Albert Camus wrote that there is no love of life without despair of life. Like life and death, and light and darkness, and sickness and health, I can either embrace the human condition or drawn in fear and self-pity. Life is a mess, wrote Joseph Campbell, life has always been a mess.

We find our own hope and promise, or we choke in a sea of regret and self-pity. This week, someone write me a lengthy piece on the illness of her dog, she sad it was unbearable for her, and she hoped I could counsel her or offer words of encouragement to help her get through it. She spentds every night weeping, she said, she barely has the strength to get to work or spend time with her children.

What could I tell her to help her get through this time?

I told her to read the story of Devota, an African women who spent a year walking barefoot across Central African to get to America. The skin burned off of her feet and she was raped four times and stole food from farms to keep her and her daughter alive.

I urged her to read that story before feeling sorry for her self because her dog was sick. Was that cold of me? Heartless? Judgmental?

Perhaps, but it was what I felt and what I feel is my whole identity as a writer. Dogs are nothing but a gift to me, a source of joy and connection, I will never make them into a misery because, they, like us, will inevitably get sick and die. That is what life is about. What did she think would happen?

Sorry for your loss, sorry for your loss. A Facebook chant.

Perspective is a great gift given us humans.

I wish I had said the same thing to the woman who posted a message on Facebook commemorating the death of her dog more than a decade ago. She promised her dog in the message that she would never get over her death. But this is precisely what she needs to do, what we are all called upon to do. What Devota does without anybody’s help.

I love my dogs dearly and intensely, I hope I never ask for pity because they get sick or die. That seems so indulgent of me, especially in our world. The sickness and death of animals is a part of our lives, those of us who love animals, like breathing and walking, and I will never speak poorly of my life or let myself forget what binds all of us together – we live and we love and we die.

Suffering is not a shock or surprise to me. It is part of the human experience, and I am grateful for life, every day.

This week will be an important week for me, I am permitting comments on the blog for the first time. They will be moderated, and no hostile or personal attacks will be permitted. It will be a safe place to share thoughts and ideas and comments. My life is not an argument, neither will your ideas be an argument on my site. No hostility permitted.  Look for this on Tuesday and Wednesday. People can continue to post comments on Facebook.

Today, I am sending a check for $900 to RISSE to buy new uniforms and equipment for the soccer team, composed entirely of refugees and immigrants, new to America. They have decided, over my objections, to call the team “The Bedlam Farm Warriors,” and what an ironic thing that is for a nerd boy like me, to have a sports team named for my farm. Can’t get my head around it.

Also this week, I have offered to treat the soccer team to a Saturday matinée showing of “Spiderman” in a theater near Albany, drinks and popcorn included. I will continue to fund raise for Devota Nyiraneza, who walked across 2,500 miles of Africa to get to America, and who is working to pay off a $10,000 student loan for her son that she thought was a financial aid package.

I am hoping to get as close to $10,000 as possible. You can donate through my post office box, P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., or Paypal Friends And Family, ID [email protected].

By Sunday, and before I even asked, I had received $1,500 for the fund. Thursday, I am meeting another refugee, Mawulidi, an African artist, a wood-carver who left his tools behind when he came to America. Someone has already messaged me to say she wishes to pay for new tools. I’ll know more this week when I meet him.

And I today, I am ordering a portable air conditioner for Art at the Mansion, his brother died there two weeks ago and he is moving into his room, which gets very  warm on summer days. The Mansion is a Medicaid facility, there is little extra money there.

Selfishly, this has been a good year for me, despite all of the anger and worry for so many others.

The election in November, disturbing to me, has been an open door, not a gate. It paved the way for the Army of Good, and selfishly, I have never felt more energized, or better about myself, or more meaningful about my life. The blog is nothing but a gift to me, and hopefully, to others. I am committed to telling the story of the Mansion residents and the refugees and immigrants, so critical a part of our national soul.

Life will always offer us setbacks and challenges, we cannot always get our way, and our dogs and friends and family members will get sick and die, but it is our choice how we wish to respond. I see my life as a series of choices. Self-pity and lament are not among them for me.

Grace is not the avoidance of trouble and suffering, but the manner in which we respond to it.

There is no love of life without despair.