The good news in Tuesday’s bad news – and it was very bad – is that leave’s canceled for the party of the sane. No matter how old, tired, infirm, defeated you feel, you’re needed in the ranks, to save our nation and (some might argue) civilization itself. We are the Ukrainians now – or the Brits during the Blitz: do or die.
No use bellyaching – facts are facts – the past is beyond repair. We the people made a calamitous mistake. How calamitous, time will tell soon enough. A knock on the door would not surprise me – to suppress conversation, even among chums. With dictators, it’s their way or the highway – or gas chamber. Trump has vowed to be a dictator on day one.
My game plan? I have no idea. I’m wobbly, in shock, desperate, incredulous. The votes of a few plutocrats I can understand, greedy to amass more, but that a majority of fellow citizens opted for this ogre bewilders me. I’m convinced they’ll rue their choice but so what? So will I. So, more importantly, will my grandkids. I’m headed toward tranquility no matter who’s in charge, but they’ve got their lives to live.
Choice one is do or die. I choose do. Life’s too much fun to leave before closing time. Whatever happens is instructive (even if I must hide my pages under the bed).
Choice two is fight or fly. Why not book a round-the-world cruise, bury my brain in old poems? Realistically – that oleaginous exculpatory adverb – what can I do to fix things? It’s tempting to say to hell with it, things are as they are, I’ve done my bit, let the next generation cope. Problem is, I can’t – not and live with myself. I owe kin and kith my all. Mine’s the generation that produced this mess; I must try to help clean it up.
Having chosen to stay and fight, the question is how. The answer to that is: however we can and with all we’ve got. Different folks have different strengths. Some fly bombers, some bandage the wounded, some plant victory gardens – there is work for all. I yammer. No contribution may amount to much but if all give their all who knows.
Above all (I remind myself – and remind myself), proceed with joy. Grieve, yes – Tuesday’s losses feel unbearable just now – but then put away grieving, grievances, rage, and focus on what we have, not what we haven’t, and on what we can do, not what we can’t. Joy inflames, invigorates, inspires, lightens the weary road. Envision an America you admire, then paste that star in your sky and set forth thither. The Wise Men, I like to think, didn’t mind the harshness of their trek, foreseeing glory at its close. So should we all.
It is easy to mope, finger-point, gripe, but it only wastes chance and zest. Swallow your disgust (I’m still coaching myself): gulp hard – then get on with the work of life. I often wondered how I’d fare in a war: now I have my chance to find out. Will I dare, endure, quail? Will my humanity survive my hatred? Will I do myself proud?
“These are the times that try men's souls,” wrote Thomas Paine in another dire hour. “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”
Amen.