(Written in October 2003)
Put on the Oratorium CD. Sitting on the floor, moving with grief, pain in the heart, lack of hope — walking out into the desert with the fragments of a culture, knowing that it’s most likely I will die in the desert, least likely that I will come to people who will receive joyfully what I’m carrying. (Noise down the hill, there was so much noise last night that I was only able to sleep with ear plugs and fan on and relaxation CD.) I have only the vaguest knowing that there’s divine energy out there, buddhas and bodhisattvas, and they are holding our wounded planet very gently. Whether or not anything ever heals does not matter because it will all die, but at least all this suffering is held in compassion.
Bring compassion to this poor woman, who’s fallen into the pit of terror and depression, who’s lost whatever sense or belief gave her life its meaning, who is having a hard time with noise, and is angry at herself for being so sensitive.
Oratorium in Memory of the Victims of the Armenian Genocide of 1915