WHEN DID IT ALL GO WRONG? (and how shall we meet the moment?)

Here I am living my life in a western nation, a supposedly "civilized" nation, a nation of plenty.  So, why did I lie awake last night wondering if I am living in hell?

Well, there was the debate -- a string of lies from the Republican candidate and confusion from our current president.  Although, to be fair, the liar himself frequently spews whole nonsensical paragraphs at his rallies.  Let's face it - they are both too old.  

And yet, this is our choice.

Then there was the attempted assassination of the Republican candidate. Look, if you have been reading my blog for a while or if you know me personally, you know it would be an understatement to say I do not wish to see him in the White House again.  That does not mean, however, that I want someone to shoot him.  I have lived through three assassinations.  These shootings tear at the  fabric of our democracy, along with the bodies at which they are aimed.  

Here's another reason why I couldn't sleep last night.  I made the mistake of looking at the news before going to bed.  I am usually wise enough not to do this.  I guess I had a lapse in judgment.  I watched a video of three different young white men angrily threatening violence in response to the attempted assassination.  

How is anyone sleeping these days?

I haven't even mentioned climate change or the recent Supreme Court decision, granting monarch-like powers to the President, or attempts to drag women back to the 1950s, not to mention the wars in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, and Somalia.  I just can't go there today.  

When did the pile-up begin? Was it 9/11?  Was it Sandy Hook?  Was it Parkland?  (Too many mass shootings to list here.) Was it January 6?  Was it the pandemic?  

Is it just that I have lived long enough to be feeling the pile-up?  I did, after all, grow up during the Cold War, which brought with it the Cuban Missile Crisis and the threat of nuclear annihilation.  There were also the aforementioned assassinations--two Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr, the Vietnam War, and more.  

Of course, things were pretty bad before my time.  My father lived through two world wars, my mother through one.  They endured the bombing of their city during the Second World War.  

Really -- Was there ever a time when things were ok?  I have a friend whose father once asked her when in the past she might like to have lived.   She had to tell him that, as a woman, she could think of no time in the past when she would have wanted to live.   

Sorry to dump all of this on you.  Maybe I'm feeling overwhelmed because of my lack of sleep last night.  Tonight, I will not read the news before bed, and tomorrow I will be able to heed these words from the late historian Howard Zinn, posted by a friend on FB this morning:

To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic.  It is based on the fact that human history is a history, not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives.  If we only see the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something.  If we remember those times and places--and there are many--where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction.

And if we do act, in however small a way, we won't have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.

So, friends, let us take heart.  Let's live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us.

Let us be radically kind. 

 

In the words of Mr. Rogers, let us look for the helpers.  

 

Let us be the helpers.

                                              Photo by Lina Trochez on Unsplash

 

 

 

 

JOY IN DARK TIMES

         My parents were married during a world war, a war where bombs were dropped on their city.  With WWII now a matter for the history books, it is easy to forget that in 1943, my parents did not know how the war would end.  They married anyway.  I trust that they felt joy on their wedding day.     

         I am thinking about this now because on November 8, a quarter of my fellow citizens elected a president who, for me, represents the opposite of all that this country stands for, signaling for me a dark, uncertain, and frightening time, and on November 23, my daughter Anne married her sweetheart in my living room.  Her father (my former husband) and I performed the ceremony.  Her sister and a cousin and their husbands, as well as my current husband, were in attendance.  It was a joyous occasion.

         In the aftermath of these two events, I have struggled to hold my joy and fear at the same time.  I have wondered if it is fair for me to feel such joy when others are so afraid.  And I have concluded that it is not only fair, it is necessary. 

         Here I pause to make a distinction between seeking escape from what is real and embracing moments of joy.  Me binge-watching House is escape.  Me playing with granddaughters is joy.  The distinction may seem obscure, so I will attempt to illuminate the distinction by borrowing these words from the poet, William Stafford:

         Your life you live by the light you find

         and follow it on as well as you can,

         carrying through darkness wherever you go

         your one little fire that will start again.

         Moments of joy—my daughter’s wedding, watching a granddaughter twirl around in her new tutu—remind me of what is important, remind me of what is worth fighting for, of what is at stake.  They energize me.  In Stafford’s words, they restart my fire.      

         My attempts at escape, on the other hand, are engaging in the moment, but ultimately leave me feeling heavy and lethargic. They do nothing to help me to feel empowered.  I do not pretend that I will cease to look for escape, but I am trying to keep from giving it a central place in my life.    

           My parents did what they could during WWII.  My father built ships for the war effort; my mother joined the Women’s Forestry Service.  And it feels important for me to do what I can now, to pay attention to what is happening in Washington D.C. (or, for the moment, New York).  It feels important to figure out how to make my voice heard when rights are threatened, and to be present for those who are rightly afraid for their personal safety now that certain portions of our population feel free to express their hatred through ugly words or violence.    

         So, I will continue to give money to organizations that safeguard civil and human rights.  I will keep my Senators and Congresswoman on speed dial.  I will be alert for opportunities to reassure those who feel threatened. 

         I will try not to let fear still my voice. 

         And I will remember that WWII ended, that my parents went on to raise three children, one born during the war.  We do not know for certain what the next four years will bring, but we can vow to resist those who would endanger our future, and we can use our moments of joy to feed the flame of our resistance.

         May it be so.