And after all, what did it mean? Home? Suppose it was not the place you came from, but a thing you carried with you, like a suitcase. And you could lose your suitcase, she knew that now. You could open another person’s luggage, and put on their clothes, and though you might feel different at first, out of your depth, something inside you was the same, and even a little more true to itself, a little more free.
It struck her again: a life was such a short thing. All those things people carried, and struggled to carry, yet one day they would disappear, and so would the suffering inside them, and all that would be left was this. The trees, the moon, the dark…it occurred to her that where she was now was not the ending she’d written in her mind. And even though the not knowing inside her would mean nothing one day, for now it meant everything, and she must do something.
“For peace…is not merely an absence of war. It is all the things that war displaces, the things that war makes not merely unachievable, but unimaginable. Only peace makes peace possible.”
It occurred to Margery that this was how it was, that there was always darkness, and in this darkness was unspeakable suffering, and yet there were also the daily things–and while they could not cancel the appalling horror, they were as real.
“The present moment comes to us through unnoticed actions of the past–too many to count, mostly unknown and unnoticed, and sometimes unavoidably terrible. We give ourselves up to the future, one drop of blood at a time, whether we choose to do it or not. That is the truth…little though we can endure it.
Laurie J. Marks, “Water Logic“
I like it better here where I can sit just quietly and smell the flowers.
Rebel XIII 
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