Hard to return to the valley of hope when the skyline burns. Hard to return my words to that place of understanding. Hard to think of how long and how hard I hoped for the outcome I didn’t just want—but believed so much that we needed, to have any chance of saving our failing future. We know, we are better than this. Better— and bitter. So bitter.
My first instinct is to shut it all out. Shut out the stunned news anchors and politicians. Shut out how our President feels and what he says, and what he wishes he could say. Shut out how she must feel—to have worked so hard, to be so qualified, to care so much about this country, and still be rejected in favor of fear and ephemeral solutions. Shut out my memories of Clinton supporters, and Trump supporters, and third party voters, and undecided voters, and more than any of them, shut out those who looked me in the eye and said “I’m not voting this year,” as if their vote in four years could ever be enough. Some bodies go their whole life without feeling the ache of urgency. Until death creeps up from the toes, only then do they realize they should have shared the space of the living. It is too late to save the day.
Saving our planet—it really is up to us, now. We may have failed to elect someone who understands how desperate the situation, but surely golf courses in Scotland, too, will be flooded sometime. All a matter of time. Time— is it ours? Was it ever? I feel in my bones that whatever alternative we didn’t achieve—would that have been enough? Or was it just the slightly less flooded path, leading to the same sunken chamber? All the world is water.
It is painful to grapple with dark history. We expect the present to be full of light, for all that the present moment gives us. Breath, hope, the blessing of presence. Though they have not gone anywhere, it dawns on me that it was always like this—wherever there is war yet sunlight—wherever the stench of death mingles with open air— the mechanisms of life persist. Hard times look plenty soft from the outside. Clichés crowd my brain, making it hard to cut through. My tears crash like waves. All the world is water.
The smell of flowers tickles my nose. I want to stuff it with smoke. I want to squeeze every last sound out of the alphabet. I want to wet the bed. I want to keep going, I want to quit breathing, I want to keep going. I want to find something strong and wise to say to my little sisters. I want to walk the whole way to the ocean. I want to collapse. I want to hug every person I see. I want to stop feeling so absurd. I want to open this thank you. I want to make sound with string. I want to kiss someone, aye. I want to taste. I want what detaches. I want what predates predators. I want what predicates peace. I want to save, save, save. But all the world is water.
Save memory from tearing out the inside. Save our Earth from being sucked dry. Save loved ones from permanent good-bye. Save. Save. Sigh.
I must give this story a rest. For now, at least. For a little while. This is the shock we must absorb, the trial of our tenacious experiment. Never a better time for blankets, and breathing, and gentle touch. Never a better time to love every arch of your body, every word out your mouth, every molten work you create and hold proudly in your chest. Today the first— not the easiest or hardest— but the first of thousands ahead. This, the first page of your best-selling self-help book. This, the first day for an age of radical self-love. Whitman whispers, These are the days that must happen to you. Call it all home. Love pours light over shame. All the world is water.
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