Tragedy in Boston

My ex-husband ran the Boston marathon, more than thirty years ago. But I remember how hard he trained for it and how proud he was to be part of that iconic race. I particularly remember one Saturday morning when I told him our four children would be on TV that morning; he looked at me blankly and said, "I have to run." I realized his priorities and mine were different. I don't remember now what his time was--he was never ahead of the pack, generally in the middle. But to finish is an accomplishment.
Today one of his sons does triathlons and has run marathons and three of his children, two spouses and a grandchild recently completed a half marathon. This tragedy hit all of us, but those who live with marathoners and watch them train may feel it a bit differently. I am appalled that someone would hurt others on a day that runners came out to put their training to use and celebrate one of the oldest athletic events in our history.
I can't tell from the news or photos if many runners were hit. It looked more like the explosions went off in the crowds of spectators waiting at the finish line. But I heard that some runners fell to the ground. I also heard that some runners changed course and ran to the nearest hospitals to donate blood.
Perhaps the saddest note: an eight-year-old girl was one of the three killed. This in a race where the last mile was dedicated to the victims at Newtown. We have to protect our children, but what can we do when danger comes so unexpectedly, at an event where you'd least expect it. But then, the Newtown parents sent their children off to school with complete confidence in their security. We can't count on much these days, and we seem to reel from tragedy to tragedy.
A note so minor in comparison that it seems a shame to include it in the same post, but it reminds me of the people without good in their hearts who seem to surround us. Every morning when I read my email, I find two or three posts on the neighborhood newsline about garage break-ins and burglaries. The wrongdoers seem to bypass locked gates but give up fairly quickly if a garage is locked. My garage is empty except for my caar, and I have no lawn equipment; my gate is locked, but anyone can figure that out; I have motion detector lights. Elizabeth has taken her bike inside where it resides at the foot of her bed--doesn't do much for her décor I'm sure. It feels like we're under siege--waiting to see who will be hit next. Not a great way to live.
Neither is wondering if a bomb will go off when you go to a public event.  But I have a couple of philosophies--one is that you can't cower at home. Then the bad guys win. The other is that in the midst of a national tragedy and a local annoyance, we each must be grateful for our blessings. Lord knows, I am richly blessed, and I try to be grateful every day.

Holiday blues

I have a friend who, when asked how she is, replies cheerfully, "I have my usual holiday neuroses" (she has good cause but that's another story). Lots of people suffer from the blues in one form or another during the holiday season--maybe it's loneliness, maybe it's remembering holidays past and fearing this year won't be as good. I suspect for too many the holidays are tinged with bad memories--sad events, dysfunctional families, you name it.
I am blessed in that I have nothing but happy memories of the Christmas holidays--from my own childhood, from the years when my children were young (we celebrated Hanukah and Christmas with four children--if you don't think that takes logistics, think again). There was the year one of the kids found the hidden presents and showed the others--they all agreed it ruined Christmas. There were Hanukah suppers with latkes and a friend's father who used to peel dollar bills off a huge roll and hand them to the children. There was that unbelievable mountain of presents under the Christmas tree every year. When the children were older, I took them to Santa Fe for several years and even after they married Christmas meant Santa Fe to us. In recent years we've alternated--Alter Christmas one year, Alter Thanksgiving the next, and we've gone different places--like a trip to Breckenridge when everyone got sick--not so much fun but even some pleasant memories out of that. And this year I have Jacob and the magic of the Elf on the Shelf, and I'm looking forwarad to being with other grandchildren.
But somehow this year I feel my old friend anxiety hovering just under the surface. Maybe it does that every year and I just don't realize it. Or maybe this year is different. A couple of weeks ago I woke in high anxiety worrying about a speaking engagement in January--for Pete's sake, why now? I can worry about that in January. Recently I had another bout with the "I can't walk from here to there" kind of anxiety following what I thought was going to turn out to be a debilitating nosebleed--I did finally get it under control, and I'm sure it was due to cold weather and dry heat. And I had in-the-night anxiety after Newtown, but who in this entire country didn't? But I figure two steps backward demands at least one step forward, and I'm working on it.
The good thing is that I find myself these days better able to deal with anxiety, to recognize it for what it is, and to know that it will pass. I'm not always sure analyzing what is behind it is a good idea, and I don't try. I'm learning to say that's how I am--other people have allergies or stomach problems or migraines: I have anxiety.
And it hasn't stopped me from enjoying the holidays--a lovely lunch at a boutique hotel, a warm and caring get-together with some members of my memoir class (and the best food--thank  you, Anne Kane), dinner tonight with Betty, lunch with old friends. My life is full, and I feel truly blessed. Get thee behind me, anxiety.

