When I was single, I generally hated seeing social media and other posts about people getting engaged and being madly in love. Alas, I guess I’ve become one of those people, though I don’t mind that much.
For most of my adult life, I never thought I’d get married and settled down. My mental health was always precarious, and my early twenties were filled with addiction and psych ward visits. I did have long-term relationships, but the inevitably failed for various reasons. This time around with Rachel has been different. Perhaps it’s because I’m getting older (I turned 36 this week).
Homelessness in America is a scandal and a moral crime. We are the wealthiest country in the world, and yet, in every major city I’ve been to, I’ve noticed the homeless population rising.
I have written about affordable housing enough in my day job to know the housing problem is complex. But after every story I write and every real estate professional I talk to, I come away with the feeling there are endless excuses as to why the homelessness problem can’t be solved or at least significantly diminished. I mostly get the feeling that most people who can truly solve the problem don’t care, and greed is the primary factor. Increasingly, these injustices no longer shock me, and they seem commonplace and almost inherent in the human species, something that will never change.
America was never perfect, and it never will be. But things keep getting worse, and so many of my fellow Americans seem to want to inflict suffering and sorrow on the vulnerable. What is behind this hatred? Is it simply a thirst for power and control? I can’t understand it, and I probably never will.
I am the daughter of a heterosexual White Christian couple from Tennessee. I am the granddaughter of many generations of southern families. I am unclear if any of my family ever owned slaves, but I won’t rule it out. I was raised in the church, but in reflecting upon everything I learned as a child, it was not the church that taught me how to be a good person – it was my mother and my grandmothers.
And what if the apocalypse comes? Do we not deserve it? Have we not been traveling down this path for a very long time? I think of this often, and I believe there may even be sweetness in the flames that will consume us.
But this is beside the point. What is the point? That something is coming. Call it prophecy; call it what you will. I get the feeling everyone knows, though some are pushing it out of their mind.
There needs to be divine justice for the world to make sense. Otherwise, our lives are meaningless, and the wicked get away with everything. I saw glimpses of redemption in my father’s face before he died. There were shards of light in his dark eyes that shined amid the hazy, drug-induced stupor.
There’s a part of me I don’t recognize. It’s the part I repress and push down; it comes bursting forth sometimes. The collective unconscious is very real, no matter what you may think. We are not blank slates, and we’ve lived many lifetimes before this one. Each soul is reincarnated and recycled.
I can’t get Russia and Ukraine off my mind. Nightmares of nuclear missiles in the sky. Images of urban warfare. All these journalists saying things will never be the same, the world has forever changed. Perhaps this is so. Impacts are indirect. It’s more the ambient threat and fear. It’s a psychic kind of pain, like a telepathic connection to world suffering.
A dog barking in the distance in the middle of the night. A creaky door opening and closing. Soft, cold wind. A dark, moonless sky. Up in the twilight hours, this is what nightmares are made of. Calm before a storm. Before the attack, always imagined but never happens. Make sure all the doors are locked. I’m home alone and, though my mental health is good, fear runs below the surface.
The crucifix over my desk reminds me that I’m a small part of a larger whole among the billions of people on earth. I don’t go to church. Nor do I even know if I believe in Jesus. But my Catholic roots have stayed with me. No matter how terrible the Church has been, the traditions still speak to me.
My dreams speak to me, too. The moon was bright in the sky last night. I’m not sure what phase it was in, but it was partially concealed. I’ve read before about how the moon is so powerful it can affect our moods. This makes sense since it often affects the tides in the sea. When she is in Texas this week, we’ll both look up and see the same glowing orb. It will bring me comfort.
Time is the enemy. I feel myself decaying. Too much coffee. We’re pretty much unpacked from our move. The neighbors on this street are very private. I wonder what they do behind closed doors. Probably nothing sinister. Probably just watching TV and glued to a screen like the rest of us.
My job requires me to read the news closely. This is a blessing and a curse. I did it anyway, for the most part. The media is a fear machine. Everything is hyped; everything is ‘the worst ever.’ I know this because I work in media. My uncle is like many Americans. He’s caught in the web of tribal hatreds.