My thumbs fly as I type on my phone. I write hundreds and hundreds of words about Orlando. None of them are right. I delete and try again. And again. I cannot remain silent, even if no one reads my words, but I am desperate to get them right. There are too many factors at play and I can't adequately describe my horror. Xenophobia. Homophobia. Transphobia. Phobia after phobia.
Is there a word for fear of standing up and taking action? There should be. We are so damn scared.
Arguments about what to call the tragedy fill my social media feeds. I think it is both hate and terror when an establishment likely to be full of a rainbow of people, people who love a rainbow of people, is targeted by a madman shooting a weapon designed to inflict maximum damage in minimum time. His religion, his nationality, the color of his skin, none of those factors are indicators of his actions, no matter what stories we are told. His father says he hated seeing a man kiss a man. His state and country say it is okay to own a gun that allowed one man to kill 50 people, and, sadly, probably still counting, in just a short couple of hours. We argue. We blame. We feel helpless, afraid.
Meanwhile, one son reads my very first published in a magazine, printed on paper essay while sitting on a chair in our idyllic backyard. The other son roams the neighborhood in search of playmates and fun. I feel a warm edge to the gentle breeze. My husband naps on the couch. My physical reality is peaceful, comfortable, safe.
Inside, anger and sadness and frustration and grief swirl. I feel the notion that nothing can be done trying to move in. Nope. Not happening. Keep moving, darkness. No vacancy, hopelessness. Love will prevail. Or so I will keep telling myself until I believe it, again.