Thoughts on Newtown

I didn't blog last night. There was nothing to say, and as one friend put it, I was rattled. There is still nothing to say, nothing we can do to ease the pain of the people of Newtown. We can send prayers and thoughts to those who lost loved ones; we can send donations to the mental health services of Newtown for counseling for survivors. But for a long time, none of it matters. There are families for whom there will be no Christmas this year and life will never again be the same. I cannot wrap my mind around the agony of sending a child off to school and then learning that he or she will never be coming home again.
Almost all that can be said has been said on Facebook--and some that should never be said. Like a declaration that there always has been evil in the world and always will be. Really? Should we just sit back and accept massacres in public places as a fact of life? Or, even worse, the pronouncements that the reason this happened is because there is no prayer in schools. That insults the God I believe in. I do think a moment of quiet in school would be appropriate so that each child could pray or meditate in the religion in which they are being raised. But the folks who bring this up mean Christian prayer, and that is wrong in our increasingly diverse culture. And I was outraged by a columnist who suggested that in his news conference President Obama faked tears. The hatred in this country runs so deep it's no wonder we have mass killings.
Sensible public opinion seems to come down to two things: mental health and gun control. The first is tricky. How do you legislate mental health, which to my mind includes the deep vein of hatred? Apparently we can't rely on family and friends to identify a problem and seek help. But we can't institute laws whereby I could say, "You know, so-and-so isn't acting right" and cause "so-and-so" all kinds of grief. It's called invasion of privacy or violation of civil rights. But somehow we have to get a handle on this problem of young men (for the most part) who harbor such irrational anger at the world that they kill strangers in large numbers.
Gun control is almost easier, except it's not. The NRA and its lobbyists are powerful and have deep pockets. Legislators who tabled consideration of extending the ban on assault weapons should hang their heads in shame. There is no reason for citizens to have assault weapons. Apparently none was used yesterday--I got into a long Facebook thread about what kind of weapon was used, until I finally threw up my hands and asked, "What the hell does it matter? Children are dead." I hope President Obama will show as much courage and determination in dealing with this problem as he is showing about the fiscal cliff. Now is the time for action, while the public is outraged. The NRA has held us hostage long enough.
Personally I would ban all guns, except perhaps hunting rifles, though I was amused today when someone pointed out that hunters only shoot at things who can't shoot back. So do terrorists who kill young children. Yes, there will always be illegal handguns but the more we can control, the better. I was appalled to read this morning that a Texas school district has armed its teachers. Wrong solutioin, so wrong.
Last night I shared a post of statistics about deaths by guns in this country compared to the number in other "civilized" countries. Apparently, the statistics were hopelessly out of date, and I apologize (one of the dangers of Facebook). But it is still true that more people in this country are killed by guns than in any other country in the "civilized" world. Yesterday over twenty school children and a teacher in China were attacked by an assailant weilding a knife. No one died. If that doesn't speak volumes, I don't know what does.
There is still nothing to say. My heart is still broken as I think about the families in Newtown and as I watch six-year-old Jacob decorating a gingerbread man and think how precious he is. That's what this season should be about--joy and wonder--not death and grief that will never go away. No I don't think we as a nation are lost and beyond hope. But I do think it's past time we took a good long look at ourselves and then moved to action.
Happy holidays everyone, and as you hold our loved ones tight, remember the people of Newtown. They will never again be the same, and Christmas will always be bitter for them.