Not Silent

The jacaranda trees were exceptionally purple, the mountains rose in the distant haze, and the promenade along West Cabrillo Boulevard was filling up with people. There is so much cause for anger, but the prevalent mood was passion, with a good infusion of humor, and now and then a burst of sheer festivity: impromptu singing, hugs, the horns of passing cars honking in support. One of the signs said: “Things are so bad, they’re marching in Santa Barbara.”  

And yes, it was, after all, Santa Barbara, such a pretty how town, as ee cummings might have said, or, as I might have said, the kind of place you get to be if God decides to go easy on you. But we are not ok. The cruelty and injustice are unacceptable, the flagrant disregard for law and civility are intolerable, and the debilitating chaos is unsustainable.

So sweet Santa Barbara stepped out, and not just the feisty old Boomers, but plenty of young people, Hispanics, veterans, gay pride folks, courageous immigrants who might well have been arbitrary targets, parents wheeling kids in strollers, people with disabilities, a pissed off pregnant lady, a sundry assortment of humanity connected by a shared commitment to democracy and decency.  We reclaimed the symbols of our nation: American flags were everywhere. And kindness abounded. There were no strangers.

But this was happening all over the country. Millions of people marched in the streets or stood stalwartly in gathering places, including in “red” regions, where it took an extra bit of bravery, and remote rural corners far from the eyes of the media.  The signs they carried told the stories, and the collective power we experienced will fuel us through the struggles to come, and we will prevail. Robert Hubbell described it as “a turning point” and I agree.

Now we pause, regroup, do this again….and so much more. Relentlessly.

I have a sense of free falling lately, and I don't know whether it's liberating or scary. Some of the reasons for this are personal ones, but this strange moment in history is forcing us all to take stock of what matters, and to let go of what does not. Sometimes I cannot sleep, but because I was awake last night, I saw Venus in the sky, floating low on the eastern horizon, just above the hills, glaring like a lantern, so big and bright and shiny, it almost lit the room.  

Hope is complex and capacious, not a pure and simple feeling. It’s a shape shifter, sometimes shimmering, sometimes shadowed by the hard realities it contains, but it is resilient, and outrageous, and with action, it yields fruit.  

Change, meanwhile, is by definition unsettling, and I am in a storm of change right now, emotions washing over me like weather.

I can hear Rilke counseling me:

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.

We drove home after the protest, beneath the two trees that lean into each other to kiss above the road,  past the glassy pond where a snowy egret keeps vigil, its own little haiku, the sea a composition in silver and gray glistening to the left.

And Rilke, channeling God, advised:

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand. 

Momentum grows. Stay strong. We can be here for each other.