Doctor Zhivago

I just saw the movie Doctor Zhivago for the first time. I was pretty young the first time it came out, if I was even born. Oh my gosh. Hand me the tissue.
I cannot believe what people have endured over the years, and I sit at home in my cozy slippers and watch the world go by. So many things are on my heart right now: Darfur, Iraq, the many senseless murders all over the world. The other day I cried as I read about each person lost in the tragic Virginia Tech shooting. All the while I kept thinking: every day, that many people are murdered in the Middle East, Africa and basically all over the world. Who will read the names of those people and cry for them?
There's a scene in one of my favorite books, The Secret Life of Bees. One of the characters is so sensitive, she reached a point she could no longer function in the world. Her sister had an idea that whenever something was too much for her, she should write it on a piece of paper and tuck it in a rock wall in their yard. There was something so hauntingly beautiful in that. There are so many things I would write on slips of paper and tuck in the rocks.
The term compassion fatigue has been bandied about lately. I'm not so sure how I feel about that. I have a feeling it sure beats grieving fatigue, or running for your life fatigue. I think I am compelled to appreciate what I have and where I am. Of course I want more. So much more. So I balance between this place of gratitude and a sense of urgency.
I'm on the precipice of a relationship, and observing the precariousness of life makes me want to scream to him "It's now, tomorrow may never come."
It is always now.