The Grinch Grows a Heart

 

 

 

 

Writer, humanist,
          dog-mom, horse servant and cat-slave,
       Lover of solitude
          and the company of good friends,
        New places, new ideas
           and old wisdom.

 

 

What a year it has been, scowls my Grinch.

Covid has wielded a scythe among us for the past two years now, cutting down the elderly like dry wheat. Omicron is coming/here. Even if it proves to be less deadly, we could end up with higher deaths due to pesky math. (If the death rate is lower, but still occurs, and the increase of infections is significantly higher, a bad number times a decent number equals more deaths.)

And this question looms larger than I ever thought possible in my lifetime—Will America's 200+ year experiment in democracy survive?

And the planet. I know scientists have set a degree limit on how warm we can get before things get "really bad," but I wonder if the Earth knows to stop after it gets "really bad" and what happens after "really bad."

Wait, I'm suppose to be bringing cheer and jollies on the night before this sacred buy-buy-buy holiday.

Humbug. Bah. Grrr.

What's to bring to cheer? Which family members are missing around the table? How many families have no food, much less a table?  

What hypocrites we are. We are not worth surviving. 

My Grinch stomps out into the doomed world, turns a corner . . . and encounters this:

 

This man, Anthony Cymerys, is an 82-year-old barber. Every Wednesday he brings his equipment to a park and gives free haircuts to the homeless . . . charging only a hug.

My Grinch freezes.

Maybe . . . .?

This young man in the hospital bed has had multiple, painful surgeries. He is Anthony Borges. He was shot five times while holding open a door for other students to escape at the Parkland School shooting.

Maybe, my Grinch considers, as Dickens wrote, it is "the best of times, the worst of times, the age of wisdom, the age of foolishness, the epoch of belief, the epoch of incredulity, the season of Light, the season of Darkness, the spring of hope, the winter of despair." Maybe we have "everything before us, nothing before us. . . ."

Then my Grinch reads this:

The world is not beyond repair. There is hope. That spark of love, that potential in the human soul, maybe it is enough to light the way in the utter dark of the universe.

Maybe we can find and augment that precious, holy spark and pass it on before it sputters. 

I join all the Stiletto Gang members to wish you a season of deep joy and giving and a New Year that ignites all our sparks into a steady flame against the Darkness.

T.K. Thorne is a retired police captain who writes books, which, like this blog, go wherever her curiosity and imagination take her.