Here we are.
The world is either on fire or drowning. The political situation is horrifying, a full-scale dismantling of the best hopes for our nation and an embrace of our darkest tendencies. Friends and family are ill, gravely so, or struggling with addiction, financial hardship, mental illness. All around us, knees begin to buckle. The motivation to keep calling elected officials one more time is all but drowned out by the cries of fear by those who are in harm’s way.
Our personal concerns seem petty, irrelevant.
What words can we put down on the page that will be of any use whatsoever? What on earth could we possibly write that could help, or even simply not add to the harm?
I have no advice to offer, just that I read fourteen books in August. Books by immigrants and people of color and disabled people and folks of all sexual preferences and several different nationalities and religions… And this, we all want to share our story. By reading the stories of others, by actively seeking out the words of people unlike ourselves, one might begin to find that there is no such thing as “people unlike ourselves.”
For who is not seeking a receptive ear and a heart that might carry their pain even for just the length of time it takes to tell a story or read a poem?