thoughts on today

It's hard to celebrate a holiday that sometimes encourages indulgence. I love having a chance to gather with friends and family to enjoy each others' presence, but secretly inside I still have a difficult time. This morning I've been continuing to watch news reports about the situation in Mumbai. It's difficult to watch, and then continue on to celebrate today with people that I love. Who am I to be so blessed to have today to celebrate with others, knowing those whom I love are safe and unharmed today. I'm inclined to downplay my joy, and downplay my thankfulness, but I know it would be wrong. So, in light of Thanksgiving, and in light of the terror and grief and pain taking place in Mumbai, Darfur, and the Congo, I must claim the love and joy and peace I have today. Nothing reminds me of this more than one of my favorite poems....so for the third time on my blog, please enjoy...

A Brief for the Defense

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

— Jack Gilbert