Recently in Cambodia, a forest fire, ignited by a farmer near an ancient Hindu temple complex, detonated decades-old landmines. The legacies of colonialism and war fester, in a forest or the peripheries of cities, the dispossessed earth or the dispossessed of earth waiting to be set off years later on the most mundane of mornings.
All day I’ve been distracted. I try to abstain from news about the bombings in Brussels, any taint of hysterical anti-refugee sentiment, but I look, nevertheless, like a bystander passing the scene of a car crash. Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head, oh, oh!
So I wrote to a friend, picturing blue skies where she is, 5000 miles away, while I looked out at a bleak landscape of leafless trees and grey rooftops. A crane swung above those rooftops, grey in a grey sky, distinguished only by its movement. How things seem to disappear in the distance, only they are there, making things happen. Destruction and mayhem. //
An orison, then: practice grace and kindness here and now.