How the light gets in | LISB
Hey y’all!
I watched the sun come up this morning.
I woke up with a headache - the result of too many days of extroversion on the road, the consequences of rich, salty food in large quantities, of too little exercise, of too little sleep. I spent four days last week working with others to teach folks the principles behind organizing to change their communities, and I was beat.
Shuffling into the kitchen, dodging the cats who seemed committed to tripping me in my dazed state, I turned on the kettle. My head was foggy as I got the mug from the cabinet, the drip filter from the drawer, as I scooped the two scoops of coffee, its fragrance cutting through the miasma that filled the inside of my skull.
It felt like a hangover, or what I remember them feeling like back when they were a regular occurrence for me. While it may be true that “after the ecstasy, the laundry,” this was laundry sans ecstasy.
The window in our kitchen faces east. The sky is dark grey and cold. Thank God for coffee.
It’s a rough time in America right now. My friends seem to be in two camps: Those who want to not discuss the current political situation in the US at all, and those who can talk of nothing else. And I can be either of those people, at different times, but sadly for me, I often am out of sync with whichever group I am with at the moment.
Through my kitchen window, the denuded hardwood trees begin to have glimmers of light show through them, the pines at the back of my property come into focus. There are clouds everywhere, with peeks of gold showing in the cracks, reminding me of Leonard Cohen’s injunction that there are cracks in everything - that’s how the light gets in.
Things seem to be dying. Several people connected to my church. Kindness. Democracy. I guess nothing lives forever. The Cheyenne had a song they sang at the burial of their dead. One line goes, “Nothing lives long - only the earth and the mountains.”
And the sunrise. Millions of years before human civilization happened, there was sunrise. I suspect it will continue after we are a footnote in history. That perspective - the respect for things that are larger than us, that will outlast us, that are as eternal as my mind can comprehend, is helping me keep it together. I’m stanning these days for things that endure.
It’s a rough time in America, but I watched the sun come up this morning.
Five beautiful, hopeful things
This untitled poem from Joy Harjo’s book Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings.
Do not feed the monsters.
Some are wandering thought forms, looking for a place to set up house.
Some are sent to you deliberately. They come from arrows of gossip, jealousy or envy—and inadvertently from thoughtlessness.
They feed on your attention, and feast on your fear.
Nikita Gill, with reasons to live through the apocalypse.
Teenage Hugh spent so much money on the video game Pitfall in the arcade. Now you can play it on your browser. What a time to be alive.
This excellent article full of advice and reading suggestions to get us through the coming storm: We Only Have Ourselves.
In 1944, the movie Broadway Rhythm was released, and we probably wouldn’t be talking about it today except for this 4 minute scene starring the Ross sisters, who can do things with their bodies that seem impossible. I think I pulled a muscle just watching this clip. The action starts about a minute in.
Additionally
Here is a wonderful list of tactics and strategies to survive the next four years. Some of these things I am bad at.
Almost 10 percent of people use the same 4 digit pin number.
ICYMI: I loved the Super Bowl halftime show. Layers on layers on layers, and while I didn’t understand everything going on, I recognized it was beautiful. Incidentally, I feel the same way about much of The Beatles music. It was polarizing to a certain subset of folks if my social media feed is any indication. So, I wrote about that a bit.
Thank you!
Thank you to the members who financed this work, to Mindi who sent me some link ideas, to the four new members who signed up after my “line in the sand” email last week, and to all the folks who read, share, and otherwise engage my work. Your subscribing changes my work and my life.
Take care of yourself, and each other.
Hugh
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