WAS IT FOR THIS THE CLAY GREW TALL?

  We are in the midst of what Fiona Hill, expert on both Russia and Ukraine, called, "The Third World War." Take that one it. It gives a cold, death-grip on my soul and heart. What have we come to? How are we still murdering each other, even if the cause is "just"?

  I thought of this line from a Wildred Owen poem, one of my favorites, who fought and died (like so many) in World War I, taking his breath-taking poetic gifts with him. 

We once had a marvelous, beautiful book of Owen's poems printed at the Gehanna Press,

 which my dad was affiliated with, illustrated by my beloved Ben Shahn. 

This line is etched on my heart, and I wish my dad had not been an alcoholic (much as I adored him); I wish he had not sold all of those extraordinary books from the Gehanna Press to fuel his life and addiction, but this one most of all.

 I read in The Guardian today about the Ukrainian soldiers entering Lyman (and also Izium, earlier) to find the detritus Russian soldiers left in their hurried retreat. One bit of graffiti expressed the disgust at their commander. Weapons were left, rubbish, old food, and more. And what really seized my heart was that several of the malnourished, ill-equipped, fleeing soldiers were wearing flip-flops. Flip-flops! How can one flee determined soldiers in these?

 

 I kept thinking, "They were some mothers' sons. They were beloved, fed pap as children, watched over as they grew, and had milestones celebrated." And now what? Dust. It breaks my heart.

 As a mother, having borne two children, I know the miracle of having life growing within; watching that bump grow bigger and bigger in front; feeling the first flutterings like a butterfly's wings at 5 months; seeing an elbow or a foot poke out inside the womb, making the skin over my abdomen poke out as well. What a miracle, what love I felt.

 And then birthing these miracles, holding them close, still wet with birth fluid and that white stuff whose name I forget. Not umami but something like that! 

There is no love stronger than that between a parent and child (if you are lucky, sometimes this is not so, sadly). I have often thought, "I will give anything to have my kids healthy and loving each other."

 So, I hold my broken heart in both hands, thinking of those Russian mothers learning of their sons' deaths (The Ukrainian solders are taking pictures of the dead Russian soldiers so they can be sent back to people for identification. That's heart!), and the Ukranian mothers learning of the deaths of their sons and daughters too.  Grief, rising like a smoky, gray cloud over the land. Grief, settling on shoulders like a heavy shawl. When will we EVER learn that we are all one, all made from stardust, all created by God.

 We are such violent infants.