What Now?

We are in an old farm cottage at the Pembrokeshire coast in Wales as I begin to write. Our friends are preparing ravioli, tomato sauce, and garlic bread, and the room is warm and steamy. Soundtrack has been one of Monte’s mixes: Bon Iver, Gregory Alan Asakov, Bad Bunny, Van Morrison, Jackson Browne, a splash of Mozart. It makes no sense, but it doesn’t have to—it’s perfect. It’s easy to think that all is well, and in this luminous sliver of time and space, indeed it is.

We walked today along the coastal path, a day of cinematic skies, sea-sculpted cliffs, and pastoral green fields. I marveled at the beauty of the earth and was filled with a tender and protective kind of love. I touched an ancient stone wall, and watched a ferry in the distance, white and turquoise, looking like a toy. I felt a familiar sense of fragility and gratitude.

We give ourselves permission to be happy sometimes. We ban despair and cynicism, and we limit our doom-scrolling, and although we acknowledge what is happening, we use this as a time to refuel and brace ourselves for that other reality to which we must return.

Seven million protesters stepped up on October 18th all across the United States to express their opposition to an unhinged lunatic who is acting like a dictator, and who, along with his cronies, is intentionally dismantling the functionality of the federal government and destroying our nation. This so-called president’s response in the days immediately following the protests was to post an AI video of himself shitting on the people, to initiate an unauthorized demolition of the East wing of the White House, and to sue the DOJ for $230 million to compensate him for their 2022 investigation of crimes we know were real and about which he continues to lie.

There are overt efforts in place to disrupt fair elections in order to keep this regime in power, and the Republican House Speaker is preventing an Arizona Congresswoman from being sworn in because of her resolve to vote in favor of releasing the Epstein files. Meanwhile, people with different accents or darker skin are living in fear, decent folks are abruptly out of work, health care coverage is being cut, crucial nutrition programs are at risk, and actual knowledge and experience are completely dismissed and devalued. The relative stability of our country and all that we care about is ending before our very eyes, while Trump’s net worth has increased obscenely since he entered office.

I have always sought to make my website something other than a litany of grievances, and here I am, venturing into that territory—and believe me, I have not even listed them all. But it is very hard not to address them on this platform, because I believe that truth matters, and our voices carry. And what is hardest of all is to understand how so many millions still support this destructive, corrupt, and vindictive regime, why the legacy media continue to underplay what is happening, and how shamefully the Supreme Court and the Republicans in Congress have betrayed us and the Constitution.

But it’s all the more reason to stand up, speak out, and do what we can. We are more powerful than we realize. Please don’t doubt it. It’s cumulative, and no action is wasted, no matter how small. We can take a time-out when we need to, and cherish our joy, but we will not turn away. Despair is not an option.

Because I was out of the country on October 18th, my friends and I staged our own little solidarity demonstration for democracy. We walked about the city center of Oxford with our signs, in a quiet and peaceful way, respectful, friendly, and approachable. Many people had no idea that it was a day of massive demonstrations throughout the U.S., and most were supportive of our stance, giving us “thumbs up” and expressing concern that their country was headed in the same direction. A woman with thick dark hair and an elegant gypsy look expressed her fervent agreement, asked to take our picture with her, and invited us to her poetry reading next week.

Not everyone was friendly. “I couldn’t care less,” muttered one cantankerous guy. “I care about myself and my kids, and that’s it,” he said, failing to see the impacts that fascism might have on their lives, not to mention disdain for the health of our planet. An elderly lady who was sitting on a bench reading the Daily Mail asked us what we were about, then suggested we go elsewhere because the University was a bad place, teeming with Communists and spies. We eventually positioned ourselves in front of the historic Sheldonian Theatre, and as others joined us, we became our own little impromptu delegation for democracy, conversing with locals and visitors from all over the world, including a few fellow Americans.

A crusty old football fan from Liverpool commended us on our stance but said we’d have to move even further to the Left to align with him. Two Italian women cheered us on, a Boomer couple from North Carolina commiserated, and a tall young man with tattoos and piercings was surprisingly interested and sympathetic. A retired teacher named Eleanor who lived in Washington explained that traditional matriculation ceremonies were being held inside the building at that very moment to welcome new students into the university, her own son among them.

And as we stood beneath the gaze of the iconic stone philosopher heads that adorn the Sheldonian, students began streaming out, their youthful exuberance palpable. We were careful not to intrude, but several paused and walked over to us with earnest questions. They were genuinely curious about why we were there and what was happening in the U.S. Some, including a touchingly earnest boy from Texas, expressed their support and resolve, posing to have their pictures taken holding up our signs while in their formal academic attire. Afterwards, we bid them Godspeed, and Kelley encouraged them to go forth and make a difference. It seemed to me fitting and beautiful that among the first messages that might catch their eyes as they began their academic lives was a declaration of support for democracy.

A week has passed, and now we are back in Oxford, and a little boy in a skeleton costume performed a spooky show for us in the living room last night with very little plot but lots of special effects, while a chubby baby girl smiled and waved. It’s chilly by my California standards, but it’s good to be here. I’ve had lots of texts from friends in America about their October 18th experiences, which were encouraging and hopeful. But there have also been comments about how difficult it has been to tune out the horrors since, and how raw folks are feeling.

I have an uneasy sense of “What now?” at this point. Many elements of me have gotten jumbled or misplaced in the aftermath of our recent move, and maybe I have not quite landed, but I hope I will be strong and spirited to meet what lies ahead. I’m blessed to have this respite time with people I love in England, but on the other side of an ocean and a continent, the setting of my home awaits, and a shadow has fallen across my country.

But I know this: each of us has traveled paths of tears and triumphs to arrive at where we are, lit by the lanterns of hope and ideals held by others, through passages they opened for us. We may be discouraged at times, maybe even now, but we refuse to be defeated. We have been called upon to rise. This is our moment in history. This is when we discover who we are.

“We never know how high we are/Till we are called to rise;/And then, if we are true to plan,/Our statures touch the skies—“ (Emily Dickinson)