Angst

As I stood at the kitchen window this morning, before I turned on the light over the sink and poured my cold brew, I couldn’t help but notice the twinkling stars and the quiet of the predawn. It’s like this every morning, though not always clear. Sometimes the clouds hang low, or fog diffuses the light bathing the steeple of the Christian Church one street over.

But my day starts with peace and quiet in a warm house with electricity and running water. And every morning my thoughts turn immediately to Gaza or Ukraine or somewhere that currently exists in some sort of forbidden hellscape.

I think about accidents of birth. I ponder the concepts of fairness and luck, and the cold hearts of people who are leaders in title only, people filled with hate and selfishness and a contemptuous apathy.

I think about the frailty of my own relative contentment, about what separates my peaceful morning from the shattered existence of people who live in places where war seems to be the only reality, where leaders don’t care, where losses mount, where government services have broken down or don’t exist, where prospects for any kind of future are dim, and no one comes to help.

And then I go downstairs for my two hours of quiet time, tucked away from everything and everybody, awash in the comfort and familiarity of my daily routine. I do indeed feel lucky. I savor every moment, convinced of my good fortune, all the while unable to shake a certain guilt and restlessness because my awareness and sensitivities have yet to blossom into anything more than thoughts and an occasional prayer.