This winter evening, I am strangely alone by the sea. One thing I notice is that when the ocean is loud, the rhythmicality of the sound is akin to silence. When you can hear nothing but waves in an unchanging pattern, it can seem like being in the midst of quietness. This is especially true in that unique darkness that lives at the sea. I stayed outdoors in my down jacket as long as I could. Then the chill took over. Do you feel that we never run out of good places to be?
Yet even as I write, I am brought up short by the thought of the Ukrainians and others cold or hungry or frightened while I am enjoying the early night, warm in my coat and aware that supper is mine for the making. We know about the "andness" of life. While some of us are happy, others of us are sad. We have each been on both sides of that "and" I suspect, although most are not living in the daily presence of war.
Still, Hanukkah and Christmas are on their way. They come for those of us in the momentary glow of a peaceful starry night and they come for all who suffer. Perhaps for them most of all. And of course, what we hope is that even in extremis we can take a moment to look at the stars at night or hear birdsong at daybreak or find a flower in a crack or let the waves give us a place in eternity, and in those ways find hope or consolation.
Tonight I am thankful and do not want to let that pass. Good wishes to all. Nina Naomi
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