The names. The people. The impact.

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God knows where this will go or how far back it may stretch. But what is a blog for, if not for spastic brainstorming?

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I’m listening to my Eh-Pod.
Schindler’s List.
The violin. This is more beautiful than any other instrument, jerks the tears out of my eyes.
We went there. Not back in time, but close.
The Holocaust museum in D.C.
We signed up early. Me, the uber-planner and strategist.
Good thing, too. It seems as though millions were eager to witness the unthinkable. The annihilation of a populus.
You cannot know how this experience has touched me. Touched me to my core.
There is no God big enough to be the cause of such misery and despair.
I saw it all. The whole nine yards. Did you know about the “shoe room?”
The room that had my stomach heaving. The room that made me run. It wasn’t at that moment that my compassion began.
I try to recall the exact moment. But it escapes my recollection…

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This girl is seven.

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You can stand outside any given house on any given block on any given Saturday and speculate on the goings-on inside. The moon may be waxing or waning, the air may be cool or stifling. No matter. It is only when you are invited in that the thoughts that are mere silhouettes in your mind begin to form more solid shapes…

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