Holding Light, Anyway

I spied the rock with a head of mossy hair in one of my outside planters.

The events of last week have sorely tested the declaration I made—to be an elder who holds a torch in the darkness. How do I hold up a light when I feel such despair over what we have become?

Despair is a wretched emotion. It is bereft of light, of hope, of anything redeeming. It is a sin in many religions for a reason—it builds walls of darkness and sends out wails of pain. It does nothing to help shoulder the collective burden of sorrow and fear that permeates our world just now. It does nothing for the collective, and it does nothing for me. If I am in despair, what point is there in getting my writing done, in calling someone who needs to hear from me, in taking a walk? I want only to check out, to lose myself in mindless media, to retreat.

Which is natural, of course. It is hard to tuck my shoulder in to help carry the burdens, and I know I don’t have to do it all the time. We are—all—allowed to take breaks, to rest and recharge. In fact, we must.

This morning, I wondered what Renee Good would say about living on this day, which was taken from her. I don’t really know. She would want to hug her son and her wife. She might call her mother, eat a good lunch, and take her dog for a walk.

I can make a good lunch and call my mother. I can make some art and write pages in the next book that is mine to write—which is my main way of holding the lamp aloft. I can hug my dogs, because loving these dogs is, in a way, loving all dogs. I can listen to someone in pain. When I am tempted to despair because there is so much I cannot do, I return to here, to now. I can be serene in this moment—not ignoring the world, but living in it as a force for peace.

What little joy can you bring to life today?