And This.

The world is burning, people are lying in hospital beds and comas and piles of garbage, and I have a pie crust chilling in the refrigerator.

This existence is full of surprises. And compromises on grief. Staring at torn heartstrings, tying them into a small and loose bow, and getting the pie crust out of the fridge to bake into a zucchini galette.

Tragedy, Joy, and Simple Pleasures exist in the same forest. We run through the ferns on the floor, wading our way through soil, forgetting the trees and seeing only the endlessness, but each mess of branches contains singing birds, if we would only run with our ears open. If we would only slow to walk every once in a while.

I think a lot about coral reefs, in bursts, every couple of months. And then I can’t get them out of my head. Coral reefs are teeming with life — which by necessity means they are teeming with death, if you think about it. Predators flourish because of prey, down to the sea cucumbers. Down to the plankton. I don’t know if these two particular things live in coral reefs, but what I mean to say is: where there is abundance, there is naturally a constant trading of life-for-life.

Which, significantly to this point, means there is way one could look at a coral reef and read a horror story. There is a version of reality where to look at a coral reef is to look at tragedy — that the open ocean would be more peaceful and hope-inspiring because of the lack of death.

But without the death, without the tragedy and fear and adrenaline and fight-or-flight, without all the tension, there is nothingness. Blank and empty space is not livable space. It is devoid.

That a place of abundance must come out of the tension between one guy doing well and one guy living a short life of fear is a difficult reality to take in: but an easy one to create from our surroundings. It can make this world so tragic to live in — when we create this narrative out of the stories we see.

When times of tragedy run alongside times of trying new baking recipes, I find an opening. I feel the wound of the world, and I turn to it with tenderness, and honesty. I am afraid. I am sad. I am angry. And I must feed myself. And I would not be making the world a better place by throwing the pie crust into the trash can.

Both must be present for the world to have abundance. This does not mean turn from the tragedy — far from it. If you ignore that your friends over there are getting eaten or forced out of their coral dens (I know very little about coral reefs) then you’re likely to suffer the sam fate. You’re also an asshole.

However.

You foregoing your meal tonight is not going to bring them back.

You can only move forward. To be truly effective, you can only ever really adjust to the new world you’ve found yourself in. Perhaps by making the zucchini galette, you can warm yourself and your heart, and reach out to those who are hurting, who have lost while you were not losing.

I just repeat to myself, as I kneed the pastry and pre-heat the oven: “And This.” Not one or the other. Not something better or something worse. Not shame. Not indigence or ignorance.

“And. And This.”