Explosions Everywhere

Since moving to Wilmington, N.C. about two months ago, I've not had the chance to watch CNN or other news junkets like I used to. Not that I don't want to. But my parents are staying with me and my son while their house is being built, and there always seems to be something going on. Don't get me wrong. I'm really enjoying my parents here. As a single mom it is nice to have adult company. And I really do like my parents. Also, they're a huge help with my son... I have to say I'm getting a tad (okay, a lot) spoiled. Three sets of eyes, ears and hands to go around, and they're all quite busy as Griffin is a talker and a mover -- non-stop.

So back to CNN and the rest of the news. Not only is the constant commotion that's ongoing here preventing me from sitting in the easy chair (after the Grifster goes to bed, mind you) and getting my fill of headlines, talking heads, in-depths, tops-of-the-hour, weather updates, and more... the freelance career I was forced to start up has kept me busy many a night. (Speaking of, I should be working right now on one story... don't worry Patty, it'll be in on time.)

So, instead of editing this eve I clicked the mouse to cnn.com and saw the lead story about the train bombings in India. When I had checked first thing this morning, the lead was a second-day story on the building explosion in NYC. Explosions everywhere.

Granted, these two stories are vastly different: one a suspected suicide attempt and no loss of life; the other a suspected terrorist attack with more than 170 dead and many more injured. But both are fundamentally the same. Blasts that ripped quite unexpectedly through the ordinary process of living, both at the apparent hands of people who somehow lost their ability to imagine -- and live within -- that very first minute after their explosions went off.

After all, had the New York man compelled his mind to consider the passersby whose flesh would be shredded from the shrapnel flying from the building within seconds after he tried to take his life, he might have reconsidered. Or perhaps had he thought about the minutes after when firemen would risk their lives, and in the process get injured, as they fought their way into a burning building to check for survivors, he might have tried a less invasive form of suicide.

What if the Indian perpetrators had harnessed what little humaness their souls had left, perhaps they'd have accounted for the mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters or brothers who within a millisecond of the bomb's tick would cease to exist, leaving behind a trail of mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters and brothers forever weeping over their losses. Would they have, could they have, opted for a more peaceful protest?

The New York man didn't die. And now he has the rest of his life (however long that may be) to consider what he did, and what he might have done. Presumably the terrorists are dead. I am of the belief that they'll have black and grueling eternity to consider what they did.

I just wish they all could have put themselves in someone else's place before their bombs went off. I wish they could have put themselves in the passersby's, firemen's, mothers', fathers', sons', daughters', sisters' and brothers' shoes for just one minute... that one minute.

As we all should. As often as we can try.