Dear Zachary

I stayed up later than I should tonight as I've been sick lately, but I couldn't help myself.  I was doing some light grading when I decided I would start a documentary from my Netflix queue.  I've had "Dear Zachary" in my queue for a long time now and I finally decided to watch it.

It is one of the hardest and most beautiful things I have ever had the pleasure to witness.  It is a true crime documentary about a murder; it's a tribute to the victim's life, loves, and family; it is the story of a custody battle; it is a devastating look at what happens to those who are left behind; it is a condemnation of a broken legal system; finally, it is the story of progress and change that only seems to happen out the back side of tragedy.

I wept.  I wept openly.  I'm writing about my weeping.  It has affected me this much.  You can find more information about it here.

It has brought me here to the keyboard in the wee hours of the night with an ache to say something, but I know I will find little comfort in my own abilities tonight.  Sometimes, I can't write past this kind of pain.  There are moments in life when art reflects our pain back to us.  It isn't because the subject matter is the same as our pain.  It isn't because I identify with this person or that person in the movie.  It is because something happened in the creative process that transcended the individual and became the communal.  It shared.  It touched.  And I am sitting here alone in the dark now surrounded by the idea that I am small.  That we all are.

The funny thing about all of this is how grateful I am to be reminded.  There are times where I feel large in the confines of my life, but that is because I live a small life.  When the roads of my daily travels are worn and the limits of my daily tasks are repetitive, it is easy to believe that I have a semblance of control, but I don't. 

The world outside looks a little scary tonight, a little uncertain, but my heart is racing good and strong and I know I'm alive.  It's like how Shea must feel a lot of the time when we take her to new places.  She doesn't have much frame of reference for new things and all kinds of things must get her blood pumping, but she laughs, and she smiles, and every now and again she even lets loose that high pitched scream that is the perfect mix of terror and delight.