Just ten minutes ago I was thinking about writing a blog about how my day went slowly from great (getting in my morning walk, being focused about my editing work, preparing and eating a near perfect Caesar salad for lunch) to not great (ineffective workout at the gym, burning myself with hot oil cooking dinner), then I opened my emails and heard some really sad news that brought home how a stinging arm hurts so little compared to some things.
Last Boxing Day Jimmy, a young man in a writing group I'm in, was swimming on an unpatrolled beach when he was caught in a rip and drowned. I didn't know him particularly well, but he was a lovely guy and it was a terrible and pointless tragedy that he died. One of those things where you think; if only he hadn't swum where there were no life guards, if only ...
Today his wife finally gave into grief and committed suicide. I'd never met her, and I can hardly imagine what she has been going through for the past nine months. Despite not knowing her, I can cry for her. I assume she's been holding on all this time, hoping it would get better and that she could -- not "get over it", but move past it a bit and keep on living -- but today she couldn't do it any more and gave up. It's just so sad.
Today I will try to remember how very very lucky I am.