I Go To School
To me, this post-election grief feels like a stone that has lodged in my gut. Even in moments of laughter and forgetting, it’s there: a toxic, ugly pervasive thing that cannot be entirely soothed or purged, seeping anger, disillusionment, and worry.
I’ve even learned a term for what has been ushered in: kakistocracy. It refers to government run by the worst, i.e., the least qualified and the most unscrupulous. It’s actually an old word, dating back as far as the 17th century, but in a recent column on culture and language, The Economist has proclaimed it “word of the year” and points out that it encapsulates the fears of half of America and much of the world right now. We are watching a kakistocracy emerge in our country, and I know I’m not the only one feeling sick about this.
And yet I remain a fundamentally hopeful person, and that has been my stubborn stance since childhood. Some might call it foolishness or denial, but, to paraphrase the great Irish poet Seamus Heaney, I walk on air against my better judgement. We must feel what we feel, but I believe we have some discretionary power as to how much we let the darkness rule us.
So although I was in a morose frame of mind on Monday morning, I pushed through my mood and set out to visit my friend Tina at her nearby ranch. The plan was already in place, and I didn’t want to cancel. I listened to classical music on the radio instead of the news, and I began to feel better as soon as I started driving up the hill on Tina’s property and caught sight of a white schoolhouse gleaming in the sunlight.
Yes, Tina has a schoolhouse, a one-room schoolhouse that dates from 1869 and officially closed in 1935. Tina rescued the abandoned building in 2007, had it moved to her ranch, fully restored it in meticulous detail, and offers what she calls living history days. I think of it as time travel. Children from surrounding communities dress in period clothing and experience a school day much as they would have in the 19th century, with Tina conducting class, in costume and character. And as I approached the building, it struck me anew how extraordinary this is. Think of it. The woman moved a schoolhouse, made it real, and has kept it alive for the children.
Tina had long been interested in one-room schoolhouses, a fundamental institution of bygone days in rural communities, and she admired the stalwart pioneer teachers who taught students at all grade levels and might also serve as custodian, nurse, and cook––the hard-working, unheralded agents of civilization. After restoring the schoolhouse, Tina developed a one-day curriculum that encompasses some basic reading, writing, and arithmetic, but implicitly integrates lessons about good old-fashioned virtues such as kindness and honesty, about chores and cooperation, even the importance of writing a thank you letter. These are all things that mattered once, and still should. Maybe in this setting, the kids can also sense more clearly that history is relevant, and the present is a continuation of a story begun by those who came before us.
And you know what? It lifted my soul just to be in this space. Rows of desks faced a chalkboard written upon by Tina in her flawless cursive, a piano awaited playing, a bookcase held colorful vintage editions of hard-covered books. There was a large map of the Western Hemisphere on an easel, a portrait of George Washington mounted on a wall, and a framed photo of Thelma Chamberlain Battles, the last teacher of the Pleasant Valley Schoolhouse, seeming serenely present. Squares of sunlight illuminated the polished wood floor, fall’s golden landscape beckoned outside, and I felt a sense of peace and continuity.
My friend has recreated a one-room schoolhouse and brought it to life, and this is a crazy, extravagant labor of love. It got me to thinking about all the labors of love, grand or small, happening in this moment, about all the defiantly well-meaning souls trying in their own ways to make things better, to protect what is dear, to be of service and shine their light.
More words from Seamus Heaney seem fitting here: “Hope is not optimism, which expects things to turn out well, but something rooted in the conviction that there is good worth working for.”
Oh, there is good. So much good.
We’ve had a shocking setback, and there’s a hard road ahead, but there may yet be surprising twists, and not all that is threatened will manifest. In the meantime, no matter what, I’m rooting for resilience and outrageous love.
And, from Seamus Heaney’s poem, The Cure at Troy, I share these words:
So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.
Yes, my spirits brightened in the schoolhouse, and goodness kept pouring down on me for the rest of that day and in the week that has followed. A former teacher-colleague wrote to me and reminded me of our philanthropy elective and how our middle school students raised money for worthy causes by selling lollipops. I went into a bookstore in town that even smelled like a bookstore, that elusive fusion of paper, print, and wood, and I bought a special journal to give as a birthday present to a 9-year-old girl. There are some lofty educational ideas brewing at the local school right now, with the future of the planet in mind and volunteers willing to share their expertise. The ladies who hike walked up to a high place in the mountains, then rested, filled with gratitude, and I knew somehow that our strength and truths would sustain us.
At home there were macadamia nuts to be harvested, and oranges to feast on, and sunsets of astonishing magnificence. A dear neighbor invited us to dinner, and we talked about real things and sat by a fire and watched a fox nonchalantly loitering right outside the window. Venus rose above the hills so near and bright, it broke my heart wide open. And the tribe of those who try is stronger than ever.
I don’t know why I am so blessed, but I will not go gently. I read some poignant and beautiful poems I had not known about…yes, by Seamus Heaney…and found a book of short stories that I am enjoying very much. Now I am writing this, and the hard stone of grief in my gut is turning to resolve, and my love for this world is fierce and unflagging, and I feel like I can walk on air, despite my better judgement.