Murder In London

I didn't hear until 6:30 pm that night, and then, quite by accident. I'm removed up here from the hatred and chaos of the greater world. but the news brought it back like a shot. Immediately I started to shake--a reaction that 9-1-1 has left me, like a dormant scar waiting to split open and bleed again at the slightest hint of violence. I feel for those who are there, and those who have been wounded, killed, or lost others. I think of Anastra, my friend. She is there on a spiritual quest, and she is there in the violence and the aftermath. I pray she is safe. I know she isn't. This will be etched on her psyche forever. She had called me right after 9-1-1; she knew I was not safe just as I know she is not. I send my silent tears to her and all the other souls there. I want to tell her, I want to tell them, come up here to my mountains. Be safe here. I have a place that is not a killing ground for hatred. any death here is purely due to the natural cycle of life. There is not gratuitous killing here because there are few two legged creatures here to do it. Those of us who are here feel a part of nature, not at odds with the nature of others. I will continue to try to call Anastra, and I will feel my way through the shame and the anger of being a part of the human race, one that is so destructive, arrogant, and intolerant. That murderous day in London has touched off a well spring of tears, a mirror of those that I have shed before in NYC on that sunny morning instantly sucked dry within a cloud of incinerated souls that scratched my eyes raw.