Fall lingered this year. The trees were heavy with tones of copper, gold, and saffron. And, overnight it seems, the sidewalks were blanketed in crunchy leaves, the air dry, crispy and cool. Nature felt neglected, nudging for attention. Now it is winter. Dry, less colorful but still with stunning sunlight and stinging air. And here we stand at the periphery of the year. What a year! I have had thoughts I want to get on paper, writing in my head during the day, in the dead of night, but can’t get them down. Can’t find my voice. Can’t find the paper or pen (keyboard or tapping fingers to be specific) How can I write poetically about the banality of beauty, the complexity of existence, or culinary pleasures when the world is so sad, so miserable, so spiritually bereft and miserly? COVID-19 receded from our attention after holding the world captive for 3 years or more but not really. Russia-Ukraine conflict layered on the heaviness at the beginning of the year (did we really need a war now?). Personal struggles and redemptions followed, and then, the Fall.

The Fall when the world imploded (and I am sorry to use the word lightly). I am absolutely overwhelmed by the sadness and injustice around me, living in this dystopian world, oppressive silence being the cost of civility. I see my world and hear the voices around me, on the TV, and in social circles. And then I hear the echoes of those in the ether, the concurrent reality. The story of a man adoring his granddaughter (dead in his arms), a poet foretelling his death and calling on us to be storytellers and discover the joy of kites, the doctors providing unwavering care as bombs exploded at their door, reporters banding together to sing a song of resistance with death knocking at the door (always knocking), a people loving a land so deeply they will never leave, child reporters inspiring us with their clear-eyed vision of the meaning of life and death and teaching us to speak for them, little children speaking haltingly, angrily in a language foreign to them, to convince us of their humanity and right to life. Poets, reporters, professors, doctors, farmers, shopkeepers, mothers, fathers, grandfathers, sittis, men, women, children, humans, dust, ash.

I look for something positive. There is so much imbalance in this world. The haves have everything, and the have-nots are starving. The earth is paying the price. The face of capitalism, and democracy is becoming a caricature. The voices of hope that I hear are mostly female (never underestimate the power of a woman seeing a child in mortal distress ever). The yin. There are male voices that speak not of war but of humanity, of softness. The energy is life-affirming and female. I see hope. I hear hope. There has to be change. The structure is crumbling. Voices from all corners of the world, stories of ancestors echoing, resonating now on a cellular level, becoming one. This is evolution. We can be better and do better. We are all sacred.

Walking with N back from school in the afternoon recently, she told me that she would have ten lives, one as a human and nine as a cat. Her other question was, ‘But how will find you?’ I said, ‘I am not sure.’ She said, “I will be with this other family and I will say, ‘Look, guys! There is my real mama!’ and then I will come to you.” The next morning, still carrying the same story, she asked me if we would be in the same apartment when she came back. I said I am not sure, things change and people move. Then she asked again, ‘If you aren’t here, how will I find you?’ I told her, ‘We will find each other. I will always find you!’

This intrinsic need to ground to earth and family is universal and undisputed. I think of all the sweet souls that have passed on in droves and are passing as I write. I think of the living (thinking of them as I wake up, eat, discard food, kiss my child, get angry, be human). I think of all those games unplayed, homes lost, all those children without the comfort of flesh, the warmth of being around love, gatherings in the kitchen, fragrant food cooking, comfort of beds, sleep, dreams, familiarity, acceptance, and respect. Of belonging. Human rights. I took pictures this year, sharing some now. This world too loves you and wishes it could be yours. None of us will inherit it and we will all be dust. But you have a right to it as much as anyone else does. I am so sorry that we let you down. I wish all of these things for you that have been denied to you. I pray that you too find a way back home.