Finding Joy
Even now — especially now
The first time the Orange Guy stunned us by winning a presidential election, I felt like someone had died. I couldn’t stop crying for days.
The next morning when I went into work, my boss (a Republican who’d voted for Obama twice and changed his party affiliation after Orange Guy took it over), helpfully pointed out that the sun would keep rising every morning. I wanted to punch him.
Now, we’re doing it all over again — only this time promises to be far worse. These days, it’s starting to feel like the only constants are in fact the sun and the stars. They may be the only things we can count on; even the health of our own planet is in jeopardy.
We can no longer count on democracy. Or basic decency. Or Social Security and Medicare.
My father spent his childhood under fascism in 1930s Italy. He never expected to be winding down his life under fascism — certainly not in the United States.
Yet, here we are.
Most of us are still in shock after last week’s result. Like last time, I’ve cried. (Though I feel a bit chastened by this guy on Twitter reminding us that Black people are not crying; “they’re down to fight, like they’ve always had to.”) But I also feel a certain numbness and dissociation. It’s hard to be present with our current reality, especially since we don’t know exactly what that reality will bring. Will they really get rid of the programs that so many of us rely on? They’ve said they will, and we should believe them. But what happens when you put many millions of people, including your own base, in such a precarious state?
I don’t want to find out.
In the face of all this, it seems absurd to spend my time doing what I love — like writing this newsletter. I have so many things I want to write about, but they seem trivial now, drowned out by the wave of fascism that’s engulfing us.
I was ready to throw in the towel when my favorite writing teacher offered a welcome perspective. We’re living in a time when women are being told what to do, she said, and the party that’s coming into power is trying to silence our voices. That’s exactly the time to speak up and share our thoughts — even when they feel small, even when they feel silly.
Then a new favorite writer of mine, Lilly Dancyger, linked in her Substack to a piece she wrote last time we went through this — as applicable now as ever, if not more. She says, among other things, “The vibrant, meaningful personal narrative is in fact more needed now than ever before. The personal is political, and it always has been. Individual, human representation is one of the most valuable tools for educating and creating empathy.… And, just as stories that humanize the most pressing political issues can give us the will to keep fighting, personal narratives that are totally disconnected from the political can give us much-needed respite.”
Then another new favorite writer, Laura Lentz, wrote in her Substack, “Story is the glue that connects us all, wanting something better for the world, our families and our communities.… If you are reading this, the most important thing you can do in the weeks and years ahead is keep writing and keep loving and live your life to its fullest.”
So I guess I’ll keep writing.
I know I’m writing from a place of extreme privilege. I know I won’t have it as bad as many — maybe most — others. But I care about what happens beyond the stuff that could seriously affect me personally — you know, the threats to Social Security, Medicare, and my IRA; the certainty of going backwards on climate change; little things like that.
I also care about the women who are now risking their lives — even more than they already were by virtue of being human women — just by getting pregnant. Who are having to hear the misogynistic threats that both grown men and little boys are now making openly. I care about Black people, Latinos, the LGBTQIA2S+ (did I get that one right?), undocumented immigrants, Muslims, Jews. I care about people in Gaza, Ukraine, and the rest of the world. In my better moments, I even care about the electorate that was duped into voting against their own interests. At least, some of them. In a kind of abstract way.
(Though I also feel this way:)
(Though I also understand their concerns about the economy.)
I feel the need to resist, and I also feel old. And tired of resisting. Just when I’m entering a time of my life when I’m able to do more of what I love, I don’t want to be derailed by all that resisting. (Again, I realize how privileged it is to whine about that.) I don’t even know what form the resistance will take this time, though I know it won’t be about attending marches and wearing pussy hats. Or those damn blue bracelets.
I don’t know what obstacles they’ll put in the way of our resistance, or how dangerous they’ll make it to resist.
I don’t know how much collateral damage there will be, though there will surely be a lot.
What I do know:
After the big campaign push — the hopes, the excitement, the postcard-writing — it’s okay to take a breather. In fact, we must take a breather.
It’s okay to feel the sadness. In fact, we must let ourselves feel it. And when the sadness gets overwhelming, it’s okay to escape for a bit. If that means watching bad TV shows, who am I to judge?
It’s okay to seek joy in our lives. In fact, we must turn toward what brings us joy — whether that’s good food, music, art, nature, friends, or whatever. We must do that as a respite now, and we must find time to do that, even if it’s grabbed in brief moments, while we resist. During World War II, the soldiers had USO shows. We must create our own USO moments.
I don’t know what they’re going to take away from all of us. I don’t know what they’re going to take away from me. I’m seriously worried about Social Security, Medicare, and my IRA, in case you hadn’t noticed that yet.
But they can’t take away what I have in my heart.
When I was having a hard time during an ayahuasca ceremony, the shaman told me to think of someone I loved. I was amazed at how much that helped.
We’re going to need a lot more than love and joy to resist fascists; we’ll need some fury and determination, for sure.
But to save ourselves from despair, to keep us going through dark times, there’s a lot to be said for love. Maybe I needed to write this week to remind myself that I still have a lot of love in my heart.
They can’t take that away from me.
And you have tons of folks who love you!!!
I feel like I need to write more than ever. To keep my sanity.