Who I Used To Be

I have discovered I have a great propensity for naps. And ice cream. Yes, I hit the ice cream several times a day, and I have become a world-class napper. My intention may be a momentary lie-down, but with stunning alacrity, I sink into a deep, drooling session of sleep. I don’t exactly feel refreshed afterwards. There is simply a sense of having capitulated to a condition too compelling and inevitable to fight. I am one with my destiny during these spontaneous naps. And then, if there is ice cream in the fridge, I arise and indulge. Ice cream never fails.

That is not how I ever expected to begin a post for a website focused on amazement and wonder, but I suppose it’s an honest reflection of my current mental state, and among other things, this blog is about honest connection. I hesitate to use the word “depression” because thankfully I have not fallen that far, but let’s face it, many of us are skirting the edges, and it takes a lot of resolve to remain hopeful and functional.

This dystopian darkness has changed us all. I’m pretty sure I used to laugh more readily. And I understood that our country was flawed, and that misery and injustice were real, but I had a sturdy faith in the general decency of humans, and in the belief that most folks lived their lives within some parameters of reason and could distinguish truth from absurdity. When things went awry, and they certainly did, I was among the multitudes who spoke up. But even at the most challenging points, I assumed that our leaders included a critical mass of folks with ethics and integrity for whom power was ultimately a means to improve the common good, and that the guardrails of democracy would hold. Imagine that? I trusted that the Court, despite the members known to be corrupt or ineffectual, would uphold the Constitution, that the press would implement its freedom and sacred duty to speak unvarnished truth, that Republicans might have different views but basically cared about democracy, and the clever system of checks and balances that the founders built into the Constitution was fundamentally intact.  I did not feel chronically ashamed of what America had come to signify in the world. I did not feel that we were betraying our forebears.

Now, I haul around a heavy heart and try to choke down my revulsion. I feel chronically disillusioned and often overwhelmed. I know I am not alone in this, and it’s very understandable. We must acknowledge such feelings, ride them out, take a nap, get back up.

But you know what else? This weirdness has also yielded unexpected blessings. For one thing, I am braver than I used to be. Maybe it’s born of a sense of urgency, but I am finding my voice and standing up, walking on air, as Seamus Heaney advised, despite my better judgement. And friendships are stronger. The relentless assault has forged a sturdy network of stalwart friends who come out in protest, take action, and give one another sustenance on personal and societal levels. We are weathering this together, and our bond is fierce.

I believe we are all seeing weaknesses we had not known were there, and injustices that were real but perhaps less visible to those of us more insulated from them. And I am also more thankful and protective than ever for what we have had and stand to lose.

So maybe, if we stay the course, some of this is good? I for one would rather know than not know. I would rather know, absorb the hard realities, brush myself off, and be part of the counter force. (Again, license granted for naps and ice cream as needed, and walks outdoors. We are only human, after all. Intermittent rest and renewal are vital.)

Here’s something else that helped. The feature documentary Lightworkers, directed by Bobby Roth, is now available to stream worldwide at lightworkersdoc.com. Robert Hubbell talked about it in his daily newsletter, a friend rented it for five bucks, and a few of us watched it together. Lightworkers faces the reality that our democracy is under existential threat, considers what compels individuals to act, and explores how ordinary citizens can make meaningful change.

I scribbled quotes and notes in my little journal as I watched: Silence is not safety. Comfort is a danger zone. Have the courage to believe another world is possible. Don’t stop wanting to be better. Resistance is an ongoing process. Hope is a political and moral choice. America needs a redemption story.  Evil persists when good people do nothing. If you feel afraid, you can still act. We are the ones we have been waiting for. Be the change.

One of the speakers, a brave and eloquent Black woman named Peggy Trotter Dammond Preacely, said, “Sometimes what you have to do to survive and thrive is uncomfortable.”

But we do it anyway.

