waxing & waning
On the first night of Hanukkah, the moon is close to full, and we light one candle.
The next night, the moon turns its face from us, and goes a little bit darker, so we light two.
On the last night, there is almost no light left. We light eight candles. We make our own brightness. We put hanukkiot in the windows to publicize it: a great miracle happened here. And we remind ourselves, miracles don't come unless we rise up to meet them. Boots on the ground, feet in the water. We have to march forward to find the world we're trying to live in.
I know last night was a complicated victory, and too close for comfort. I know it was won the backs of people who are tired of carrying. I'm not-- I don't want to claim anything that doesn't belong to me. All I know is that again and again I'm grateful, at least, for the tradition that I live in, which insists that we be our own light in the darkness. That we remember that we have been lucky. That we bless the forces that have brought us again to this season, and prepare ourselves to do the work that will bring us to the next.
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Speaking of darkness: I think a lot about making art about depression, anxiety and addiction, and how to do it honestly as well as usefully. Some thoughts on the subject, also why so many cartoons are about alcoholics, are up at The Awl today.
Speaking of religion: I wrote about exercise classes as rituals and cults for The Atlantic
Speaking of the end of the year: GRACE AND THE FEVER is part of NPR's Book Concierge for 2017, where it sits alongside too many of my favorite books to name them all in this Tinyletter. That's next week, when I'll send you my year in reading, whether you want it or not.
The next night, the moon turns its face from us, and goes a little bit darker, so we light two.
On the last night, there is almost no light left. We light eight candles. We make our own brightness. We put hanukkiot in the windows to publicize it: a great miracle happened here. And we remind ourselves, miracles don't come unless we rise up to meet them. Boots on the ground, feet in the water. We have to march forward to find the world we're trying to live in.
I know last night was a complicated victory, and too close for comfort. I know it was won the backs of people who are tired of carrying. I'm not-- I don't want to claim anything that doesn't belong to me. All I know is that again and again I'm grateful, at least, for the tradition that I live in, which insists that we be our own light in the darkness. That we remember that we have been lucky. That we bless the forces that have brought us again to this season, and prepare ourselves to do the work that will bring us to the next.
-
Speaking of darkness: I think a lot about making art about depression, anxiety and addiction, and how to do it honestly as well as usefully. Some thoughts on the subject, also why so many cartoons are about alcoholics, are up at The Awl today.
Speaking of religion: I wrote about exercise classes as rituals and cults for The Atlantic
Speaking of the end of the year: GRACE AND THE FEVER is part of NPR's Book Concierge for 2017, where it sits alongside too many of my favorite books to name them all in this Tinyletter. That's next week, when I'll send you my year in reading, whether you want it or not.
Here's the money-related fine print! Sister District, a group I've been working with since last fall and which helped create that big blue wave in Virginia, has just announced its next candidate: Margaret Good, who has a state race coming up in just a few months in Florida. Throw a few dollars her way, or support one of the many black women running for office-- maybe Stacey Abrams, who's running for governor of Georgia?
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