I am currently in Florida, not on vacation, but to visit my elderly parents, one of whom is now in a nursing home suffering from dementia. I visited my Mom yesterday in the Home. It is a curious combination of horror and incredible beauty. The horror comes from watching scenes such as the old impeccably dressed gent trapped in a wheelchair who keened and cried as if he were a baby. He kept trying to get up out of the chair, but didn't have the strength. I thought to myself while watching him that he was making a futile effort to "escape." The beauty comes from watching the beatific faces of the Haitain aides who take care of the "clients." It is like looking upon the face of pure love itself. Such tenderness. Such concern. Such care. Such patience. Many of the patients have a look of stark surprise, partially I believe from the drugs they are given but also from a wonderment that they ended up in a Home. The human effort to find meaning was still evident however. One man placed small stones in neat piles atop tables and surfaces. I suppose that action means as much as those that so-called regular people perform daily. For example, is not the daily grind of going to work kind of like placing small stones in neat piles?