My father died 52 years ago today in an accident.  I was in Mexico City and had to return on a busy holiday weekend.  The American Embassy stepped in to get me on a plane.  Tears come even now.  Though our cells change, live and die, something of grief and shock is held and brought forth at different times of year.

For me, each year since I was 19 I’ve honored this day, this drawing forth of a new year even as there’s pain.  I know it is to balance the fullness of living, to follow the path, the passage of each breath.

Each breath, in and out – like a kiss – 

It’s raining today as it did after both my parent’s deaths.

I have to admit that this with Trump continues to shock me, to shake my inner being.

My father was a B-17 pilot in WWII.  Shot down, he was in a prison camp in the north of Germany and yet he never judged the guards.  He knew, they, like him, were caught in a segment of history.  When a group of them tried to escape and were captured, the punishment was standing in isolation, in water, underground, and again no comment or complaint.  My mother only overheard it when one night her brother and my dad were discussing what they endured during the war.

My father was a life-long Democrat and yet could argue both sides with my uncle who was a Republican.  I can’t imagine what either of them would think of this, of the lies and threats.  This isn’t about political parties.  It’s about morality and ethics.

Now it’s really raining.  May it cleanse!

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