My Friend Called

We cried.

My friend called. We cried over FaceTime.

I could hear the chimes clinking on her deck. She was sitting outside because it’s 60 degrees on this November morning, this morning when the sun rose even though a dark curtain fell swiftly over us in the night and we wonder how, when, if it will lift. We will have to be the lifters, and we are tired because no one slept, everyone was up refreshing, refreshing, or if they weren’t up, the sleep was fitful and the dreams sinister, which doesn’t match at all the way the golden leaves look from my dining room window this morning.

My friend said, we are going into the darkness. I shared what I told my daughter about getting through the day – low expectations and kindness. A good recipe for every day, my friend said. Will you write something today, she asked. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know what to say. My mind is racing but I can’t form a coherent thought. I am scared about everything.

We will get through this. I want to say that. I want to cling to it. I want to whisper it in my kids’ ears and in yours. We can spend all day or the next four years or forever talking about who is to blame, what is to blame, and I am tired. As I came in with the dog earlier I found myself wondering how I have contributed to this darkness. Such a typical thought, to somehow make this about something I could have done better.

I am looking at the shimmering yellow leaves. I hear traffic passing out front. No amount of anything would have changed this outcome. People are who they tell you they are. Ironic, isn’t it, to think of Trump as an emblem of authenticity? But I am interested in authenticity that is tethered to integrity, compassion, honesty.

I am supposed to say something spiritual now or soothing or smart. My friend and I agree that we have to keep turning to our practices, staying close to the present moment, and each other. I am so glad to see her face. I listen to the clinking chimes. I think about the fires at the protests in Israel last night, hostage families desperate to be heard, helped.

I think about what it means to have a world hijacked by fear and hatred. I live in this world. So do you. It is not all there is. Truth and love and care cannot be smothered or snuffed out. I am too tired to be defiant and too defiant to be defeated and too defeated to be uplifting.

Yesterday, I chatted with a neighbor and her little girl. They were walking home from the park. I was walking because I couldn’t sit still. If I had small children, what would I tell them today? My brow is so furrowed. I think I’m in shock.

I want to say I know how scared you feel this morning, but I cannot say that. I don’t want to assume I know how you feel. I don’t know what things terrify you most. We all have our own things, so personal, so private, so close to home, deep in the home of the body, the bones, the blood running through our veins carrying oxygen in and toxins out. Toxic. Shock. Darkness. Fear. It’s all here. We are here in it, with it. We are here. We are here. Here we are. This is it. This is really happening. This happened. What will happen?

We have to lean into what is bigger and older than this darkness. And also smaller and closer-in and yet-to-come. We are the in-between. We are on the very narrow bridge. I will not tell you don’t be afraid because I am afraid and we don’t need platitudes but here they are anyway: Be good to yourself. Be good to each other. We are all we’ve got. We will get through this.

The leaves shimmer. The friend calls. The dog snores. The cars go. The tears fall. The heart quakes. The work continues. I love you.

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