I'm not gonna lie, it's been a rough week. I've cried, a lot. I've raged, equally as much. But I have babies to raise and books to write and we all have work to do to build a world that's worthy of what we're putting into it, so I'm making a rope of words to climb out of this pit of despair.
Beginning with delivering on my promise to write more letters. I walked with a sympathetic co-worker to the library today, and in addition to joining their friends program for folks who believe in and support their work, I picked up a handful of cards in the library gift shop to mail to gals I know who are also grieving.
Now, more than ever, tiny, active gestures of kindness and compassion seem to me the greatest gift we can give each other. Before we can mobilize, we need to heal. And after the deluge of political propaganda in my inbox and my mailbox, I know that I would welcome something real.
So even if you aren't receiving a letter from me - which you totally could, you know how to reach me - I have one for you.
Dear friend, dear dreamer, dear doer and maker and believer and reader,
I appreciate and recognize you. I may not really know you, may not always understand you, but I believe that you are moved as I am by what is in your heart and in your head. You have the capacity to love and to give and to grow, and I hope that you do. We may never hold hands, never really, and perhaps never on all of our ideas, either, but we share a space, a city, a state, a nation; we are small but our world is not. I trust you to remember this.
If you're not ready, I want to help you. And if you're not ready for help, I am good at waiting. There is a lot to do and I can't be still, not when there is risk, when there is opportunity, when there is work for open hands and willing ears. Because nothing is simple, least of all being really and truly heard.
But I hear you.
Or I will try to.
With hope and in love,
ETA: You should know I wrote this in the afternoon, and on my walk home to my car from work I was hit by a car. Is that as ridiculous to read as it was to write? Because it happened. I was crossing the street and the driver wasn't going terribly fast, but it definitely hurt and I called the police because I was giddy with shock.
The driver kept meeting my eyes, his own face ghost-pale, and saying how sorry he was, how sorry he was. I took his hand. I clapped him on the shoulder. I told him it's been a terrible week, and shit happens, and I was probably fine. I asked his name. I gave him mine. It was a desperate, ridiculous, gut-wringing human moment.
I'm fine, I really feel that I am.
And I just keep hoping that he's okay, too.
Because that's the kind of world I want to live in.
Because I believe it's possible to be concerned for yourself and for others.
Because I am just not going to let anything stop me.