I’m running away. I can feel it.

I just filed a week’s worth of missives. They met my standard. I liked them. But not one addressed our national calamity, except obliquely. They were about poems, philosophy, Henry, nature, music, aging – inviting topics all – but none bewailing the outrages of the hour. Was I fleeing pain? Mistaking negligence for diligence?

We ask ourselves – as wars erupt, soldiers terrorize civilians, truth is trashed, science shackled, moral and economic values degraded, and Pride sashays – how much time and mind to spend grieving and inveighing, how much to remaining calm. We gather here to refresh our spirits, not to wallow in woe. When we’ve such cause to be mad and sad, is it bad to be glad?

Grief should be proportionate. To poison the communal atmosphere is a social crime, a sort of existential farting. Eeyore is charming in a children’s book but not in person, radiating gloom. But how strike the balance? Claudius is right to scold Hamlet:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published to perseverIn obstinate condolement is a courseOf impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief;It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,An understanding simple and unschool'd.

But sometimes to ignore the horror and “cheer up” is despicable deception. When have we moaned enough?

Last week Jane and I attended our local “No King’s Day” rally in Mount Kisco. There were lots of folks there with hand-made signs. I meant to write something – but what? We felt virtuous milling, but were we accomplishing anything? How much zest should I waste wailing?

We need to get away – to refresh ourselves – so we can return to fight. We might groan, with Hamlet:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe time is out of joint. O curséd spiteThat ever I was born to set it right,

but that is our lot. Our moment is out of joint, and we cannot evade responsibility for repairing it, because it’s ours.

How much rage is enough? How little irresponsible? Each must judge for themselves, by their proprietary calculus. Which matters more – attending a grandkid’s soccer game or the No Kings rally? Surely I was more useful rooting for our little champion than railing against an impervious thug. But no, we had to show up, if only to escape the onus of absence. If you don’t walk the walk, you forfeit the right to talk the talk.

Humans imagine we choose what to do. And we do, sort of. Jane and I chose to attend the No Kings rally. But hindsight wonders, of all our deeds, did we really have a choice? Or was our only choice obedience to the Weltanschauung, the inexorable pressures of our age? Are these words mine or our moment forcing itself through my fingertips? If my thoughts turn from our turmoil, what’s tugging them?

I’m learning to acquiesce to necessity. When Saint Francis said he followed his feet, he was only half-joking. We all follow our feet, and what directs them is a mingle of traits, tendencies and trends so inscrutable we might as well call it God. I never expected to spend my waning years pounding a secular pulpit, but my hour urged otherwise. Old, ignored, ridiculed, essential values like truth, mercy, grace, justice, decency needed advocacy. The obvious was no longer obvious. My countrymen risked wrecking civilization with their mischief and mistakes. I evolved a voice my readers came to hear. Did Vanity drive me? Patriotism? Altruism? The Big Guy Above? Yes, no, I’ve no idea. If I detect myself slipping my harness, playing hooky, what to do about it!

Write words like these.