Robert Hubbell is a hero of mine, and he’s featured in the documentary too. He boldly suggests that we approach this period with gratitude, because look how far we have come and with what clarity we are seeing. We reached this point after a long history of struggle and progress, and the arc of history has detours and setbacks, but we will prevail over the long term. This is a setback, not the end.

But only if we resist. What does that mean? It means a million things, great and small, and we each find our lane. It means peaceful protest. It means connecting with others in community. It means acting with decency and kindness. It means calling legislators. It means writing postcards and letters. It means speaking the truth. It means sending money, hands-on effort, communication, gathering together. It means art and defiance and spoken word and music. My dear friend Jan is starting a resistance choir. I’m working on a storytelling event highlighting the wisdom of folks who transcended hardship. Neither of us knows what we are doing, but we do the things we are not yet good at. Or we do the things we do best and apply these to what we care about most.

And maybe more than anything, it means voting. Voting is the superpower that we must not forfeit, and we can help those who face obstruction by donating to an organization such as Movement Voter Project.

After watching Lightworkers, I went for a walk, and that is another thing that never fails to revive my soul. In the garden of the Mission, a group of children on a field trip from Santa Maria had just disembarked from a school bus, noisy and joyful. The mountains loomed in the distance, roses and alstroemeria bloomed, and a life-sized statue of a healing Jesus gazed upon it all. The children ran about, laughing and playing, and the world was benign and heartbreakingly lovely.

I’ve been finding peace in our new house, too, which, although empty and pending, is nonetheless home. I see it as a story yet to be written, a space of quiet promise, but I know now how the front room at night is suffused with silver-gray light, a mix of starlight with a dash of moon and memory. I have learned the sticky door, the tap of the feet on a cool stone floor, how morning begins with white wisps of cloud caressing the mountains.

On a bike ride in the neighborhood, a curve in the path was bordered by a thicket of trees and tall grass, an old barn sagged in the distance recalling bygone days, and everything was hushed and rustic, rife with winking secrets. Remember when you were young, upon glimpsing such places for the first time, wondering how you might one day fit into this beautiful mysterious world? It’s still there, trying to continue, sustaining us in so many ways.

I am dazzled and humbled by the enormity of it all, by the banquet of this life, the gifts I have been given simply by existing. I am touched by the tenderness and striving of the good people I know. We will not stand by and acquiesce to a regime of putrid sickos who care about nothing but their own egos and wealth.

I once had a dream that that began with nouns. Ordinary objects were infused with light, all waiting and portent, newly significant. Teapots and tools, an open umbrella, a felt hat and a feather. Swept along through the entirety of my past, I saw streets and paths I have walked upon, felt the touch of a hand I held as a child, and watched vignettes that starred the people I have loved, flickering quickly before me but fully absorbed, for they were here already. (I love you, I love you they said to me in a thousand silent ways.) A tiny blue bottle drifted towards me in the surf, an orange fell from a tree, the parched summer ground dreamed of rivers and rain. The lozenges of moonlight quivered on the living room floor, and there was aliveness in everything. My soul opens like a bowl when I let it, and it is filled, and I have so much to give.

Yesterday I stumbled upon an inspiring poem by a Minneapolis-based artist and poet I had never even heard of: Matt Moberg. It’s a long poem, and every line is touching, funny, or amazing, but I will share its culminating stanza here, because it so perfectly fits:

And may we remember—

whatever else this is,
whatever mess,
whatever miracle,
whatever cosmic group project
no one prepared for—

all’ve it is astonishing.

It’s astonishing that we are here.
It’s astonishing that we have loved enough to be ruined.
It’s astonishing that the moon keeps showing up.

It’s astonishing that bread exists.

So pass it.

Tear off a piece
with your bare hands.

Take it in as you take it down. 
And then go outside and look at that moon.

____________

And so I shall succumb to the nap, and I’ll eat my ice cream, and I’m lucky to have access to these balms.

But I hereby reaffirm my commitment to hope, resistance, and action. I’ll keep trying my best, whatever form it takes. It would be so selfish and ungracious to do anything else. What then would my life have meant?

Let’s do this together.