The Heart of the People
Halfway through the morning walk, just past the Hill to the west, it started to rain. No leaves yet on the black walnuts, sycamores and red maples filling in where the corn used to be two-plus decades ago, so the branches and buds catch the drops with soft tapping sounds. In just ten yards, I’ll turn the corner into the mouth of a secondary path Patrick cut a few years back and I’ll hear the gentle downpour fading behind me until I get to the woods.
This place knows magic, every day.
There are few things more soothing than walking in intermittent spring showers, unless it’s being tucked in on the couch afterwards with the morning oats (blackberries, blueberries, maple syrup and honest-to-goodness butter that’s white, not yellow), writing about them. I’ve not been sleeping well, nerves rubbed raw with uncertainty and each hour’s headlines worse than the ones before. Didn’t I just share two weeks ago about the hope of tending to life and growing things? Where’d all that go? The garden’s coming along, as gardens do with proper love and attention, and we hope to be eating radishes in our salads soon, but the rest of it seems to have evaporated, retreated into the temporary protection of the heart’s warren, where all smart rabbits hide when the hawk’s shadow darkens and blots out the sun. I’m safe and dry for now, in the company of a few others who, like me, need a break from the onslaught of hopelessness and fear. We’ll emerge in a bit to take up the mantle of love and justice again but give us a minute to catch our breath (I have plans to clear out what’s underneath the bed later today, just to have another place to go if I need it). In the meantime, I sink into the rain as it washes away the worry. A little.
Out running errands yesterday afternoon following a flurry of final tax preparation, Patrick and I drove through a packed demonstration on the street where a Tesla dealership stands. Pro-democracy supporters were six rows deep and around the block, numbering over 500; a small group of their pro-fascist counterparts sprinkled in here and there, flashing middle fingers and shouting insults across the two-lane road that divided the crowds (physically, for a start). No violence beyond the anger in the faces of those on both sides whose fears lurked just below the surface. I noticed one calm gentleman holding his hand over his heart, nodding with his eyes closed. It was warm and breezy, flags of all sorts snapping and unfurling over the heads of everyone standing up for what they believe. I honked loud and long as we circled the block and 500+ people cheered their thanks.
I don’t ask how we got here anymore. It’s neither helpful nor therapeutic to do so. The more urgent question is “where are we going?” If I let fear alone answer that one, I’ll be under the bed more often. Most days, though, I’m not that short-sighted, and thank the Maker for that. The rhythm of life, for me and maybe Patrick, at least, is a back-and-forth motion between unsettled and determined, with the land wrapping us in rain-washed comfort and wisdom round the clock. The last two weeks have leaned more heavily toward the “unsettled” side of things. Morning walks, work and studio art projects distract and soften the rough edges for a few blessed moments. It’s the nights that take me down, hard sometimes, as my thoughts are left to spool unchecked and unhopeful. Sunrises have been harder to believe in lately.
Sometimes I imagine an actual conversation between me and someone whose views and convictions are completely on the other side of my own. Is such an encounter even possible? I find that generous portion of my heart that wants to really listen, not just react, and I wonder where we’d land in those pockets of silence that pepper all challenging discussions. I’d like to think I’m compassionately curious about what goes on behind the clever slogans and yard signs, in the privacy of one’s own living room. Is there any common ground among humanity anymore? Anything we can agree on and somehow move a foot (heck, a toe) forward together? It wasn’t evident on the street yesterday, far as I could see, but we didn’t stay long enough to find out. Looks like I’ll need to go back and try again. Maybe.
My late mother-in-law often shared this insightful nugget in times of trouble and doubt: “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift—that’s why it’s called ‘the present’”. At 2:30 this morning, it struck me that the current Situation pushes me to stop and live in the gift of whatever my present moment is, until the next one comes around, and the next…and the next. Now I’m four minutes into a future that looked bleak an hour ago and I’m still here, still married to the man of my dreams and still determined, if only even a little bit, to do what I can to help push that bleakness back a few yards. Is that enough? Not against the backdrop of a future built by my—and our—worst nightmares, it isn’t, but…on the bus with strangers, heading downtown to work? Ok, sure. Or thanking the man in the MAGA hat who just held the door for me at Kroger? Um, yeah. Teachable moments are surprisingly everywhere and most don’t involve a monologue to a captive audience. I rub my forehead, a little confused by the grayness of it all when my heart—and maybe the hearts of others—wants black-and-white, linear and clear assessments and solutions. Communities are messy and evolving, our fellow humans in a continuous state of growth and awakening (darn it all, on myriad different time frames and schedules, too) and yes, intransigence. Patience is required while we’re also painting slogans on the signs and banners we’ll wave in the streets. The good work of love and justice must continue.
All I know is that I want peace. And I can’t be alone in that. I’ll do what I can, as best I can, one moment to the next.
Join me.
