Fifteen minutes to weep...then buck up, kiddo

Twenty years ago I cried every day on the way to work. My husband finally said I needed to find something else to do and I did and it was good. Until it wasn't. And then I found something else but my husband was diagnosed with Parkinson's and we turned 50 that same year so we accepted there was far more life behind us than ahead and I retired from a six figure job with too much stress I couldn't and didn't want to handle with the new stresses at home and decided to pursue acting, writing and painting - life-long passions I hadn't pursued because of lack of faith in myself and a desire, a need, for more security than life in the arts could provide. And so, here I am, seven years later, happily pursuing my passions yet, again, crying every day on the way to work. Work is great. I love what I do as well as the time it gives me to write and read. But I feel the increasing weight of the world with the earthquake of changes shifting the very foundation of lives across the country and the world in its entirety, and as I drive I am overcome with a blinding terror of what may come given the bleak and long history of man's cruelty to man and a persistent inabilty to learn from past errors, indeed a tendency to repeat, repeat, repeat, to profess love of God yet spread hate. And I bawl as I fret over my son's future, my husband's daily suffering and increasing difficulties, my mother's slow goodbye...life...