Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of the genocide, though May 15th was the 76th anniversary of the illegal occupation of my homeland, quickly turned to apartheid, annexation, settler colonialism, all built on a foundation to assuage guilt after Word War II, and Europe’s deep and still ever pervasive ant!sem!t!sm.

One year. Over 170 of my family murdered. All homes and lands lost.

All displaced, again refugees inside of their indigenous homeland.

“I wanted you to see what a balm love is. What it is to share one’s life, to really share it, so that very little matters outside the certainty of its walls. Because the world is very noisy, and although life is filled with joy and wonder, there’s evil and sorrow and injustice, too.” (1)

Time and again, I have written how love is bubble-wrap from an otherwise violent world. When it is not, then it is not a right love. This quote is another reminder of the value to which I ascribe love.

It has been a ruinous year, on many fronts of my world. Some of it, the injustices, have sharpened my edges and hardened them.

But. The balm, it has softened me. For this, I am grateful.

As a woman never comfortable in the grey, I was repeatedly presented with the choice to either continue living in my comfortable black and white, or move into the discomfort of grey. I chose the latter, and it has made me a better human. I hope that in making such a shift, I have made being here a little gentler for those I love.

I hope that your year past and ahead bring forward what is necessary to continue living in such a devastating world.

This is merely a marker, for myself more than anything, as I am soon to turn 50.

My writing has slowed, because I’ve chosen to keep private what has served as balm, and I will continue to choose privacy with respect to the softness. I’m still here, and I’m still reading all of your messages.

All love x

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(1) The Clockmaker’s Daughter, by Kate Morton.

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