It's so cold out that when I arrive at work after my morning commute (walking fourish blocks), I have tears running down my face, from the cold, of course. But it's embarrassing because I'm pretty sure people are wondering why I am such a basket case.
Even though I'm not actually crying at the moment, I am more affected by the death of Elizabeth Edwards than I thought I would be. What an unbelievable woman, who endured so much sadness. Her attitude was incredible, and she never seemed like a victim. I'll never forget the interviews she did last year with Oprah about her book and the situation with her husband John.
It's made me think a lot about dignity. I have spent a lot of time flailing around trying to make sense of life, although maybe not outwardly all the time, more, maybe, on the inside. No matter how much one tries not to let it show, and to keep a stiff upper lip, if the flailing is happening inside, something's bound to surface. Is it even possible to be a dignified emerging artist? I wonder this almost daily. We jump through this hoop and that, pay this person and that person, work at one horrific day job after the next in service of a feeling that we have something to share, something to offer, something to say. And I don't I really know why, except that if I stopped, I wouldn't be happy, and living in a regretful way is not great when you get to be 75 and look back and wonder what it was really all about.