I wake up, make my coffee, and think of Ukraine.I move through the house and feel a deep ache for those who’ve fled theirs.
I see my own world differently; small and privileged and somewhat back to normal.
The pillows and chairs provide comfort as I scroll through the headlines. Images of conflagration, and miles of refugees with no soft place to land. They carry dogs and cats and children.
The knickknacks on the shelves articulate moments, reminding me of all that is broken. I light a candle for the future.
I make dinner silently, praying that Ukrainians may gather around their tables again soon. I peel the onion and welcome the tears’ release.
I hug my son, tell him that I love him, and pray for the families separating at the border. I crawl into my soft, warm bed and think of those who spent their night on a cold cement floor.
My childhood years were Cold War years when Russia was the cold, hard enemy; an idea that softened as the decades passed.
That was before the rules of engagement were broken, before the agreements of humanity were left by the roadside. There have been other atrocities, too countless to mention, each as devastating for the victims and the world.
This… caught between the terror of the unthinkable and the horror of standing by… changes everything.
I head out, grateful for the work and peaceful streets, with a vow deep in my heart. Be kind, we’re only human. Be present, it’s all we have.
In the long, long ago life— before marriage, before children, before the star-studded Hollywood-excess of a movie and well before COVID— I had the privilege of performing in the National Tour of Steel Magnolias. We played elegant theatres coast-to-coast, explored beautiful American cities in our month-long stays, garnered solid reviews, even an invitation from First Lady Barbara Bush to a private luncheon at the White House. The year held many amazing experiences, not the least of which was sharing the stage with five extraordinary actresses.
