There are times when I actually feel sorry for the MAGA bunch. Not often, because they are continually involved in such sorry and destructive behavior. But sorry in the sense that they seem so desperately unhappy. So little of the world they live in is acceptable to them. I would not want to live in their heads for a moment.
And I realize that to have become the wise and serene and accepting and all-round wonderful human being that I am is the purest accident, the endpoint of a long series of days (31,311 to be exact) when life sculpted and molded and pushed me until I couldn’t be anything else.
I grew up in an economically deprived home, but not an abusive one. I was exposed to peer groups that were only mildly delinquent and antisocial in their behavior, which meant that I experienced none of the harsh lessons that come with incarceration. I had parents who had clear ideas about right and wrong, fair and unfair, and who had enough minor flaws that I learned that it was possible to love someone even though they were imperfect.
I was given a mind that was useful in solving problems and remembering information, at a time and place in history where such qualities were rewarded.
As the wonderful man who was Thich Nhat Hanh used to tell in one of his stories, we are the victims of robbery and rape, and we are the robbers and the rapists. All of those possibilities were in us when we were born. Chance and happenstance … chance and happenstance … and here I am, a card-carrying non-MAGA of the first water.
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(Three of the tunes on the blog today are from the album Live At Wolf Trap, and are performed by the estimable Doobie Brothers.)
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The world is full of metaphors involving water, isn’t it? Makes sense, since our origins are probably in the sea, but just think of all the lessons and stories that involve the ocean, rivers, and lakes of the earth. And I offer here a modest addition to that lore.
Robin and I are involved in a nationwide progressive organization called Indivisible. We have been involved in planning events, we have marched with kindred spirits, we have watched many training sessions on television. Training to become engaged citizens who have left their comfort zone and are learning the language of speaking up, of making our voices heard.
It took the many kicks and prods offered by the Cluck administration to get us out of our burrows, but it has happened and now, we ask ourselves as we stand blinking in the glaring sunlight, what?
We have a healthy sense of our individual unimportance, I think. No delusions of one day running for political office (and here is the 85 year-old junior senator from the great state of Colorado … ), and are not convinced that our understanding of where it is all going is a completely accurate one. But we see a great ugliness that calls us to resist it and to stand in its way whenever we can.
And yet we also realize that by ourselves we are like a couple of drops of water on a griddle. If we stand still we disappear and are of no help to anyone. But when we join with others we become a creek, a river, and finally, perhaps, a powerful wave.
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Robin and I hit the streets once again on Thursday afternoon, along with Indivisible and the League of Women Voters. About a dozen of the women, including Robin, dressed in costumes from the television series “The Handmaid’s Tale.” The theme of the day was protection of women’s rights including the right to vote. Both of these are in jeopardy under Cluck with his corrupt handmaidens and henchmen.
‘Twas a hot afternoon, but not quite as beastly as the previous few days. Once again, the local yahoo contingent was nearly completely absent, so there were no episodes of harassment. The leaders of our group have suggested for the first time that we become familiar with the Signal app, in order that we have a way to protect sensitive communications from prying eyes.
A sign o’ the times, but one that is sensible and mindful of the safety of participants. Even though we live in Paradise, not all of the angels are to be trusted.
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Very early this morning I stepped out onto the lawn in the backyard because the night was so quiet and there was still a gentle warmth leftover from the day. It was utterly still, not a leaf moving on the big ash tree.
When I first learned about mindfulness meditation, I remember the following instruction. At the end of an in-breath and before the out-breath begins, there is a moment of complete stillness of the body and mind. That was what it seemed like at 2:00 this morning. That the world of my backyard was at just that moment of breathing in … pause …
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UPDATE: The National Park Service folks tell us that 85% of the South Rim of the park has been burned. A community meeting next week is set to allow group “mourning” for those who love the park. No one except firefighters and a handful of media members knows what it looks like up there, but it is certainly drastically changed. As of Saturday, the fire is now considered “contained.”
Our last visit to the park before the fire was just four days before the blaze began. Robin and I were stopping at each viewpoint and walking out to take fresh looks at this dramatic slash in the earth. We ran out of water and energy before doing all of them, and promised ourselves to come back in a week or two and finish the job.
The campgrounds have been completely burned over, and will not reopen this year. Maintenance building have been destroyed, along with the equipment that was housed in them. We are grateful that the visitor center was unharmed. It will provide the counterpoint of what the new version of the park will become. I can imagine that the hiking trails will need a lot of work to make them usable.
Zero loss of human life, zero loss of homes in the area. That is the very good news.
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Little Home In The Valley 