Ways of being in this life

My friend Leslie took that picture. I love the color pink, the hints of orange, and the way she saw in this simple and elegant table arrangement something akin to the flounce of a dancer's skirt. Her eye sees the world in all its glory. That's just who she is.

I am sitting a my dining table editing the cover story for the next issue of the magazine, and on the TV behind me are commentators wringing their hands in a kind of disbelief at the naked and unfiltered racism and cynicism of the Republican Party. It's not a Trump story anymore, they argue. Rather it's a story about one party turning its back on the precepts of democracy, of decency, and fanning the flames of racial animus to stir up the unthinking and manipulated masses so as to preserve (they hope, and they may be right) their own grip on power. Power for its own sake. These so called public servants have no interest in governance, no interest or frankly even respect for the people who they have turned into their willing pawns. It is sickening to me, and it's not even that no one is calling them out. But the cries that the nation's house is on fire are falling on deaf or apathetic ears. They don't understand that when the roof caves in, it will crush us all. We are watching the twilight of an idea, the proclamation that we are all created equal, and that we are part of a system of government by and for the people. What a joke. I felt ridiculous even writing it down. I fear we are trundling down the track, disaster looming, and no one who can actually alter the trajectory has any interest in flipping the crucial switch. I don't even know why I bother to listen to the news.

But there are people in the world like my friend Leslie, who can capture and share what is beautiful in our midst. I don't know if there are enough such souls to save us in the end. I suppose we will see.