Ink and Vein

I haven’t had anything useful to say the past few days.

I haven’t been able to engage in the rage posting, in the shock and disbelief, in the terror and grief.

I feel all these things, aside from shock and disbelief. For me, nothing unexpected happened in the presidential election, though I did try to hope for a different turnout.

I do understand people not wanting to believe it, not being able to believe that we would end up with this president, again.

I do not want to despair.

I have kept busy with work this week, had places to be, tasks to get done, events to run. I’ve been fortunate to spend time with good friends, to work on my book, to enjoy the beauty of our first heavy snowfall.

Through it all, I’ve kept part of myself numb.

Today, things slowed down a bit. I woke this morning to a body in pain; stiff muscles, an ache in my bones. I have to acknowledge a truth, now:

I am not okay.

I keep thinking of this poem, “Good Bones” by Maggie Smith:

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

This poem is a gut-punch, every time I read it. It also has me thinking about my life, and how often things I thought were fine, were good, were actually more than half terrible, real shitholes.

My first apartment, I didn’t have control of the heat. The elderly woman who lived upstairs did, without a thought for the temperature difference in the basement, half in the ground of the damp western Washington soil. I still loved that place, and took pleasure in having my own space. It never occurred to me to ask her to turn up the heat; I just accepted it for what it was, and put on sweaters and extra blankets. I loved that I could be there, and not worry about watching my words, not worry about who I would anger.

Other apartments I lived in were in unsafe neighborhoods, one even dubbed “murdersville” because of the crime rate. It never crossed my mind when I looked for apartments. It had a really cute spiral staircase that went up to the loft. I could decorate it how I wanted. When I came home, I didn’t have to face a person who didn’t want me there, who regretted having me in his life. What happened outside the apartment didn’t concern me as much as being safe, alone, inside.

I think of relationships, too, of all types. How often I accepted scraps of affection wrapped up in mistreatment. How I told myself that, really, I was getting what I deserved. And it was okay, because I was getting by, right? It could have been worse, right?

I think of how often I convinced myself there were good bones, convinced myself that rot was salvageable, convinced myself that a real shithole was all I deserved.

I think, often, of how many in the world have convinced themselves of this same thing, that the half terrible is what we have to accept, and we’ve even convinced ourselves that something wholly awful is actually kind of good.

We can do so much better. We really could make this place beautiful, if we were to rip out the rot, if we were to find what’s salvageable and let the rest go. We really could make this place beautiful if we stopped telling ourselves that what we have is okay, when it so clearly is not.

We could make this place beautiful if we would let ourselves imagine a world of care, of safety, of compassion. A world built on love for each other, built on collaboration and community.

I don’t know how to make this world; all I know is that none of us can do it alone, and that the systems of power are not the way to make it happen.

This place is already beautiful, if only we can recognize the shithole and become the good bones on which to build with compassion and care.