We had three really lovely days way down south on the Atlantic coast last week. It had been more than ten years since I had last seen the ocean. Josefina had never been to the beach in her entire life. It was a happy, unexpected coincidence of circumstances that opened the possibility (and determined the location) of this last minute trip.
I'm really glad we went, and it was lots of fun.
It was also much too far away, and I'm totally pooped. The traveling really wore me out.
I'm slowly arranging some pictures and I will share them here soon, along with more specific details. Right now I'm just trying to recuperate a little.
It all fits in, I guess, with these recent months, this painful and beautiful summer. The pain of this time seems obvious enough on various levels: my own pain, the pains that are tearing apart my friends and weighing down my country and the world, the bloodshed and the "aftermath" that remains for the afflicted when everyone else has moved on to the next preoccupation.
The beauty, however, is veiled and mysterious. I can't really describe what I mean or even why I mention it at all. But I can't deny it. It's my faith and my hope and the love that they generate, drop by drop from the dry stone of my soul.
It's so hard.
I can't take refuge in sentimentalism or platitudes. They don't hold up. Nothing shields me from this cold, hard, real beauty.