So I’m grumbling, feeling sorry for myself, grousing around the house and kicking chairs (but not the dog). And my friend Elizabeth Unger Carlisle, a post-convictions remedies / death penalty cases attorney, e-mails that she’s a bit flustered these days too, with the impending execution of a client.
Bam. Theory of relativity smacks me in the head and I realize that the petty little salt-in-an-open-wound incidents which have nagged me into grumpiness pale by comparison with the levying of a death sentence.
I stood on the porch at six a.m. today, eyeing the yard full of fallen leaves, letting the chill of the early morning air wash over me. I reached my arms above my head and stretched, about 1/4 of the Sun salute, the most I can manage these days. I close my eyes and feel my muscles pulling, feel the blood, thick but pumping, course through my veins. That old Isaac Bashevis Singer rule has reared its ugly head again: If no little children will die…It’s not a catastrophe.
I go back inside to pour a hot cup of coffee, brewed with electricity for which I can afford to pay. I pop a pre-made gluten-free waffle into the toaster and reach for an individual container of Yoplait Greek yogurt. Life might not be what I thought I bargained to attain. But it ain’t bad.
So I’m asking the universe and all my bright-sider friends to throw me a life-line, and reaching to reel myself back from the brink so I can start anew.