A letter to you today

We've been here before and we'll be here again.

People have always been good at imagining the end of the world, which is much easier to picture than the strange sidelong paths of change in a world without end. -Rebecca Solnit

This morning while walking the dog, I saw a woman with her son. After days of slogging rain, a beautiful blue sky had broken through and the son was throwing leaves into the air with gusto, his small face shining. His mother, her red, swollen face trained like a laser into her Rectangle of Doom, could barely look at the boy.

I know, I thought. I know how she feels. But that boy doesn’t. That boy only knows that it’s a beautiful day and mom is sad and staring into the blue light is making her more sad by the minute. It’s November 6th and our bodies — the bodies of those of us who were adults in 2016, anyway — have found a special store of dread and sickness that we’ve been holding onto for just such an occasion.

But on November 10, 2016, I spent a cold Wednesday hungover and desiccated from crying and lack of sleep, feeling crushed and shocked and utterly astounded. Today I don’t feel that way. I don’t think I can be surprised by the latent misogyny and racism that is stitched into every fiber of this country. I don’t think I can surprised by the willingness of people to be lied to. There’s something within the human brain that reaches out toward simple answers and shudders away from complexities.

Again, I can’t know what’s next. But I know what I’ve learned so far and I know that dread often outweighs heartbreak, at least by volume. And I’ve learned, too, that we spend a lot of time wearing the proverbial hair shirt of social media and news, feeling like we absolutely must feel every scrap of pain that everyone else is feeling and like….that’s not the case.

You’re not a better person or a kinder person for taking on every sharp shard of injury done to every person you have access to witnessing. You are allowed to look away, especially — ESPECIALLY — if there’s plenty of pain being inflicted on you. By your own communities. In your own spaces. By people you know. In places you call home.

I also know this: I have no idea what’s ultimately going to happen. It won’t be different. It won’t be better. I can’t pretend to know what it’ll be.

But I do know a couple of things, and those things are:

• In three more Halloweens, in theory, we’ll be back here again. This is not a guarantee but it’s likely.

• In 300 more Halloweens, we’ll all be dead. So.

• The last time, there were times of rapturous joy, even when the overall feeling was bad.

• The last time there were times of dark despair that were unrelated to the residents of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,

• The last time, there were local elections that came and went and people seemed barely to notice and all but were much more consequential to our daily lives.

• Between the years of 2016 and 2020, babies were born. People died. A global pandemic happened. We all did what we could. Some of that was made worse — dramatically worse — and some of it wasn’t

• Between those years, I got my tubes tied because I knew I needed to protect myself and my future and suggest you take similar measures if you are in the same boat.

• I suggest also that you get familiar with the phrases “not without a warrant,” and “I don’t answer questions without the presence of legal counsel.”

• This may not be true for you, but in the last, like, 10 years, I’ve spent entirely too much of my one precious life feeling upset at the idea that people I loathe were feeling joy about something I felt horrible about. I can’t control that. I can’t control anything beyond the tip of my nose, really. Why care about a Bitch Eatin’ Crackers when the crackers in my cupboard are going stale and the birds in my front lawn are hungrily picking around for a snack? Let them be happy. Who gives a shit. I can be happy in my barren childless Oregonian life that makes them upset, too.

• Some people just have to find out to find out. Good luck to them all.

• We’re best when we’re there for each other. Be there for the people in your life. Ask how they are and mean it. Be a good partner, a good friend, a good parent. Water your plants. Water your pets. Water your own sad husk of a body. Go for a walk. Enjoy every little thing that remains good because it’s still good and that’s a win.

All those many years ago, I began nearly obsessively reading Rebecca Solnit, who became a necessary touchstone. Specifically, I read Hope in the Dark conservatively one trillion times. In case you haven’t read it or it’s been a while, I want to leave you with this reminder:

Joy doesn't betray but sustains activism. And when you face a politics that aspires to make you fearful, alienated, and isolated, joy is a fine act of insurrection.

I don’t know what might happen, which is precisely where dread originates. Dread is the feeling that something bad might, probably will, likely is going to happen. But it hasn’t happened yet. And in this exact, precise moment, isn’t happening. And likely, you can’t plan for it.

Which means you’re just here, living moment by relatively unchanged moment, feeling awful due to things occurring mostly internally, in the space you can control.

You can spend those moments mired in the dread, staring into your phone like that mom. Or you can play with your kids (who you brought into this world!) and take care of your garden and do your crafts and make meals for your friends and call your nana.

Because if they can have an insurrection of hate and bullshit, we can have an insurrection of joy, snatched from dread.