Guilt and Gratitude

I am a simple human hollowed by the sorrows of others. Yes. I live with the luxury of guilt. For I live in the luxury of fair middle-class American skin. I live with the luxury of trust in the police.  I live with the luxury of English as a first language. I live with the luxury of health insurance. I live with the luxury of independence.

Now at thirty-something, I settle into the gentle bliss of ordinariness.  Sometimes, the romantic in me wants to be wild, unfettered, and free. (For this is what society preaches to young middle-class American citizens on how to have happiness.) Yet here I am satisfied and energized by the complex and yet simple work of caregiving. Here I am, on July 1, grateful that I don't need to work every single day. For if I had to work every single day, I would not be good. Nor would I be healthy and happy. Here I am, on July 1, starting my summer vacation and living with the luxury of necessary rejuvenation. 
It turns out, guilt and gratitude are two sides of the same coin. And so here I am grateful. Grateful that I don't need to flee my home and country. Grateful that I don't need to drown in the sea simply for the hope of living.  Here I am grateful that I do not starve or freeze or sleep on any street. But in a bed, surrounded by painted walls and trees.

I am a simple human hollowed by the sorrows of others.

Yes. I live in luxury.