I am writing this from the deck of our lake house overlooking a view that is my slice of utopia. The lake is so perfect, still and blue this morning, it looks like it is made from fondant icing. The only sounds are coming from the chirping birds. I must be the only one awake at this early hour on a holiday weekend.
Last night we watched the Academy Award winning movie, Slumdog Millionaire. My serene and private morning is a sharp contrast to the teeming slums of India. When I watch a film or read a book set in a country where the people live in cruel or unjust circumstances I ask myself, “Why? Why was I born in America instead of India, or Afghanistan, or Iran, or outer Mongolia?” It is humbling to think that the place of my birth was just a cosmic crap-shoot. Who would I have become had I been born in squalor and poverty in the slums of India? How would I have survived if I had been born in Iran or any country where women have no rights? As I enjoy my perfect view today I acknowledge that, thanks to a mystical, divine plan or a freaky accident of the universe, I was born in America. I was born in a place where I was nourished and cherished and honored. I was born in a country where I had the freedom to learn and grow and become who I am today.
I am not so naïve as to think my country just happened to be a place of safety and freedom. As I enjoy my view I thank the generations of men and women who served my country. I appreciate that my beautiful lake is not ravaged by war or overrun with poverty or polluted by chemicals. I am thankful for my country and for those who protected and preserved it; and I am thankful for the throw of the dice that landed me here.
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