Notes From A Broken Place

Orion and Friends, (pastel and oil by Kit Cossart)

We were watching on our neighbors’ big screen TV. A manic announcer pointed out numbers and maps, providing rapid-fire, off-the-cuff interpretations, all of them alarming. There was red wine on the table, and a platter of curry, and two dogs on the floor, one curled up at my feet hoping for crumbs, the other determinedly gnawing on someone’s favorite leather shoes, while the numbers and punditry kept coming at us, with a kind of drumbeat hysteria, and something shocking began to take shape.

It was early in the night, but everything felt over—over and broken, a kick in the gut, a churned-up feeling, nausea. Our neighbors walked us home along the canyon trail in thick darkness, the stars brilliant and oblivious, nighttime sounds and rustlings from the woods, all the wonder and mystery ongoing, in its blessed, reassuring way. The pond turtles were underwater, burrowed in their pillows of mud and vegetation. An owl cried out, a warm wind swept through the orchard, and a familiar grief lodged in my chest. We walked across a cattle guard and hugged at the gate. Some of us would sleep, but not well.

Day came. Texts dinged. Words of disbelief and sorrow from friends near and far. I am horrified. Ashamed. Heartbroken. It is a bizarro world, where everything is up-side-down, and what is ugly, mean, and wrong has for the moment prevailed. On a widely circulated tik-tok video, a plainspoken fellow in a t-shirt and baseball cap tried to pinpoint why he felt so devastated, and he shared his conclusion with simplicity and honesty:

“The reason I am so heartbroken, destroyed, and absolutely disgusted with the results of this election…is that it invalidates everything I have ever been taught about how I should live my life, and everything I’ve tried to teach my kids. It is an absolute betrayal to realize…over half of this country really doesn’t value the notions of being kind, being generous, loving your neighbor, being accepting, having empathy, showing understanding, being truthful, being ethical in business, being sensible and level-headed, not being a bully, not being selfish, and not being a total asshole. Because I’ve been taught this all my life, it’s easy for me to see that Donald Trump is a vile and despicable human being, everything I have set my sights against in order to be a good, functional member of society. And now, over half our country supports this person, and believes he is the one who is going to make America great. Someone who has worked so hard at sowing discord is never going to unite us…”

Yes, maybe it all boils down to character and ethics. This catastrophe involved con and corruption of epic proportions, facilitated by a stunning lack of integrity and decency in the Republican party, all so utterly blatant and despicable that it is hard to believe it has been endorsed by more than than half of the electorate. I honestly did not know, or maybe I just refused to believe, that our country is so ugly.

We can speculate about the reasons behind the voting, but informal surveys are beginning to suggest that many voted out of ignorance, and these folks are in for some nasty surprises about how the actions of this administration are going to affect them personally. And we can look with dismay at the likely repercussions on all the things we care about: like the environment, foreign policy, human rights, health care, democracy…and oh yes, even the economy. Strange and difficult days await.

I’m angry about the stupidity; it hurts us all. And I’m angry about the extent to which the media treated lies and outrageousness as though they were just political positions in a normal race. To be honest, I’m angry about a lot of things. But I don’t think anger is the dominant feeling I want to hold on to. As always, I will try to follow Merlin’s advice to the young King Arthur (in The Once and Future King by T.H. White), when he advised that the best thing for being sad is to learn something. Yes, Merlin says, even if we see our world devastated by evil lunatics, “there is only one thing for it then––to learn.”

So I’m standing up, brushing myself off, and trying to take stock of what I’ve learned. That seems to be the beginning of how to get through this. And you know what? We will get through this. We will because we must. I promise.

I have learned, first of all, some sad lessons. The ugliness that is woven into the fabric of our nation runs deeper and more tightly than I thought. I certainly knew that our nation has a long, shameful history of colonialism, genocide, racism, misogyny, inequality…it has always seemed a wonder to me that we progressed as far as we have. “America, you great unfinished symphony”goes the song from Hamilton, and something flawed and unfinished is truly what we are. But along with the ugliness and ragged incompleteness, there have always been powerful and resonant notes of hope and ingenuity, unexpected chords of creativity, possibility, and defiance, moments of magnificence.

