Like you, I have been sleepless and numb, without appetite for food or news. When I’m at the computer, I can edge out only a few lines of Journal, not even half a page. And I say nothing worth remembering. So I am trying today, in the last hour before I have to leave to meet Helene for dinner at a restaurant called “Lincoln,” before seeing Manon Lescaut, an opera by Puccini, part of our annual series. It’s a tragic love story, like most opera, and I don’t think it’s been done often. At least I’m sure I never have seen/heard it.
So yes, as people say, “I do get out of the house.” But not joyously, not with any expectations that the experience will “help.” There is no “help” in sight for at least two years, if not four. And the weight of what has just happened to U.S. politics is crushing, at least for me, and perhaps it’s that I’m so old, so old, that there is little fight left in me for what has to be done. My grandchild—the youngest one of them, still in her twenties—has already been in demonstrations, and plans to attend the huge rally in D.C. in January. I’m glad to know that, and sad that my days for such actions have passed, and that this generation will have to fight all over again for what we thought we had won for them.
So, yes, I’ve written more than one paragraph, and I seem able to keep going. What to say for comfort? Thanksgiving is three days away, and we must give thanks for the eight years of President Obama and for his recent vow to pitch in during the next four years. And I am sure that Hillary will also do her part. Perhaps they and Bernie and others in the Senate will be able to diminish the power of the Republicans at the two-year point.
I am looking at bursts of sunlight lighting up a cloud-filled dark sky. An omen? A wish for an omen. Please tell me good news. I want to see Angelica Merkel reelected. Am I losing it?
Ellen Bass’s poem she sent out recently is called “Any Common Desolation.” There was a bit of comfort in it for me. Perhaps for you too.
Any Common Desolation
can be enough to make you look up
at the yellowed leaves of the apple tree, the few
that survived the rains and frost, shot
with late afternoon sun. They glow a deep
orange-gold against a blue so sheer, a single bird
would rip it like silk. You may have to break
your heart, but it isn’t nothing
to know even one moment alive. The sound
of an oar in an oarlock or a ruminant
animal tearing grass. The smell of grated ginger.
The ruby neon of the liquor store sign.
Warm socks. You remember your mother,
her precision a ceremony, as she gathered
the white cotton, slipped it over your toes,
drew up the heel, turned the cuff. A breath
can uncoil as you walk across your own muddy yard,
the big dipper pouring night down over you, and everything
you dread, all you can’t bear, dissolves
and, like a needle slipped into your vein—
that sudden rush of the world.