Wince

My grandmother died when I was 16; I could not understand how things just went on as before. I wrote a poem about the world spinning on without a wince of grief. The thought was naive and self-centered. Yet now, as the catastrophes in India barely make the news, as the Western wildfires rage hardly noticed, as even the death and destruction of Harvey fade before the current news stories and awe over Irma, I think what I wrote might have touched the tip of an iceberg of social consciousness concerning loss and suffering. Not only are we deficient in our attention to world disasters, we are quick to forget most of the horrors we witness. Witness Nazi and Confederate flags in our streets today. The people with memory, compassion, understanding, and willingness to help, to change the very causes of suffering are rare. We are mentally and physically limited and can only endure so much before turning away completely. We do not learn. Not most of us, anyway. Jung's Collective Unconscious has that flaw, it is not conscious, not as morally aware as we need. My grandmother lived and died, had joys and pain, cared for her grandchildren. She disappears into Death's dateless night. So shall we all.

-- Jameson