I don’t want wellness practices that teach me to be at peace with an inequitable world. I need practices that help me stay sane while doing my part to fight against it. If it makes you compliant to injustice it’s not healing - it’s sedation Michell C. Clark
It’s so hard to know what to do. What not to do. Paralysis. The feeling that if I’m not constantly aware and in action, it will all be my fault (“all what” not being specified). The awareness that I’m just one small, insignificant being with no real power, so all that action I think I’m taking doesn’t amount to much more than satisfying my whining ego. The ego that berates me for not being on the World Stage, for not Being Enough, for not Doing Enough. A sadly wasted life.
Let’s move on. I need coffee.
The dog touches his cold, wet nose against my leg, asking to be let out. If I don’t get up and open the door he has no way to fulfill his his current heart’s desire to go chase chipmunks, poop and take a sunbath. Well, maybe I’m not entirely useless. My dog knows how to live, and I am a vital cog in his daily existence. It’s a start.
We are in the middle of a heat wave. The vegetable garden is loving the heat after an unusually cool spring. The beans (purple this year, because I didn’t read the labels) that are normally abundant in early June are MIA, but the broccoli that usually doesn’t come in until late September already gave me a meal’s worth. No matter. I’ll gratefully take whatever the garden wants to give me, in it’s own time. Today it’s a hundred degrees and it will need water. I’ll have to turn on the hose if I want to stay in it’s good graces. That’s something else I can do. Despite the heat, I take my time. The bees are humming, and I deeply inhale the intoxicating vanilla scent of the butterfly bush. I investigate the tiny tomatoes and peppers, and find purple strings emerging from buds on the beans. There’s hope here.
Dog back inside (it’s too hot for a sunbath after all), plants watered, ticks removed, I arrange a glorious bouquet of purple hydrangea. There were so many this year that I felt OK cutting some. I’d love to add a few of the copious the orange day lilies as well, but as soon as I get close to them I start sneezing. Probably not. For many years I couldn’t put hydrangea on the table because we had a cat that was enamored of them. He would sneak onto the dining room table at night and pull them one by one out of the vase. At first I thought they were falling out because they were so top heavy, until one night I caught him in a midnight raid. I’m not sure it’s a fair trade, the hydrangea for the cat, but he’s been in kitty heaven for many years. I think of his sweet face as I admire the blossoms.
I make a second cup of coffee and sit down to do my grocery list. I enjoy cooking, and especially like to cook with fresh herbs from my garden. Putting together the week’s menu is an exercise in coordinating what’s in the refrigerator, the garden, and the freezer, as well as weather and calendars. I usually have what I call a “chicken in a box” option for the nights I am too tired to cook. I look at the menu and make my list. I am grateful that although I have a budget, it’s a generous one. It’s a gift so many people don’t have.
At the grocery store, I park the car on the heat-shimmering pavement. Across from me a woman gets out of her car with her kids. They have golden-brown skin and shiny black hair. She gathers their hands in hers to keep them safe from cars in the parking lot. It’s a the reflexive gesture of a loving mother. Will it be enough to keep them safe from the far more than usual cruelties and childhood disruptions they face? I pray it is. It’s what I can do. Ask God, or Gloria, (we really need to hear from the Divine Feminine here) or whoever is tuning in today to to help us find the way back to our collective humanity.
In the store, I am delighted with the bins of fresh summer produce. Strawberries, blueberries, peaches, apricots, cucumbers, zucchini; bundles of fresh herbs. I take a moment to inhale the spicy-sweet smells and enjoy the riotous colors of summer. The produce department just after it has been stocked has always felt like abundance to me. In the days when the grocery budget wasn’t so generous, I would come here just to soak in the energy. I still do. In the checkout line I add a bag for the local food pantry.
At home, I fix a raspberry iced tea and decide I’m OK to take a quick look at the news. I make my usual rounds - NPR, the NY times, BBC a couple of Substacks. I call my congressman, email my senator, make a donation to a pet rescue. When I feel myself starting to collapse, I turn it all off and go chop herbs for dinner.
“We remember to remember. We remember having come through the apparent end of the world other times, and of having resurrected.”*
The smells of mint, parsley, basil and lemon zest fill my nostrils, and a spark of joy peeks through. I toss them with olive oil slicked linguine. I put a salad of fresh greens and tomatoes, and warm garlic bread, on the table. I take out the small dish I bought in Portugal, hand painted with a rooster in cheerful red, yellow and blue. As I heap it with black olives, I remember the narrow winding ally where the shop was, the pasteis de nata custard tarts and cappuccino in tall glasses, bright dresses floating in the 95 degree heat. I call my family to to the table. We don’t say grace, but take a moment of thanks before we enjoy our meal in quiet companionship.
Later in the evening, my husband calls me to look out of the bedroom window. There is a full moon rising over the lilac bushes, just becoming visible in the darkening sky. In the morning it it will be hanging outside the bathroom window, fading against the sunrise. Today I did my best. Humble and inadequate as it might have been, I didn’t lose myself in the chaos and managed to do some good. Sometimes it’s the best I can do, and I am grateful for that. And there is still tomorrow.
Wishing you love, peace and wisdom.
Myra
*Quote attributed to a grand niece of Susan B. Anthony