Gabe Easter

Normal

This is a late entry. By design.

 

I wanted to soak in the entirety of this weekend.

 

For the first time since Linzi had passed…I’d met an entire group of people with whom I shared a very tragic truth: we had, all of us, lost our loves.

 

There I stood, talking grief, talking life. Not crying or feeling nostalgic. Not making attempts to console the awkwardness of those around me or having to assuage the numerous, automatic and uncertain responses of “I’m so sorry.”

 

It just felt…normal.  And normal is such a weird word if you think about it.  Some attribute it to meaning the average of whatever subject to which it refers, while others base it upon the opinion of the general population.  I like to think that the idea of normal is very relative to our own perception of what we believe that word to mean.

 

To me. This was it.

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Views from Auschwitz

Part of me is happy Linzi wasn’t here with me in Poland for this trip. Today we visited Auschwitz. It was emotional. It was eye-opening. It was heavy.

 

I don’t think she could’ve handled it emotionally. She was such a compassionate and loving woman. The pictures of the victims made her look extremely healthy by comparison.

 

Auschwitz was a mixture of emotions. I found myself in awe of the magnitude of this tremendous event and the true scope of it all.  It’s hard to fathom something you’ve only read about it in books. Seeing it in person perhaps isn’t even enough to let it sink in.

 

There were three times I was caught off-guard, dumbfounded, and with no response other than to let fall the tears down my cheeks with futile attempts to suppress them.

 

I walked past the pile of prosthetics of disabled veterans, killed by the very country they’d fought for years prior in World War I.

 

I remember walking past the pile of suitcases and bags, packed by unsuspecting multitudes of people who were told to pack for new settlement, paradise even, via propoganda. I noticed their names were written upon them, along with some letters and various numbers. What they stood for, I could not be sure, but one thing it reminded me of that I often forget when reading about these events: 

 

They had names.

 

All of them. To me or anyone really they were strangers...but to someone, they were a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a relative, a close friend, a confidante. They had names.

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  • published Normal in Blog 2017-10-21 19:57:11 -0700

    Normal

    This is a late entry. By design.

     

    I wanted to soak in the entirety of this weekend.

     

    For the first time since Linzi had passed…I’d met an entire group of people with whom I shared a very tragic truth: we had, all of us, lost our loves.

     

    There I stood, talking grief, talking life. Not crying or feeling nostalgic. Not making attempts to console the awkwardness of those around me or having to assuage the numerous, automatic and uncertain responses of “I’m so sorry.”

     

    It just felt…normal.  And normal is such a weird word if you think about it.  Some attribute it to meaning the average of whatever subject to which it refers, while others base it upon the opinion of the general population.  I like to think that the idea of normal is very relative to our own perception of what we believe that word to mean.

     

    To me. This was it.

    Read more

  • published Views from Auschwitz in Blog 2017-10-14 03:47:44 -0700

    Views from Auschwitz

    Part of me is happy Linzi wasn’t here with me in Poland for this trip. Today we visited Auschwitz. It was emotional. It was eye-opening. It was heavy.

     

    I don’t think she could’ve handled it emotionally. She was such a compassionate and loving woman. The pictures of the victims made her look extremely healthy by comparison.

     

    Auschwitz was a mixture of emotions. I found myself in awe of the magnitude of this tremendous event and the true scope of it all.  It’s hard to fathom something you’ve only read about it in books. Seeing it in person perhaps isn’t even enough to let it sink in.

     

    There were three times I was caught off-guard, dumbfounded, and with no response other than to let fall the tears down my cheeks with futile attempts to suppress them.

     

    I walked past the pile of prosthetics of disabled veterans, killed by the very country they’d fought for years prior in World War I.

     

    I remember walking past the pile of suitcases and bags, packed by unsuspecting multitudes of people who were told to pack for new settlement, paradise even, via propoganda. I noticed their names were written upon them, along with some letters and various numbers. What they stood for, I could not be sure, but one thing it reminded me of that I often forget when reading about these events: 

     

    They had names.

     

    All of them. To me or anyone really they were strangers...but to someone, they were a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a relative, a close friend, a confidante. They had names.

    Read more