what can I do right now that's good?

NOVEMBER: we, the people

I learned to surf at C-Street in Ventura. Flanked by Rodel and Sarah, I paddled past the break and bobbed impotently beside their shortboards on my borrowed Costco Wavestorm. Pretended to try to catch a wave and cheered when they rode in again and again. I never really caught on.

A thing I loved was the duck dive. I never quite caught onto that either (on a Wavestorm?!), but it was the only part of surfing I really longed for. A way to conserve energy through the break, the duck dive is a dance between sea and surfer. A good surfer knows when to push the nose of her board under the surface, press the tail parallel and coast, suspended for a moment beneath the wave. Subverting the ocean’s power in silent blue calm. Within, but below.

When we the people elected Donald Trump in 2016, I wasn’t ready. I was activated, mad as hell. Shocked in the way that many white women were shocked. Here?? How???

I spent eight years in churn, swimming headlong into anger, fear, grief, disillusionment, tossed by the power of powerful (justified) rage. Between last time and this time, I learned a great deal. I became a mother. I reckoned (imperfectly) with my history and white history. I spent many days, including all of last week, in a state of inertia, ruled by the swirl.

Somehow, yesterday morning, I pressed beneath the wave. I’ve kept myself there by quiet, animal force. And I’m not saying it’s the right place or where anyone else ought to be, but I have found some peace here. And in case it helps, this feels (today) like a way through. When the wave threatens to pummel, asking:

What can I do right now that’s good?

I can show my children unbelievable love. I can teach my son that his gentleness is a gift and his softness is a strength. I can teach my daughter how to wield her fire. I can teach them both to be compassionate when they’d rather fight. To find grace in uncertainty. To revel in their wet soft fallible human bodies. To slow down enough to notice. To hear the dreams in their thumping hearts and see the thin, rugged thread that binds us all, just below the surface. To resist, through calm, a world that demands everything.

I can listen. I can serve. I can hold space for the weary and angry the frightened and grieving. (I can hold space for my own grief.) I can log off. I can celebrate and play and delight. I can smile at strangers. I can soften. I can find the words that balance out the weight of grief (joy), anger (peace), overwhelm (presence), fear (hope). Walk in the woods. Reach for kindness.