Three Things (almost) Thursday

One. I know, I know. I resolved to "write every day" when I really should have resolved to write almost every day. More on that later, but (irony of ironies) after posting about my new beginnings in writing, I've taken almost a week off. Why, you say? Ah, that's thing number two.

Two. Last weekend, I was in Sevierville, TN with thirty-five family members celebrating my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary. SIXTY YEARS. TOGETHER. What a thing of beauty and blessing. The weekend was full of food, cooking, conversations, swimming, laughter, memories (made and recalled)--all the things a southern summer family gathering should be. So, I decided that quality time with family was far more important than writing. Then, I spent a few days in Chattanooga with Moo since Phil had to work several days (and nights) in a row--another family time that trumped writing. So, now I'm back. While my commitment isn't to blogging most days, I imagine that I'll post a little more often than I did when I was teaching. Lots of fun posts to come!

Three. While I'm not the kind to get decked out in red, white, and blue, Independence Day holds deep meaning for me. Watching fireworks always reminds me of the Auden poem, Musée des Beaux Arts. In it, Auden writes about suffering, how "everything turns away quite leisurely from the disaster," how suffering exists simultaneously with celebration and the mundane and a million other experiences and how it's easy to miss. In the same way, we sit and enjoy a light show while others around the world are suffering from starvation and still others are yawning the morning awake. The celebration, suffering, and mundane--it's all part of what makes this life very human.  I think that's what I like most about the poem: it doesn't seem to have a message or agenda but just comments on a human quality. In the middle of this leisurely night, I have to consider those who have given and are giving their lives for our independence, to think on how their sacrifices have contributed to my evening celebration. And there's not necessarily survivor's guilt in that, but rather a moment of gratefulness, of consideration, of looking beyond my own dimly lit world.