The smallest act in the most limited circumstances bears the seed of boundlessness because one deed, and sometimes one word, suffices to change every constellation.
—Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition


🍂

“How are you?” A friend texted me those words November sixth. The question struck me deep down. It was the perfect, caring, door-opening question. So simple. So complex. It was an invitation to check in with myself, as well as with her. “Gutted,” I replied.


I’ve returned to the question many times since, as I rotate among the stages of grief, noting subtle changes. I can eat again. The gnawing anxiety in the pit of my stomach isn’t constant. I’m still trying to figure out sleeping. Moving through the first four stages are necessary to reach some, any, semblance of resolution, and it takes as long as it takes. It may be years. In the meantime, my plan is to learn to take care of myself—my own oxygen mask first.

Action: Did you know that hugs light up the brain, releasing oxytocin that reduces fear, stress, pain? Gently pressing one hand atop the other over your breast bone has the same effect.

I know not everyone is experiencing the feelings I am. I can only speak for myself right now. I don’t understand the other side of this chasm, which doesn’t translate to not caring. What I know is, it’s imperative for our well-being to find our way back to one another. And, as elders in these times, what is our role?

🍂

This is what I know . . . that pain is part and parcel of the gift of joy, and that this is love . . . You either walk toward love or away from it with every breath you draw. Humility is the road to love. Humility, maybe, is love.
—Brian Doyle

🍂

First, a word about self-care.

We all have our ways to take care of ourselves in times of stress. Here is what I’ve done, so far:

I stopped reading whatever triggers me: the news, political comedy, some of social media. Anger and fear—while I share it—caught unawares sends me buffeting about, just when I am feeling a moment of calm.

I’m trying not to borrow trouble. That’s a challenging one.

I plan to breathe trees in the damp woods more often, and take more spontaneous drives to snowy mountains; immersing myself more than ever in the natural world.

Contrary to my comfort with solitude, I feel a greater need to be with people.

I’m journaling again. I haven’t done so since I started blogging fifteen years ago, except during the Pandemic. Like then, I both need to get my feelings out so I can explore them (and get them beyond my body) and to record what will be, again, historic times.

🍂

I will also be reminding myself again and again not to wait for the world to give me a reason to sigh with relief. I will give myself respite. I will remember not to keep waiting for sweetness and rest to arrive on their own.
—Margaret Renkl, “Panic Abatement Plan,” NYT

🍂

The role of elders.

I have been considering my role as an elder in the times to come, and regardless of our individual politics, the coming years will be historic. My wisdom-holding friend Christina says the difference between elders and youngers is elders understand context. We hold the story of past times and it informs how we make decisions, how we make sense of the world, how we envision the future. Youngers are caught in “narrative debris,” cutting away from one thing to the next in the chaos of immediacy: memes, headlines without story, opinions rather than facts, drama rather than truth—social media onslaught. The job of the elders is to hold the historical thread. (I will keep reading Heather Cox Richardson for the historical perspective.) “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice” (MLK). Today’s elders have seen it happen, have made it happen, but the fight is never over. Perhaps, in our last third of life, it’s our job to hold onto hope for the next generations, who are facing a different world for their mid-lives. Just as the country got from there to here, it will get from here back to there, eventually. I have to believe that, despair and giving up are not options.

🍂

We are the seers, the tellers—this is our role, our responsibility, to recognize how irony has flipped stories throughout time—to recognize the portals of possibility that will open— because those portals have opened in every era.
—Grant Faulkner

🍂

Action: Writing is a form of activism, even if it’s only for yourself. Write in a journal. Write letters to your grandchildren (whether or not you have any), or to the ancestors. Mail your letters or put them in a file to be left behind, like hieroglyphics on stone. Write as fiction, if you want. Or in second or third person. We are the storytellers, we carry the story. We are the emotional and spiritual historians now, as our parents once were. This is our role.

Fiction can help us make sense of our lives and times (and they have happy endings, which is nice). Christina Baldwin has written a novel of the homefront (Montana) during WWII. It tells a story of our differences and how we can live together. It’s a powerful story for today. I hope you will read it, share it in book clubs and with friends. The Beekeeper’s Question: Love and Honey. War and Reckoning. A Novel of WWII. 


Action: Look for the light. Micro-dose on hope and joy. Can we find something every single day that delights us? Write that in your journal too. Do not be robbed of joy.

It’s not “going to be alright”—not for many populations of people, not for the world, not for any of us, don’t tell me it is—but we will figure it out. Together. All of us.

🍂

The fact that we cannot save everything does not mean we cannot save anything and everything we can save is worth saving.
—Rebecca Solnit

🍂

How are you? What are you doing, or planning to do, to take care of yourself? Leave a comment below.

[A note about commenting on a post: Click the subscribe drop down arrow just above the comment section and provide your information (it is private) to receive an email when someone replies to your comment. I, at least, will always reply!]

🍂

The world doesn’t need our despair—it needs our love, kindness, and hope.
(now, more than ever)