Becoming a Puddle

In a few days, it’ll be a year since the passing of a close friend of a close friend, Hendrick (“Henk”) Hart: philosopher, professor, writer. As a child, he and his family survived near starvation during the Nazi occupation of The Netherlands. Years later, as a father, he lay next to his beloved daughter as cancer took her life and, a few years later, cared equally for his dying wife.

Henk emerged from life agonies without rancor. He lived, and died, believing life had purpose. Here’s one of my favorites of his brief writings penned in his 80s.

“Love and grace can seem like a trickle. They can also flow like small spring rivers. And occasionally they grow into mighty waters. But none of that is possible without drops and puddles.

In my old age, I try being a puddle and I know that sometimes people step in my puddle and go on their way spreading a few drops of it. 

They allow me to dream of tsunamis of grace and monsoons of love. And, in the dream, the light dawns.”

Let us all aspire to becoming puddles.

There's Gotta Be a Word for This

Even at the depths of the COVID pandemic, I didn’t sit around and read dictionaries. Perhaps I should have, because I’ve been thinking about words a lot lately, but I didn’t.

Thinking about words…. I’ve been known to quote writer and historian Garry Wills who told us, “The problem with words is, they have meaning.” He had a point. We can’t use words indiscriminately making them mean what we want them to mean. They already have meaning even before I get to them. If I say “I love you,” I’m not merely filling the air with sound. The word “love”  means something. Said honestly, those three words means a lot.

So I noticed when some Republicans who wanted dilute the violence of the January 6 assault on our nation, they changed the words. Rioters and thugs, killers and brutes, became (who could believe this?) “tourists visiting the Capitol.” The mob violence, by all definitions an insurrection, was transmuted in Republican speak to “a group of law-abiding Americans expressing themselves.”

C’mon on now. Words have meaning, and their meaning ought to be rooted in truth. We can put a little lipstick on the pig but it’s still a pig. How can words possibly accommodate changing “rioters and thugs” or “killers and brutes” into “tourists”? As nearly as I can tell, we can’t get there from here.

Just for our entertainment, here’s a word-based diversion: In The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, John Koening collects real experiences for which no one has a perfectly good word. They add up to (his phrase) “obscure sorrows,” and Koening finds or creates words to convey those sorrows. For example, growing from thick German roots is this beauty: “mauerbauertraurigkeit, the inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like” – as if your social taste buds suddenly went sour. I didn’t know we needed a word for that but, just in case, we now have one.

(Incidentally, I really liked this one: “anecdoche, a conversation in which everyone is talking but nobody is listening.” I could have used that word for the past number of years to describe the experience of living in America.)

So why am I flailing around with weird words when I could be in the pool with my granddaughter or considering a visit to some imaginary place that’s COVID-free? This simple truth: No matter how hard I’ve tried, I can’t find a word that describes what I’m feeling. It’s becoming an obsession – oh, and by the way, most of you don’t have a word for it either.

For one thing, none of us have a word for how we feel because we’ve never quite felt like this before. This is uncharted territory. Vaguely frightened. Sort of scared. Mostly exhausted. Unable to make decisions. Drifting through days. Sleepless at night. Wondering about everything.

I won’t get direction or clarity from the “news,” so I’ve mostly stopped watching. MSNBC says Trump should be jailed and Biden should be praised. That makes sense to me, but neither is happening so, why bother?

On the next channel, Fox says vaccinations make you sterile or maybe dead. That’s handy, since it saves us confronting the reality that, while dodging coffins and body bags, it means we don’t owe anyone safety in our presence. We can be infected and boundlessly infect others. Oy. I think I have a word for this: treason.

Some days I feel like a badminton birdie getting slammed from one place to another, and I don’t even have a word for how that makes me feel. “Morally outraged” goes in the right direction. “Furious” occurs to me. But it’s frustrating to have no word that says I’m too tired to care and, at the same time, grief-stricken at the ignorance, dishonesty and collective evil seen daily as this pandemic continues to simmer.

Maybe I need a word that describes the Wonderland in which I’m Alice. I’m wandering through territory where right is left, up is down, truth as I’ve known it isn’t true, and the Cheshire Cat just mentioned that all the characters are mad.

According to opinion writers, the American economy is humming and people are spending, but despite it all the mood is “glum.” Glum. That may be close to what I feel. Morning, noon and night, all grey, all dull, all glum. That might work.

The New York Times says we’re all “trapped in a pandemic funk: Millions of Americans can’t shake a gloomy outlook.” Okay, maybe “glum,” maybe “gloomy,” maybe I’m just in a “funk.”

