A Banquet and A House Party

The day began on two wheels, and that’s always been a fine way to start. I’ve been trying to regain my bike-riding confidence in the aftermath of my surgery four years ago and the subsequent balance and hearing issues. But I realized one day that I was missing it so much! So I’ve been putting the bike in the back of my car, driving out to the valley, and pedaling around with my buddy Diane on country roads with very little vehicular traffic. It’s amazing how quickly that familiar sense of joy and freedom returns. I’m suddenly ten years old.

A piece of white moon still floated in the pale blue sky, and the roads were empty and the fields were gold and three gorgeous palomino horses posed like glamor girls by a fence. We rode past the seminary, where a sign advertised the upcoming Monk’s Banquet, and we tried to conjure up what a banquet of monks might be like. Jolly men in brown robes would be dancing under the moon, serving fresh baked bread and mugs of ale. We’d hear voices of joy: Adestes fideles, perhaps. Or maybe just a jig. Would the elves and fairies wander in from the woods to toast one another with flower goblets filled with nectar?

Meanwhile, the morning itself was a banquet. We pedaled up roads beneath hazy mountains, and rolled blissfully down the gentlest of descents. We followed a dirt road through a seemingly abandoned ranch until a man in a tractor pointed out that we had gone by at least three “private property” signs, and okay, have some fun today (privileged treatment earned by being seventy) but for the sake of liability and decorum, could we please go elsewhere in the future?

We never went too fast to talk, and we talked about friendship, and how so many slights and missteps were just a matter of perspective, and we could choose to take umbrage or forgive and forget. We talked about getting older, and labels and messaging. Why all this self-deprecation? The loose crepey skin of my thighs might be the artful touch of time on legs well used. The flappy dangles of fat on an old lady’s arms might be seen as her wings.

We sat in the shade of an oak and ate purple grapes.

Later in the day I stepped out of my comfort zone to participate in a political action event, via Zoom. We first watched an infuriating film about the brazen suppression of voters, particularly people of color and poor people (so often the same), in Georgia, then had the opportunity to meet three inspiring young activists who are fighting back against this sort of thing in Arizona, Florida, and Texas. (The grassroots organizations they represent are: Living United for Change, Dream Defenders, and Move Texas. )

Following that segment, I was co-host of a “house party”, which wasn’t much of a party at all, but was nonetheless a symbolic welcoming of invited friends and kindred spirits into my living room, and a presentation by Airlift, an organization I support and recommend. (Click on that link if you want to learn more and contribute. It feels good to help.)

Here’s what I said in my introduction:

“I’ve been in a state of anguish and dismay since the 2016 election. We knew that was a disaster, but it was even more horrific than we could have imagined, and things have gotten worse since then, and I know that if you’re here it’s because you too are living with that ongoing sense of anger and sorrow and shock and disgust, and it’s painful. Well, somewhere along the line, I found this quote from Salman Rushdie, and it really resonated:

When thought becomes excessively painful, action is the finest remedy.

And somewhere along the line, I found Airlift, and I read about its core principles and partner groups, and I found that by connecting in this way, I could be part of a team, an army of action, and I already feel better just by beginning.

I believe with all my heart that despair is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and hope is contagious. So let’s donate what we can, stay involved and informed, and never give up.”

So, I call that a good day. A bike ride, a banquet and a house party––and a hopeful call to action.