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The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart,
The secret anniversaries of the heart...
(from a poem by Longfellow)
Yesterday I had wanted to feel good, damn it. It was the 30th anniversary of my ending of a miserable relationship -- the day I started Life over again. As I wrote in LJ a decade ago, October 2, 1987, was the day that I had ended a particularly miserable relationship. A small group of friends helped me pick myself up, dust myself off, and move on with my life (which probably would *not* have lasted 58 years and counting if I'd stayed with that asshole).
Plus, the second of October is R.'s birthday -- he was born exactly the same month, day, and year as Gordon Sumner.
Like most Americans, I woke up yesterday morning to the awful news of the Las Vegas mass shooting. I am sad, of course, but also beyond angry with this country's inability to get a grip on its gun problem. I had CNN on in the background for most of the day while I noodled around on the interwebs. I exchanged emails with R. and wished him a good birthday, but it was nothing spectacular.
Ultimately, I guess I was trying to balance my gratitude for my last 30 years of living with the grief over so many other lives senselessly cut short.
Still trying to decide whether I can afford to go to my high school class reunion on Saturday (that involves a roughly 900-mile round trip of driving and a couple of nights in a cheap motel).
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart,
The secret anniversaries of the heart...
(from a poem by Longfellow)
Yesterday I had wanted to feel good, damn it. It was the 30th anniversary of my ending of a miserable relationship -- the day I started Life over again. As I wrote in LJ a decade ago, October 2, 1987, was the day that I had ended a particularly miserable relationship. A small group of friends helped me pick myself up, dust myself off, and move on with my life (which probably would *not* have lasted 58 years and counting if I'd stayed with that asshole).
Plus, the second of October is R.'s birthday -- he was born exactly the same month, day, and year as Gordon Sumner.
Like most Americans, I woke up yesterday morning to the awful news of the Las Vegas mass shooting. I am sad, of course, but also beyond angry with this country's inability to get a grip on its gun problem. I had CNN on in the background for most of the day while I noodled around on the interwebs. I exchanged emails with R. and wished him a good birthday, but it was nothing spectacular.
Ultimately, I guess I was trying to balance my gratitude for my last 30 years of living with the grief over so many other lives senselessly cut short.
Still trying to decide whether I can afford to go to my high school class reunion on Saturday (that involves a roughly 900-mile round trip of driving and a couple of nights in a cheap motel).
