Turning Point

Yesterday we set out on a field trip with our friends Neil and Dot to a market town in the Cotswolds called Cirencester. It was chilly and gray, as most of the days here have been, but I decided I would search for beauty, or at least try to find things that were earnest and hopeful. I wasn’t sure what this would look like, but what I most abhor these days is cynicism, and so I seek its opposite.

It was a busy town with the good bones and backdrops of earlier times: stone walls, old cottages, narrow winding passageways, and an impressive cathedral with a wintry unkempt graveyard of mossy stones and Halloween-ish trees. There were mostly mundane contemporary shops, but also a large crafts gallery where we saw a glass-blowing studio, pottery, scarves, art prints, and various kinds of jewelry-making vendors. I bought myself a pair of inexpensive earrings that I certainly didn't need, but they’re like shiny blue mirrors, shaped like moons, each with a silver star. (And that gives you a good idea how juvenile my taste in baubles is.) And I talked to a milliner who said she has been making hats for thirty years. Millinery is an ancient craft that peaked as a fashion profession in the 17th and 18th centuries, and it was lovely to see her in her space constructing and displaying her creations. “It’s just a small thing,” she told me, “but it’s what I do.”

We had a lunch of pasta with Neil and Dot, buoyed by Neil’s proclamation that it was the best meal he ever had, simply because it was here and now, and that’s kind of the way he goes through life. Then we wandered through the nave of the great cathedral, looking up at the stained-glass windows and reading the inscriptions in the marble memorial panels on the walls. Outside, at the farmers’ market in front of the church, there were colorful piles of fresh produce, festive bouquets of flowers, scented candles, soft woven blankets, and all manner of worldly goods. If only the sun had come out, I think I’d have called it a carefree day, but nothing entirely distracts me from the awful-ness in our country right now.

Weirdly, the most affirmative event happened back in Oxford that night when I walked to the fish ‘n chips shop and encountered a young Asian man (turned out he was from China) who had apparently gotten on the wrong bus and was completely lost. (I know the feeling.) He spoke almost no English, his phone was dead, and he seemed to have only a vague postal code address on a slip of paper. “I’m lost,” he said. “Can someone help me home? Can someone get me uber?” He actually looked scared. But a customer in the fish ‘n chips shop stepped up with such gallantry and grace, it took my breath away. He deciphered the young man’s address (a student residence on the other side of town), offered money (not needed), ran out to a cab on the street that declined the gig, and arranged a taxi pickup by phone. I told the man he was a hero, that his kindness had lifted my spirits. “What else would I do?” he said, as if such kindness was the norm. (And why isn’t it?) 

I am writing this as my Cali-versary draws near. It was February 2, 1982, when I came to California to stay. This was my life’s great migration, and I’ve written about it before: the ‘73 Buick with the broken gas gauge and tattered vinyl roof, the black plastic trash bags that I referred to as my matched luggage, the desperado that was me at the wheel. And I probably realized it was Groundhog Day, but I did not know then that it is also Candlemas, the halfway point between winter solstice and the start of spring. Candlemas evolved from the days of early Christianity and even before, when people placed candles in their windows to ward off winter’s darkness and began to anticipate the return of warmth and light. I could not have chosen a more fitting date on which to change my life so radically. It is in every sense a turning point.

And I don’t think I have ever spent this particular day abroad, but here I am in England, looking back on the life I found in California, and from this vantage point, I see with even greater clarity how astonishing and unlikely it has been, and my heart swells with gratitude and love. It’s true there has been a branching, for I can no longer fully leave Oxford behind, home of my only daughter, her husband, and now, amazingly, two grandchildren. Today we began reading Alice in Wonderland to Felix, and he laughed with glee at its absurdity, and our own little Alice, three weeks old, snuggled up like a cinnamon bun against her grandfather’s chest. But I am learning to live with the mix of sadness and thanks, and when we are far apart, I will rest in the joy that comes with the knowledge that they exist and they’re all right.

