Pale light is filling the writing room. I have moved to younger boy's bedroom since he wanted older boy's bedroom. My window faces the street and the park which is distracting but I try to focus. There are no curtains since I don't want the light to be trapped. I might get blinds later.
I told myself to leave the books and the decluttering to write a bit. Tomorrow is a day for appointments as is Thursday so I should get some work done today. The apples of snow fill the trees and there is a snow clot everywhere I look. All the veins of the street are bare but the park has it's mantle of white.
I am still sleepy. Younger boy has got out of bed and gone to NAIT in a shuffling slow way. The older boy is far away doing his job. I miss him terribly but I have to be a tough cookie because this sort of separation is good for his manhood. The boy will have to do his apprenticeship and I must not think of on the job death possibilities. Apprenticeships are new to our family since we are mostly bookish sorts that hide out at universities. Older boy is the first person in our family to go to NAIT and do the unconventional route.
In any case, both boys are doing their own thing. It is best to let kids do what they want with their lives as they have plenty of time to repair any mistakes. The life is long and if you simply do what interests you it can be a fun life.
For some of us, life is horrific and since I have led a mostly sheltered life in university I have had no encounter until recently with the horror of it all. The fact is that there are folks in such grief that it seems impossible to cure. I can't imagine how to help them other than by reading their stories and putting them on the blog. I believe that these stories are hard to read and write but necessary to experience. If I force myself to experience them then maybe others will take the leap into this great cesspool of horror and try to do what I am doing which is to change the world.
Changing the world is incremental progress often without any sort of evidence of success. I mean I can write until the world ends but the results of my writing won't be known to me until there is change in the very systems that are responsible for the failures. These systems are basket case in my opinion for the most part and entrenched folks like it just the way it is. I can't do much about the entrenched folks but I can write, day after day like a small recording device taking the small sounds of birds in the forest and making a history of their cries. The birds are singing such sad songs. I am recording these sad songs for them.
One day this record of all the sad songs will be replaced by songs of joy. I believe this. I believe that each of us working diligently to change the world, will in fact, change this world for the better. I believe the sad songs of the small birds of our forest matter. How do they matter? Their lives are minor and often obliterated before they can contribute to the tapestry of our world's history but their lives still matter. We all matter. In inconceivable ways, without each of us the world won't be the way it is and won't evolve to be what it will be. Let us help each us with the small acts of love that we do in whatever way we do it.
I can't say that we will see the fruits of our work before we die but we can leave a record behind. This is the record of the small sad songs of the birds of the forest I am walking through on my journey to the end. The small sad songs.