This fire

“Let your heart break so your spirit doesn’t.” — Andrea Gibson

The roof of my heart has been blown off.

I’m sick and sad and thoroughly disappointed that so many Americans bought into the hatred and lies sold to them by wealthy megalomaniacs like Elon Musk, who spent $130 million on this election, and who cares only about padding his wallet. Tesla’s stock soared today, unsurprisingly. The billionaires won. And the most vulnerable among us will burn.

“Only a fire can teach you what survives a fire.” — Sarah Manguso

This feels much worse than 2016.

I’m profoundly angry that we’ll be spending the next four years not making things a tiny bit better, but fighting with every ounce of strength we have to keep things from getting demonstrably worse, to keep encroaching fascism at bay, to keep the planet from being decimated, to imagine a better future than the one we’ve been handed. That many of us willingly chose.

My heart breaks for my trans and nonbinary friends and family, for Palestine, for women without access to reproductive care, for immigrants, for Ukraine. For the motherfucking earth.

And yet, we can’t measure our lives by the things we have lost.

Rebecca Solnit wrote on Facebook, “The fact that we cannot save everything does not mean we cannot save anything and everything we can save is worth saving.”

She said, “There is no alternative to persevering, and that does not require you to feel good. You can keep walking whether it's sunny or raining. Take care of yourself and remember that taking care of something else is an important part of taking care of yourself, because you are interwoven with the ten trillion things in this single garment of destiny that has been stained and torn, but is still being woven and mended and washed.”

I pictured wearing this garment of destiny, this cloth of justice, of progress that is constantly being unraveled and lit on fire at one end, while at the other we are frantically adding stitches, trying to keep up, to not lose ourselves to despair.

We’re not fast enough.

Today it feels like we will never be fast enough.

Toni Morrison said, “This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.

“I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge — even wisdom. Like art.”

Hope is a muscle.

And today it’s fucking sore.

It’s not wrong, but the advice to “breathe” and “drink water” is beyond irritating. I don’t want to drink water or breathe. I don’t want platitudes or blame. I want to rage. And cry. I want to swaddle my disappointment in acid until it eats everything away.

Yesterday, I finished The Witches of El Paso, which is, predictably, full of witches and magic and time-travel and it wasn’t exactly a palate-cleanser, but it wasn’t not either.

Yesterday, I went on a walk with my wife and the leaves are turning brilliant and a woman was selling bright orange marigolds on the street corner in buckets and the best parts of living have always been us looking out for each other, and that’s been true for ages, no matter what else happens.

How are you doing?

A poem by J. Drew Lanham

To walk in a mad world,

but not be mad.

To not imagine how it happened,

but know the all too painful why.

To mourn hope's demise,

but revive it from deep within.

To weaken at the knees,

but stand strong in my belief.

To feel broken,

but somehow begin the repair.

To have justice denied

but know it must come of my own making

To be empty,

but not full of hate.

To know despair,

but make short the relationship.

To have worth demeaned

but know my worth's meaning.

To have no words,

but find something worthy to say.

To have confusion be the choice,

but see my own way clear.

To be bitter,

but find sweetness in kindred hugs.

To have the game cheated away

but my life's practice soundly played.

To wallow in all this misery,

but wash clean in worthy mission after.

To be lost

but keep the bearing home in heart's map.

To have the heaviness weigh two tons

but find lightness knowing I'm not alone.

To lose trust in so-called-friends and neighbors,

but find faith in those more mindfully close.

To want better in some tomorrow to come,

someday

beyond this day

whenever that time might come,

These are my pleas, my promises to self, my solemn prayer;

To whatever God or gods might be listening this dark morning.