Our country is an organism, shedding and renewing, changing and responding, failing and reinventing itself. We have never attained the greatness implied by the word “again” but we keep trying, and we’ve suffered a major shove backwards, but the tribe of those who try are still here. We are many, and we are strong, and we care too much to let go.

I used to be a teacher. I wonder now, whatever happened to studies of history, and how government works, to civics, civil discourse, and critical thinking? When did lies and truth become interchangeable? Why did so many unquestionably accept the cyber propaganda and media manipulation? The outcome of this election is in at least one way a gift: it has shown us more broadly and clearly the reality of our country. There is another culture, alien to the one in which I dwell, and it has spoken, putting a vile felon, brazen extremists, and a power-craven billionaire at the helm of our nation. I am seeing now, unfiltered, what is out there. And I do not like what I see, but I would always rather know than not know. Knowing is a starting point.

We are grieving, and this loss, like any grief, takes time to absorb. We are reeling, and we need to tend to our souls and bodies, and do the things that heal and replenish us. We each know what these are. For me, a hike in the backcountry is an unfailing balm. And we should probably step back from the excruciating analysis and blame, unless, and until, it proves useful in strategizing, which is a longer game. For now, we’re playing it by ear, ad libbing a bit, trying to find our balance. That is not the same as inaction. We are not giving up.

But loss also helps us to cherish and appreciate more fully that which we have not lost. And heartbreak teaches us to endure, and to honor our beloved people and principles by being better, fiercely better. And pain can be transformed into compassion and service; I have seen this again and again. Frayed spirits can sometimes lead to surprising shifts in course, new ways of seeing, brave innovation. We are still free.

I have long believed in the power of local action. This may well be what will save us. We must tend to the people in our own lives and spheres of influence. Trust me: there is a direct, immediate effect, and a ripple effect that may reach further than we imagine. The path through this catastrophe depends on community, caring, creativity, and constructive deeds on whatever scale is manageable for each of us. Whoever you are, you have this power. Find your community, embrace and be embraced. This is how we are fortified.

I am stronger than I thought, and I bet you are too. As Rebecca Solnit has written: “Authoritarians love fear, surrender, people who’ve decided they’re already defeated, who are already afraid to resist. Do not give them what they want.” Never.

Whatever good is in you, let it shine. The teachers are teaching, the storytellers are telling stories, the artists are making art, friends are being friends. Someone I know woke up at 2:30 in the morning Wednesday to the sound of her own weeping, but today she is delivering meals to seniors and writing a song. Another dear friend is already protecting the vulnerable immigrants in her community by offering information and safe refuge. The Gaviota Writers are gathering Sunday morning, and who knows what their words will document and inspire?

Rebecca Solnit again…and please read anything she has written, because she is brilliant: “They want you to feel powerless and to surrender and to let them trample everything and you are not going to let them…the fact that we cannot save everything does not mean we cannot save anything, and everything we can save is worth saving.”

Let’s figure out what we will save or protect. Maybe it’s nesting snowy plovers, a rural road you love, an immigrant neighbor suddenly targeted. Participate. Donate. Pay attention and educate others. Look out for the vulnerable. Maybe we can each reach out to someone who is sadder than we are, and maybe we can teach a kid how to write a letter and mail it with a stamp.

“Hang onto your hat,” wrote E.B. White. “Hang onto your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.”

There’s that word: hope. Hope is essential, but we mean hope as an active verb, hope as opposed to Pollyanna-ish optimism, hope as a space for possibility, hope as an abstract that we render real by our deeds.

Something I learned long ago, but which matters more than ever now, is to notice what is beautiful and good. Be overcome with wonder sometimes, and gratitude. Listen to the river and the wren. See how lamplight spills from a window. Watch the sky. This, too, is real.

And be the best you that you ever were. What is true is still true; what is right and decent still shines. Let us glow so brightly, we burst straight through this nightmarish setback in a blaze of light.

Okay. I confess: I cannot deny the sad, sick feeling in my gut right now. And I’m weary, remembering how exhausting his last term was. Maybe I’m just whistling in the dark with all these words. I have been typing through tears.

But this will not be how it ends. Orion and friends came to visit last night; a riot of stars filled the heavens and a slender slice of moon peeked over the hillside. There is a fishing boat at sea and I hear a distant train whistle. A little boy in England is learning to read. Someone sent me a poem. Our lives are miraculous. Our love is so much stronger than their hate. Let us help each other through.