The Waters Of War, and Things That Make Us Whole Again

Poet Mary Oliver with her Dog Percy
My tousled life. A little bit of this, a smattering of that.
Today, Restrepo.
Tomorrow, hot sweaty weather in Savannah. I pack my bags hoping not to take too much. The weather in Georgia is like stepping into a permanent sauna. Last year, I wished for a knife so I could cut a square into the air for a gulp of coolness.
"Surely there's a trade wind in the afternoon," I said, to a local I'd met.
"Surely not," she said, laughing as she walked away.
Stop griping you say.
Okay, I will.
This just in from a famous fashion designer: "Do you want to cover British Virgin Islands Fashion Week?"
It doesn't take me long to think about this.
Do I want to make the jump from war back into fashion?
Yes. Yes I do. I love that scene. Besides, it's so far away from this:

"KABUL, Afghanistan – Militants set off a car bomb and stormed the entrance to a major NATO air base in eastern Afghanistan on Wednesday, authorities said. Eight insurgents died in the failed assault."

When War isn't the uninvited guest on my sofa, War is the unwanted passenger sitting with me on a small boat.
Even when I am watching models on a runway, or talking the creative process, War is not far away.
What I have learned is the key to coexistence with War is to remember all the bits and pieces that make us whole. It's the only way we can help others, too.
Laying alongside the books of War is a well thumbed book by the poet Mary Oliver. My method of reading about War is one most would call mad. War, Jane Austen. War, Edward Abbey. War, Mary Oliver. War, Housewives of NYC. War, Project Runway. I alternate between sublime literature, the ridiculousness of reality TV, and the looming presence of War.

Those who are left behind, strive to maintain an even keel as we swim through the waters of War. Some are hurt more than others. And yet, I'd like to think the bond is strong enough to keep us afloat, as we search for the things that make us whole.
Words to take to heart:

Wild Geese

by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.