the wee hours last night, contemplating not only Perotine, but all of humanity who have suffered unimaginable grief or physical pain.
i know to be true for myself that understanding my place in the scale of human suffering has been incredibly important to me. it has increased my mental health in the long run, despite the agony of empathy one naturally endures after reading true accounts of such despair. my mental health, shaken and at times close to shattered by life events as a child and young adult, has been been strengthened because i am able to take the realities that have happened to me and accept that others have experienced worse, far worse, so in the random lottery of life i am luckier than many, and that many of those people have done well in life, have given back to society, have been kind and good and found gratitude for the wealth of beauty and goodness there is in the sheer fact of a butterfly, opening its wings on the grasses outside my window, or the red breasted birds that hang on our bird-feeder, pecking at the glass with resounding thwacks before realizing the seed lays below, or the arms of a loved one around my neck, or the feel of hot water running hard on my face and down my body, or the joy infused unconditional love of my child, her hands on my face, her wiggly little body in my lap.
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