I was just there

Several weeks ago, floral and balloon tributes appeared on a local overpass I drive by every day. I learned that a young girl had jumped to the expressway below even as police tried to talk her down. In August, a colleague returned from vacation and showed us pictures of her favorite town square in Barcelona. Different pictures of that same spot were transmitted around the world just a few days later. Last month I was in Las Vegas. I'm sure something has happened that made you utter, "I was just there!"

Tragedies are somehow more real when we feel a personal connection. When there is a personal connection, we pay closer attention. Unfortunately, even with some type of personal connection, our attention span has become short. I think we move on quickly from these terrible stories because after an initial reaction of horror, what we then feel is despair and helplessness. To block the anguish and those hopeless feelings, we go numb. And, when we go numb, we move on.

If numb was a place, I feel as though "I was just there" so many times in the past year. Together we've been bombarded from the left, from the right, from the crazed, from the elements, from the digital and cyberspace worlds. Some of us have taken health, relationship, financial or career hits. In a recent conversation, one person commented that nothing will change, while another said there are things we can do. Since January, we've marched, met, talked, shook our heads and stared in disbelief, so suddenly, with the thought that there might be something new we could do, there was a flicker of hope. When the first answer that was tossed out was that we can write letters, the hope diminished, there was silence, and we moved on to other topics.

We need new tactics to connect to the "I was just there" and to counteract the pervasive numbness. I have no clue what they might be, but I guess we need to pay attention to when those flickers of hope appear, do what we can to keep that flame alive and the conversation going. I'm tired of being numb.

Marilyn