Sympathies

Here's a question I've been pondering for a while: why does tragedy strike twofold? My hometown, though unexplainably intrinsically linked to the whole world, doesn't seem to ever have a year in which something big, and often tragic, happens and it often occurs with another event of similar magnitude. Maybe it is because Linden is so small that any event has such a profound impact. And all the bad things always happen at the least opportune moments—like around the holidays—though I suppose there is no opportune moment for a grievance.

I called my Grandma the other day for Christmas and I was one of the best conversations I've had in a long time. She gets it. She understands what is important in life. This Christmas the tow of us shared something new—we were both alone. Now I understand that sounds depressing, but you have to remember, my Grandma (and it is hard for me to call her Grandma as it paints a sentimental picture which doesn't suit her) is a very cool woman and very strong at heart. We were talking about our first Christmases alone and how we both had too much food in the fridge for just ourselves, how we've been keeping busy, and somehow winded up talking about sympathy cards. I didn't send her one for the simple reason that I think that sympathy cards are ridiculous. Why would someone want a sympathy card? Really, in all truth it is just some cheesy material object sending plastic condolences to the griever, though fundamentally the card is just another material reminded of this terrible sadness which has just occurred in their life. What a horrible idea! Someone who is mourning knows that people feel sad for them. They know that you miss the departed. They feel the same way! My Grandma was telling me that even now, almost 3months later, she is still receiving sympathy cards and she can't understand why people are, as she said, "…wasting so much money on a card that is going to be thrown out. They should…" and this is where she says something that made me feel very related to her "…thrown it into to the Salvation Army or something." How cool is that? She gets it.

If anthropology has taught me one thing, it is that my culture, though heavily based on aspirations and portraying a strong face, is deeply afraid of one thing that they can't do anything about: death. We let it overwhelm us and rather than respect it for the honor it brings to the departed, we mourn it because we are completely incapable of reversing it's effects. We fork out ridiculous amounts of money to send our best wishes to those closest to the departed and on the interment of the departed themselves, rather than understanding the inevitability of death. We spend seven dollars on a card which will be thrown away or flowers which will die, caskets which will be buried and make-up to make the departed seem more alive, rather than something of far greater value. If death is something you are so afraid of or feel sympathy toward, why not do more to prevent it? Donate money to homeless shelters, education and poverty eradication, or medical services? What about supporting the NGO's who are fighting to enforce human rights in places of violent civil unrest or political coup d'état? Why must we fear or let death take control of our lives? It happens, and to acknowledge that makes the moments left living so much sweeter. Striving to make someone's life as good as your own, to know and understand what is truly important? And to live these sentiments…how humbling!

I received an email from my home church in regards to a little boy's viewing that happened a couple of days ago, and it indicated that the attendees were encouraged to wear red as that was the lad's favorite coulour. I thought how wonderful that his parents celebrate his short life with something he so adored. They celebrated that he had about him enough to have a favorite colour. That is mourning, but loving more than anything. I hope the building was full of red! I imagine the family is sad that he is gone, but so much more at peace that he is finally healthy and happily where he was destined for.

I'm not a pessimist. I would like to, in fact, be thought of as much a realist as my Grandma.