Like a lot of Americans (although, apparently not the majority of Americans), I have been licking my wounds this week. I have gone inward most of the week: doing what had to be done at work, and then coming home and collapsing. I watched my first (and second) Christmas movies of the season - cheesy romances with no plots, but lots of pretty people and wonderful scenery and a guaranteed happy ending.
By Saturday, I knew I couldn't do that long term, and I invited some of my dearest friends to come by for tea and conversation (and blue bracelet making, but since that whole thing blew up and was declared performative, not a sign of solidarity, we didn't do that after all...). My friends, true to form, showed up with beautiful food, arranged it on platters, and it ended up being a feast. At the last minute I put together a cheese board with fruit, nuts, olives, smoked salmon and three kinds of cheese, but I needn't have bothered, as we could have fed the neighborhood.
And so the healing began.
I printed out some of my favorite poems to gift, rolling them in scrolls tied with ribbon so that each person could take one. Perhaps someone else will find comfort in Maya Angelou, Wendall Berry, Naomi Shihab Nye, Mary Oliver. Just gathering the poems certainly helped me.
We looked each other in the eyes and talked about how wrong we felt, how wrong we were, how confused we were by America's choices. We hoped that there was something we were missing. We talked about understanding our neighbors near and fear. We talked about not feeling safe.
We talked about our children and those we love.
We ate. We drank herbal tea. We listened. Quiet women were unusually talkative, and noisy women were unusually silent. Everything felt turned upside down.
We talked about news fasts through the day; we talked about changing our news sources to get out of our blue bubbles. (I downloaded the Associated Press/AP app, as it's top and center of the Media Bias Chart by ad Fonte, factual and non-biased; I removed the NYT and Seattle Times from my phone, because checking them over, and over, and over is not good for my health.)
Most of all we talked about loving people: each other, our families, our neighbors, our communities. The weariness is palpable as we face whatever lies ahead: how will we find the energy to fight this, to help the world become a more just place?
Last time, I marched practically every weekend, I wrote postcards and called senators and hosted an ACLU meeting and donated to causes I believe in. (Those donations still come out of my bank account monthly, like clockwork.) I really tried hard to be a part of the solution. The mere thought of it makes me weary now, especially because last time I felt sure it was a four year problem, and this time the problem feels indefinite. I have no faith in the systems designed to protect us, their guardrails worn down by someone in charge who is methodically removing those guardrails.
I feel it in my blood, and in the tears that refuse to come, that refuse to give me relief.
So instead, I gathered up my people, checked in on text far too many times on those farther away... and spent a lot of time solo.
I've vowed to write every day, and I've upheld that vow to myself. I'm working on my book, I'm doing my morning pages like they are morning prayers that will save my soul (thank you, Julia Cameron and The Artist's Way."
I've made a giant pot of lentil vegetable soup - good for the environment and good for my body and such good comfort food. I've got two quiches cooling on the counter, to eat and to share this week, with leeks and mushrooms as the base, the warm cream complimenting the eggs, thyme and parsley and sea salt seasoning them (and, served with a side salad, hopefully not too bad for me).
I'm regrouping.
This morning it was absolutely pouring down rain, the branches moving in the wind, the windows being pelted with large drops, the streets with small rivers running downhill to the drains, but I kept my promise to myself and laced up my shoes and headed in the car to the park - because I knew for this plan I'd need the car. I walked two and a half miles (shorter than usual, but still something) along the sea and through the forest, and found some small fallen cedar and fir branches to carry home so that I could remember the incredible, rich, soothing smell of the forest. I got back to my car...
And stripped down to my bikini, the old lady one with a sporty top and giant bottoms that come practically to my rib cage. I pulled on my Chaco sandals, and my old blue terrycloth bathrobe, grabbed my towel, and went into the sea. I walked without pausing, the gentle slope of the beach meaning that I had to get a good ways out in order to have the water meet my bra line. I took all of that grief, confusion, and fear, and I walked into the ocean and asked it to carry some of it for me. I dove under the water, seal like, and swam a few strokes fully submerged, eyes open and astounded at how bright the pebbles looked, how clear and green at good the water was. I felt my blood pressure fall, and if I cried I do not know because my face was covered in salt water, but suddenly I didn't feel like I was holding back tears anymore.
I felt victorious over some small part of myself, and truly cleansed by the sea. Not "everything is better now" (oh, if only there were such simple solutions!) but... like I had what it took to manage it.
Righting myself, I stood again, my hair streaming down water, my body strong in the water, my shoulders in the cold air. I looked up, and a bald eagle was riding the currents just north of me, above cedars and houses on the other side of the park. I smiled all the way back to my car, the short drive home, the immediate hot shower that awaited. A bit of that smile has stayed with me, and will get me through tomorrow.
I believe in signs, and on this gray, wet, salty day, I needed that. Just a bird, doing what I have seen birds do a thousand or more times in that location. But this time I was in the sea, and it felt bigger, better. By the time I walked back to shore, toweled off, and wrapped myself in that ugly but warm bathrobe, I could breathe a little easier. I can still remember that I need to breathe.
Today I've been writing for much of the day, listening to music, cooking, doing the chores that make the week go easier. I'm on my walking treadmill now, moving at a slow enough pace to keep typing and not sweat, but it's something, better than being in the fetal position.
I have been thinking about cold plunging for at least a month, called to do it, and I am a slow learner so I resisted and resisted, but today I remembered how it makes me feel alive, connected, strong.
I need to write. To walk in the forest. To plunge into the sea. To look for eagles (and whales, and sea lions, and kindred spirits, and good books). To touch the rough bark of big, old trees; to hold pebbles in my hand and feel their texture and weight. To feel salt on my face, whether it be tears or ocean water.
I am down, not out, and I'm starting to think of how I will live out my days again... not in the fetal position anymore, and so that's a start.
For the millionth time, I'm so grateful that my life placed me near the Salish Sea. That's not a small thing, and I'm going to hold onto it as fast as I can.
It's a start.
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