The world still spins - even on fire

Never. Again.

Oct 13, 2023

This substack was supposed to be a light story about how I sold some goats last week to a realtor who wanted them as a closing gift for clients. I made a few jokes about how the real estate market has really tightened if we're at the point where realtors present livestock at the contract signing instead of a full-bodied cab in a cute wine bag. It would have been an easy read, but I can't write it. Hopefully, I'll get back to it soon.

I can't produce anything that feels like escapism right now, even if that's what we all seem to need for even a few minutes these days. Don't get me wrong, breaks are critical when the crushing terribleness sets in. I wish I could give that to you. But, each sentence I write seems so frivolous in the current landscape. Who cares about goat gifts when the world is burning?

The news is paralyzingly awful. Each time I hit "refresh," a new horror awaits, like a ticker-tape of misery. When the screen lights up as I pry open my computer, a small piece of my heart breaks. More people are added hourly to the ever-expanding list of the murdered: women, men, the elderly, and children.

I can't even watch fictional movies where something happens to a child most days. The reports of real-life events coming out of Israel are otherwordly.

In a global sense, my singular virtual witness to this atrocity means almost nothing. Yet I feel compelled to stare it down and subject myself to wounding empathy. Pleas from mothers, fathers, and grandparents reverberate around the globe, "Do not look away." And so I can't - because I would make the same appeal if it were MY home, MY family, and MY boys.

We know what happens when good people look away from antisemitic violence; I refuse to be one of them. If a terrified mother begs the international community to raise their voices for her, I will add my little one to the chorus.

Acting as a constant witness to something so horrific, even from afar, feels a bit like being marinated. The acidity and salt start to break apart the sinews holding the last of my faith in humanity together. I have to step away from the news to buttress my soul.

Unlike those facing war, I have the luxury of snapping the clamshell of the computer shut with a satisfying "click" and walking out into the fall sunshine when it's too much. The goats and chickens snack on in oblivious joy through the crunchy browning pasture. Their feathers and coats are coming in thick for the impending cold. They don't know the world's on fire, which makes me jealous. It's weird to feel jealous of a chicken, but alas, this is what it's come to.

Breathe in, breathe out, say a prayer for the terrified mother desperate for the safe return of her child, pet a goat, repeat.

Newly refreshed and reinforced by the animals and sun, I can reopen the computer for a new soul assault. Each horror is only compounded by the realization that so many worldwide are celebrating it. I wonder how 9/11 and its global reaction would have been different in a world with social media. I can't imagine it would have been for the better.

Marinating in the heartbreak drives me to seek comfort. The old reliables are out in spades: I'm wearing an oversized fluffy sweater, drinking mint tea by the fireplace, with a loaf of banana bread in the oven. I threw some salted caramel baking chips in the bread batter just for good measure. I’m like a cartoon of a middle-aged woman seeking self-care.

A recently resurrected version of my Grammy's banana bread recipe - one written in my Dad’s handwriting - allows me to send it to the nut-free school in lunches. Now, my boys are throwing bananas in the cart at the grocery store, refusing to eat them when yellow, and alerting me the moment they turn the ideal black for baking. The sweet smell fills the kitchen, but then I feel guilty about what another mother on the other side of the world would give to bake for her child once again. Around and around it goes - relief and guilt about feeling relief.

So, I can't write the story of the goat house closing gift this week. I can barely witness, pray, and use my little voice. When those across the world beg: "Don't look away. See us." I will look even when it's hard. Because "never again" requires each of us. Never. Again.

Some pieces worth reading:

Karol Markowicz writes: “Jews will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends”

Glenn Reynolds asks “Is Everything Suddenly Going to Hell?”