Wallowing

Whenever I write something like "ATTACK" (the previous post), I then feel terribly self-indulgent. I think of all the "real" and terrible suffering in the world, and my little suffering seems so insignificant and absurd. I think of Barbara Kingsolver saying in High Tide in Tucson, I think, that needs, real needs are so small that they rattle around in a buck. That really stuck with me. My suffering seems just that small. It would certainly be forgotten if my leg was blown off by a land mine or I was raped or my child was killed or maimed. In the face of war, disease, and famine, I shouldn't be wasting time wallowing in little pains. OK, I'm ready to move on now.