Art of Sorrow

Why I chose to go running on the hottest, muggiest day of the year, I'm not quite sure. Oh, and I haven't ran in a month and I've been sick for the past week...so that seemed like a good idea, right?

I huffed and puffed and pushed and pounded the pavement, red in face, I'm sure. I'm surprised no one stopped to offer me assistance for the asthma attack I probably appeared to be having.

On my run, I found a dead bird.

A feathered pancake, crushed, bone broken, insides splattered outside, under red hot speeding rubber, that was maybe late for a meeting or just perhaps careless.

It's no secret I wear a bleeding heart on my sleeve for little critters.
So I did what I always do.
I cried.


I can't help the overwhelming emotion, the tears in eyes, the embarrassing movement of emotion in public.

I wonder if the driver of this red hot rubber cried too.

Did they think of the beauty of science and biology and molecules and God that created this creature? Did they mourn that we no longer have its beauty or its song?

Or was the driver distracted by "real problems" like paying bills and kids at daycare and weekend plans? Isn't the loss of a God-hand-created beauty a "real problem"?

It may be a small bird, but it contains large beauty.
That we don't give second thought about when it's trampled + crushed.

Have we lost the art of sorrow?

Have we lost the slow and labored work of grief?

Is that why the driver didn't cry for the bird?

Is that we tweet #PrayForOrlando before we actually drop to our knees and cry out for answers?

Is that why the Good News of nails that pierced skin, a Crown of Thorns, for the love of me often falls empty on my cold and stale and numb heart?

When bad things happen and animals + people leave this earth in ungodly ways, we jump down each others' political throats and we turn a death of a father and friend into a political fight on Twitter.

Anger is involved in grief, but politics is not. Before we point our fingers at the President, at Republicans or Democrats, at black people or white people or tan people or any people, can we find the art of sorrow? Can we stop and hand over mouth, let out a cry for the loss of life? Have we lost our wonder at what a gift life and breath and health and family and a beating heart is?

May we find the art of sorrow and may our hearts be moved to mourn appropriately first before squabbling on the Internet.