In The Course of The Week

Seen through the circular opening in the ceiling of the hut, the sky was silver-gray, a flat disk of light suspended above us. Within, the tawny walls of branch and willow embraced us. And a small fire flickered, specks of dust and ash drifted about, smoke arising like a spell. The voices of our friends were soothing, and everything we said felt important and intimate, but the words floated away and I can’t recall their substance.

The shed that sheltered us was a Chumash-style dwelling called an ap built by our friends and students within view of Grass Mountain, not far from where a thriving Chumash village had existed centuries earlier. Time stood still within the hut, and we were grateful for the pause. A new week was beginning.

Many things happened in the course of that week, all leading to a renewed awareness of our own fragility and splendor. As I wrote to a friend, I don’t know whether to describe this part of my life as a sad unwinding or a frenzied crescendo.

“I experience 85 to be both,” he replied, “but perhaps more of the frenzied crescendo.  I don’t want to miss anything.  I find myself tuning up my memories of the hundreds of poems I’ve memorized over the years and reciting them on my early morning walks.  But by late morning, my head is ramped up, and I have to lie down for an hour—with two large dogs, resting on top of me.”

Another of my dear older friends, a man in his 90s, was hospitalized this week, and Monte and I went to his house to gather some things that he needed. There is something so touching about the small possessions we accumulate and leave behind as evidence of our lives, the doggedness and bravery it takes to keep going. In the quiet of my friend’s house and the poignancy of its clutter, I felt our shared humanity and vulnerability. We are all so pitiable, but capable of magnificence.

Meanwhile, Monte and I are living in our still-unfurnished home, preparing for its renovation and another short-term exile. As always, the mountains in the distance bring me comfort, and the quality of light, and the blessed fact that we are here together, but it has been difficult to rest and impossible to nest. What books and things we have are mostly in boxes in the garage, and there is a perpetual sense of transition and uncertainty.

I have been searching for reading material that will take me away, and I keep making the wrong choices. For example, I started a book called I Will Bear Witness 1933-1941, A Diary of the Nazi Years by Victor Klemperer. The man was diligent about documenting, and it is a painfully detailed account of his personal travails and the growing horrors around him. At times it sounds so eerily familiar, it could have been written today:

“The never-ending alarms, the never-ending phrases, the never ending hanging out of flags, now in triumph, now in mourning—it all produces apathy. And everyone feels helpless, and everyone knows he is being lied to, and everyone is told what he has to believe…”

We are aware of that encroaching sense of helplessness, for that is the backdrop to this week, and to the long, discouraging weeks that have come before it. The malignant narcissism, cruelty, and brazen corruption of the current administration affect us daily. I hate that I find myself writing about this so much. I resent the way it invades my head and distorts our lives and undermines our faith in the guardrails designed by the founders to protect us from tyranny, and in the goodness and intelligence of others. I’m certain I used to laugh a lot more. Now I feel sad, disillusioned, and angry. I know I am not alone, and I know we cannot give up, but oh, it is exhausting!

Yet somehow the week also held fortifying walks with friends, an onscreen visit with my grandson, and the gathering of our writing group, with its therapeutic sharing of stories, poetry, and song .

I asked my friend Lynne, whom I respect and admire, what “community” means to her. This is what she said:

Community is more than a place, more than the streets that lead to my house, more than the neighboring houses and offices.  In my mind, "community" refers to the people that you rely on, and who rely on you.  Like-minded people who band together in a multitude of ways to make the world a better, safer, more inviting place.  A better place for all of us, but especially for those who are less capable, more fragile, less sure.

Lynne’s current state of mind, she admits, alternates between despondency and determination. But she also talked about what brings her hope, and I have observed the many ways she makes hope happen.

“What is your source of faith?” I wondered.

“A belief that hard work pays off,” she said. “And that integrity will be rewarded.  And you will sleep well at night if you just do the right thing.”

Will integrity and virtue prevail? So many of our fellow citizens have abandoned these values in favor of cheating, lies, and cruelty.

We cannot give up. We have a sacred duty to honor the hard-won legacy of democracy we inherited.  

It’s been a long week, and I’m weary. But we find our solace and our sustenance, too, in order to survive.

I liked the sense of shelter in the Chumash hut, somehow lightly enclosed but not at all apart from the world outdoors. I liked the sense of sanity and stillness. I liked the light solidity of it, its deceiving strength.

 ___________

Inside the Chumash ap, looking up.

Here is a link to an interview I recommend with the brilliant historian Timothy Snyder, an expert on how democracies collapse and how they fight back.  It’s an hour-long listen but well worth it.  Snyder clearly explains what is happening and what we can do about it. I found it validating.
https://youtu.be/1U0I2wI5UOc