We are down to our last few days here, so on this turning-point/anniversary day, I am beginning to turn my focus back to California, to my family of friends, my beloved community, and the landscape that has shaped my soul. New challenges await. “You might just want to stay there,” writes a California friend. She’s understandably dismayed by the relentless assaults on our democracy and the sickening, unprecedented ways in which the un-president has abused and disgraced the power and dignity of the executive office. In addition to various news bulletins and updates, I’ve been getting alarming dispatches from a relative of mine who is in a management level position at a federal agency. He reports unbelievable, irrational orders and outrageous memoranda daily, intentionally sowing chaos, fear, and dysfunction. Certain words are banned. A deranged, unelected billionaire from South Africa with many conflicts of interest and bizarre ideas has just been given full access to the federal payment system. As Rebecca Solnit puts it, “The functionality of the federal government is being sabotaged by people who have no right to be anywhere near it.”

This is full-on fascism—a coup—not some normal swing of the political pendulum. Everything we care about is under attack, and the horrors keep accumulating. It’s hard not to feel sick and prematurely weary. But thankfully, there is also pushback, intransigence, legal action, brave obstruction, and loud, articulate voices. We’re learning who to follow for advice and information: among others, Rebecca Solnit, Robert Hubbell, Heather Cox Richardson, Marisa Kabas, Jessica Craven (“Chop Wood Carry Water”). We can call members of Congress, attorneys general, governors, too, and there are lots of scripts and tips available to help us make our points effectively. We can step up when we see injustice in our own communities. There have been spontaneous heartfelt rallies, dissemination of helpful information, and tangible support for innocent people arbitrarily targeted in ICE sweeps. Folks are watching out for each other, and I’m told that there’s a palpable sense of camaraderie back home in California. This regime is in fact hugely unpopular, and I think that’s true of authoritarians in general, which is why they use fear and outrageous proclamations. It’s up to us to see through it and speak out. We don’t need to accept this madness. We can ultimately use the felon’s unpopularity against him, especially as his actions begin to hurt even his supporters.

“I’m tired,” says a Boomer friend. “I have bills to pay, a disabled husband, and no more time or energy to fight this. If young people want to live in a democracy, let them step up now.” I get it. But I think it’s a matter of staying informed and figuring out what we can each reasonably do. I appreciate how Robert Hubbell puts it in his newsletter today: “Our task is to serve as a bridge in the arc to the next generation. If all we do is hold back the forces of darkness, that will be enough. If all we do is endure and outlast the bastards, that will be enough. But I am confident that we can and will do much more.”

We are not alone; there are millions of us. We can resist and transcend with clarity, resilience, and ferocity. Let’s do good work, whatever form it takes. Rest and refuel when necessary. Above all, let us not succumb to resignation, despair and cynicism.

Now and then I have been criticized by readers for getting “political”, by which I think they mean they would prefer me not to express my opinions here. I’ve been told I should just stick to pretty words and let this blog be a refuge. But I believe we have gone far beyond “political” and are deep in moral and existential territory, threatened in real ways by players whose intent is to destroy our government for their own wealth and power and impose their oppressive credo upon us all. And I believe that each of us must use whatever platform we have to speak truth and communicate with honesty. We need each other now more than ever, and writing is one way of being here. So I’ll keep sharing my thoughts about the beauty and the wonder and the loss and the love, but I’ll be “political” sometimes. This is the history to which we are bearing witness, and the story we are living. We can talk out loud. We can connect.

And yes, I’m still amazed. I love that it is Candlemas. I love knowing that even though I’m cold, the days are getting longer now, and we’re more than midway to spring. I love knowing that there are people doing crafts and making art, for no reason other than the urge to create, and there are strangers helping strangers, and children hearing stories and beginning their own. I can so easily picture the warm glow of candlelight through ice-frosted window panes centuries ago, sights set on brighter days, hearts filled with yearning and hope. I love that this day can be a turning point.