Television is too antiseptic. Everything is like a movie, except even more antiseptic. At least in a movie house, you can smell the popcorn.
At home, in front of the screen, or on the computer, there is no new smell, there is nothing to touch, and when it gets too intense, just turn it off. Get up, stretch, maybe get a glass of tea – or maybe something stronger.
I have never had to take cover in a subway station, or a bomb shelter, and only once in my basement because of a tornado warning. I am old enough to remember the take-cover drills in grade school, to prepare for a possible atomic bomb blast. We heard a siren, moved away from windows, and hid under our desks. It didn’t scare me because there were no outside sounds, smells, or screams. The hall- bell would ring and class would resume.
No, I cannot imagine what it is like for people living in Ukraine right now.
It is television. The words, the sights, and the sounds are terrible, and so was War of the Worlds in the movie house. I was under ten, sneaked away from home, had a quarter to get into the movie. I was so scared by the monsters on the screen that I left the theater. I almost ran out onto the sunny, quiet streets of El Paso. Back into normal life.
Even today, the live interviews, the sounds of air raid sirens, the pictures of an entire family lying dead on the street after an attack, don’t really register. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel is just a click away. Or I can ask Alexa to play Unchained Melody, or I can hug Susan as we lie on our king-sized mattress in front of the giant bedroom TV set.
No, I cannot imagine what it is like for people living in Ukraine right now.
I do know though that there is a Dance, a dance that one day every one of us will dance. The ritual we go through no matter what the circumstance. On the outside is the fierce determination to survive. The stretch to reach the closest shelter as the sounds and smells of hell abound. Guns, smoke, and bright flashes. The stench is awful and hardly noticed anymore.
And yet, on the inside, there is the tinge of expectancy. There is the ultimate love and elegance of the moment beyond ones’ physical being. There is the grace of “The Actual Dance” – the ultimate will to be strong as you hold on to someone you love, metaphorically, or most likely in Ukraine actually. Knowing that at any moment the scene can change from the sprint to safety to the blast.
From the battlefield to an elegant ballroom, the moment of the explosion and the heat and power around you, there will still be time. The briefest of instances. A nano-second or less.
At home, in front of the screen, or on the computer, there is no new smell, there is nothing to touch, and when it gets too intense, just turn it off. Get up, stretch, maybe get a glass of tea – or maybe something stronger.
I have never had to take cover in a subway station, or a bomb shelter, and only once in my basement because of a tornado warning. I am old enough to remember the take-cover drills in grade school, to prepare for a possible atomic bomb blast. We heard a siren, moved away from windows, and hid under our desks. It didn’t scare me because there were no outside sounds, smells, or screams. The hall- bell would ring and class would resume.
No, I cannot imagine what it is like for people living in Ukraine right now.
It is television. The words, the sights, and the sounds are terrible, and so was War of the Worlds in the movie house. I was under ten, sneaked away from home, had a quarter to get into the movie. I was so scared by the monsters on the screen that I left the theater. I almost ran out onto the sunny, quiet streets of El Paso. Back into normal life.
Even today, the live interviews, the sounds of air raid sirens, the pictures of an entire family lying dead on the street after an attack, don’t really register. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel is just a click away. Or I can ask Alexa to play Unchained Melody, or I can hug Susan as we lie on our king-sized mattress in front of the giant bedroom TV set.
No, I cannot imagine what it is like for people living in Ukraine right now.
I do know though that there is a Dance, a dance that one day every one of us will dance. The ritual we go through no matter what the circumstance. On the outside is the fierce determination to survive. The stretch to reach the closest shelter as the sounds and smells of hell abound. Guns, smoke, and bright flashes. The stench is awful and hardly noticed anymore.
And yet, on the inside, there is the tinge of expectancy. There is the ultimate love and elegance of the moment beyond ones’ physical being. There is the grace of “The Actual Dance” – the ultimate will to be strong as you hold on to someone you love, metaphorically, or most likely in Ukraine actually. Knowing that at any moment the scene can change from the sprint to safety to the blast.
From the battlefield to an elegant ballroom, the moment of the explosion and the heat and power around you, there will still be time. The briefest of instances. A nano-second or less.
My battlefield was the hospital room and doctor’s offices as the news of Susan’s cancer kept getting worse. I could sense the change in the demeanor of the medical team, despite their best efforts to stand strong. And Susan had only one demand: Those around her had to be positive.
I imagine the mother or the father heading for the nearest shelter assuring others, “It will be fine.” Yet, in their heart of heart believing, of course, it won’t. Maybe they too imagine the elegant ballroom, the place wherein those nanoseconds before that last breath, we hold the ones we love, and dance to the song of our hearts into a bright light. I want it to be true.
So, I believe that even in the middle of the most ardent efforts to survive, there is a place, a place where grace awaits, and peace allows an elegant good-bye.
There is Dance, a Dance that one day each and every one of us will dance. It takes place in a grand ballroom with a fabulous orchestra playing whatever song those fleeing from bombs and bullets want to hear in that instant.
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