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I dreamed I was walking to Guantanamo. From my home in California. I was with some random dream guy and Dr. Lydia Fonseca, a wonderful character from the TV show The Good Karma Hospital. Dr. Fonseca is tough but full of heart — and I’m sure she was in my dream because she’s not afraid to speak her mind and stand up to power.
Our goal in walking to Guantanamo was to advocate for the release of some group of people. Journalists, elected officials? I’m not sure. We got into GITMO without any problem, which made me wonder aloud at the facility’s lack of security. Then we had to take an elevator down 20 floors to reach the group we wanted to free. When we got there, Dr. Fonseca fearlessly approached some official, maybe a guard, to talk to him. The guy with us asked, “Should she be doing that?” “She’ll be fine,” I responded, “She’s an older white woman.”
I woke up before learning if we were successful in our mission, but the message of the dream was clear: I don’t feel like I’m doing enough about the current situation. I mean, the current extreme fuckery. I, too, am an older white woman, and I’m not speaking out enough.
What should I be doing? I’m not sure, beyond the protesting, phone calls to elected officials, and postcard writing to voters I do now and then and should be doing more of. I’d have a better answer if I were in a position of power. Whatever we civilian white women do in these times doesn’t seem like enough, unless we’re a
or or .In the midst of my inner turmoil about what to do, I attended an online meditation and dharma talk hosted by my teacher from long ago, Howie Cohn. He talked, as he often does, about experiencing moments of mindfulness, love, and compassion during meditation, and his message was that in taking the time to do this, we’re helping the world.
Are we? To be clear, Howie wasn’t saying we should forget about activism and just sit around meditating all day. He was saying we have many other hours for activism (though how many people really do, given the incessant daily demands of late-stage American capitalism?), and that taking an hour and a half a week for this practice is also very worthwhile.
True, I guess. If meditation makes us more loving and compassionate, that can only help the world, which certainly needs more loving and compassionate people.
Yet I can’t help hearing in all this the echoes of a common refrain that leaves me feeling a bit uncomfortable. People keep saying the best thing we can do in these times is to take care of ourselves.
Is it?
Yes, we need to put on our own oxygen mask first and all that. Still, I often find myself questioning the emphasis on self-care as a way to fight fascism. I’m extremely prone to guilt, so it feels … selfish. And ineffective.
Still, I have to admit there’s something to it, at least the way Howie frames it when it comes to meditation. However, feeling love and compassion can be really tricky when it comes to fascists, as worthy an endeavor as that is. I have more to say about that, which I’ll leave for another time, but I struggle to feel compassion for people who are being cruel.
What’s more within reach, if also challenging in these times, is joy. Among all the exhortations to engage in self-help, one that stands out to me is the call to be joyful. Hell, I’ve called for it myself, right here in Flower Child (here and here). I believe in the importance of joy. And of not being overcome by fear, which is exactly what the fascists want.
The “you” in the title of my post could be the Orange One. It could also be his hateful, cruelty-loving followers. Theodore Roosevelt said comparison is the thief of joy, and he was right, but these days, MAGA is the ultimate thief of joy.
They want to take our joy, and I don’t want to let them. I want it back. As Lucinda Williams says.
Her song puts me in the mood to reclaim my joy. As we approach Independence Day, a stark reminder that our country is terribly off the rails, that seems all the more important.
And that brings me back to meditation. I’ve written before about my best friend dying at the same time I was ending a relationship, way back in 2000. Yeah, I have great timing. I was having a hard time with all that when I attended a weeklong silent meditation retreat. Although I spent a lot of it crying, for a few months after the retreat, I was able to really grieve while also allowing more joy in than usual.
My experience proved to me that profound grief and revitalizing joy can co-exist. We have to keep joy alive amid all our grief for our country and our world, amid all our very justified fears. Even as the MAGAs keep trying to take it away. Joy keeps us going. Joy is contagious. Joy is disarming.
As
reminds us in her recent post Fight the Power, But Make It Sparkle, “we have more fun than the fascists.” Let’s show them what it means to be joyful. Then we can also think about walking to Guantanamo. Or at least, walking to the nearest protest.A few things bringing me joy that don’t require going to a weeklong meditation retreat:
Religious leaders scaring off ICE at immigration court.
Protestors in Venice forcing Jeff Bezos to move the venue for his “wedding extravaganza.”
This woman, despite her very serious expression. (Is she AI? She might be AI. I don’t care.)
Rats driving cars (Steve, this one’s for you).
The surprise of seeing my former co-worker Jody Bleyle in this teaser for the documentary Menopunks.
This short poem.
Dr. Raven the Science Maven, who’s working to bring delight to science and science to the people.
This tweet.
This satire (but we could make it come true, couldn’t we?): “ICE is asking people to stop clogging their hotline by calling in and reporting an undocumented girl named ‘Anne Frank’ hiding in the top floor of various Republican lawmakers’ houses.”
Representative Jasmine Crockett — both her brilliance and her great outfits.
This little protestor, with the best sign ever.
This little cat.
What’s bringing you joy these days?
I loved the Menopunks teaser! Go Jody!
You might be an older white woman, but you are a naturalized citizen and could be deported if you act up too much. :(