My life isn’t awful. I haven’t suffered COVID. I embrace one grandchild and have another on the way. I have friends I love and trust, some money in the bank and some food in the fridge. But none of this has changed the reality that I’m troubled, and don’t have a way to describe it.

My mother, known to engage happily in what might be called “therapeutic profanity” believed no woman should use certain crude terms. Maybe she was right. But let me borrow, for a moment, that 4-letter term for excrement. My feet are anchored in acres of the stuff; the stench is horrible; it’s neither solid nor liquid, and I can’t get out. I’m stuck in it.

Okay, your turn: Kindly, if you can, suggest a word for this.

Three Ways to Survive the Great Divide

Lately, for reasons not worth retelling, I’ve been feeling old and vulnerable. In my imagination, I’m warming up for a second guest appearance in “Kinky Boots” on Broadway. (Yes, I really did that.) In reality, after last week’s fall, I’m wondering where I put the cane someone generously brought me despite my protestations.

Stuck mostly in bed under doctor’s orders, I’ve had too much time to think. Inevitably, my mind flits to the Great Divide. We’re stacked up on the Fox-news right and the MSNBC-left. We’re picking, like vultures, at what used to be middle ground for common agreement. Everything from common good to common sense is ammunition in our political and social warfare. A year after the fact, Trump & Friends still cling to lies and incendiary rhetoric. Where do we find a “centrist” position on thugs violating everything American on January 6th? How are we going to survive this craziness?

It seems to me that, once I emerge from the world of pain killers and canes, I have three fundamental strategies by which to survive the divide.

Option One? Pick a side. Maybe I can get more comfortable with belonging on one side of the Great Divide. I can’t stand Trump’s arrogance, stupidity or dishonesty. He deserves time in the Big House not the White House. By definition, my animosity to him means I’m “on the other side.” So Rachel Maddow speaks my mind and Adam Schiff represents my views. I should just pick a side and stop worrying about how we’re coming apart as a nation. I may not have time or money enough for all the therapy this approach would require of me. But it’s an option.

A second option, and one some friends are taking, is to crawl under the blankets and hide. If I turn off the TV, stop reading any news and pretend the national warfare isn’t real, it’ll be gone when I come back. I’ve actually tried this option in short spurts. It doesn’t work for me. I can’t cuddle under a blanket while Texas’s Governor brutalizes Black men and all women.

Which leaves me with a third, and more difficult, option: Try rebuilding community. When I read that sentence again, it feels naïve. Who am I to create community? Where would I begin?

Forty-some years ago Robert Bellah and some colleagues wrote a remarkable book, Habits of the Heart. Despite its rigorous questions and academic tone, Bellah et al produced a study of “Individualism and Commitment in American Life” that still echoes today. They were forty years ahead of their time.

Somewhere mid-book, they were describing the kind of community we all long to have in America. I found that paragraph again this week. It’s worth hearing over the din of our political clashes:

“Communities…have a history — in any important sense they are constituted by their past — and for this reason we can speak of a real community as a ‘community of memory,’ one that does not forget its past. In order not to forget that past, a community is involved in retelling its story, its constitutive narrative, and in so doing it offers examples of the men and women who have embodied and exemplified the meaning of the community. These stories of collective history and exemplary individuals are an important part of the tradition that is so central to a community of memory. …But the stories are not all exemplary, not all about successes and achievements. A genuine community of memory will also tell painful stories of shared suffering that sometimes creates deeper identities than success, as we saw when Ruth Levy recognized her own identity with a community of shared love and suffering in the number [tattooed] on her babysitter’s arm."

If Option Three is recovering a community of memory, I’m for it. I don’t see another way. The hostilities between Trump’s allies and his enemies can only be settled by a shared memory and vision of a community we remember and want to recover.

The terrible danger I sense in the Republicans’ attempt to craft a new story around the 2020 election or the January 6th rebellion is this: They are crafting a false narrative, offering a different history of an America that is strictly Christian, white, anti-immigrant and anti-suffrage. They want to erase the realities experienced by America’s Black and indigenous communities. They are creating a false history built not on patriotism but on falsehoods.

General Colin Powell died this week. Two years ago he warned us that we "have come to live in a society based on insults, on lies and on things that just aren't true. It creates an environment where deranged people feel empowered. We've seen incidents before but now, we've come to live in a society…attacking almost every facet of American life.” He was just right.

The greatest danger of Trump’s assaults isn’t found in the physical damage left behind on January 6, or even the false claims that riddle his speeches and his addled brain. The most grave danger is a rewriting of American history. He is seeking, and in some quarters achieving, a false narrative of who America is and who it wants to be.

Turning off the news may be a short-term option. Curling under the covers works for a day. But what we really need is a community of memory built on truth.