“How you feeling?” I ask my friend. This is our first meeting since November Fifth.

“Surprisingly good,” he replies. “Is that terrible?”

My friend and I agree about politics: our national condition could hardly be worse. Each day fresh assaults on democracy, truth, science, common sense. The caliber of nominees, the reckless promises, the malignity of the majority and pusillanimity of politicians make our – choose your body part – skin crawl, brains boggle, guts wrench, hairs stand on end. Optimism can only be obtusity. We’re in for it, my friend and I agree. And yet – how can this be? – our spirits are more lightsome, exuberant than they’ve been for many a day. Is that terrible?

Only humans coddle opinions how we should be feeling. Dog-pal Henry feels the way he feels – feisty, grumpy, jubilant, snoozy, cuddly – no “should” about it. Humans measure our affect against some visionary standard. Are we responding to existence as we “ought”?

My friend’s cheer and mine, I repeat, are not attributable to renewed confidence in our national prospect. No silver-lining solace, no bromides, no bravado. We’ve long foreseen an apocalypse if our fellow citizens chose wrong that fatal day – and the devastation may exceed our dread. And yet – and yet – this song in our hearts, spring in our steps…

Have we lost our minds? Like Alfred E. Neumann of MAD magazine fame, have we been hystericized by horror (“What, me worry?”) – and yes, hystericize is a verb – has been since 1819, says my OED. Our conversation seems lucid enough, our conviviality uncoerced. If our feelings are “inappropriate” – another adjective that gives Henry agita – what gives?

Here’s my theory. Our minds have minds of their own. Or as Milton put it, more elegantly,

This discrepancy – between is and ought – either fascinates or infuriates, depending on one’s temperament. If I am not who I have in mind, who am I? Yikes!!!

The liberation of desolation may take us by surprise. My hopes, principles, and aspirations for humanity got whacked November Fifth. Parents of school shooters must feel this way – or our flower garden around Thanksgiving, hiding its head beneath the dirt. But life refuses to stay licked. Like the Timex watches of old, life “takes a licking but keeps on ticking.” My friend and I are alive, in health, surrounded by beauty, interest, love; we feel lucky, grateful; so what’s not to like? That America – and civilization – may be drifting toward a cataract? Oh, that.

Impotent to affect the trajectory of my moment, I’m… relieved. I did my best to prevent this, shouted myself hoarse, un-piggy-banked my pennies, and failed. So be it. Relieved of responsibility, I’ll redirect my energy elsewhere. Sitting shiva may be OK for a week – shiva means seven – but it gets tedious. The dead cannot be restored by tears.

Life is more practical than intellect. It adjusts its aspirations to its capacity. I will not win Wimbledon, out-earn Elon, write King Lear – so now what? Boccaccio’s giggly partiers weren’t saps, they were celebrating whatever delights the Plague left them. My friend and I aren’t scofflaws from our national calamity: we’re making the most of our moment. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?

We go on – until we can’t. And it’s engrossing, isn’t it, what’s happening to our nation and ourselves? Horrifying, granted, but enlightening. “May you live in interesting times” is no “old Chinese curse” – the claim’s apocryphal – but the point holds. These times are interesting – and here we are – friends together – so onward.