I sip tea and it tastes warm and nourishing as it always does. Yesterday morning, a checker at a grocery store gave me a small bottle of hand sanitizer because they had none on the shelves.
In the afternoon, I took a long walk on frozen footprints. We woke to rain
on Thursday that, after hours, turned to big thick snow. Stepping through the slushy mix with Christopher later, his hiking boots at last began to fill with water. Because walking is one of only a handful of ways available for our exercise-loving city, footprints by evening abounded, then froze. I crunch-walked today for a while before giving up and choosing either snow or the paved street.
When I reached a park and saw I was alone, I broke into punches. Our president’s face came to mind as I punched the air for all I’m worth. I didn’t feel hatred, but anger. In the middle of all the hubaloo, our president is moving hard and fast to deport everyone at the U.S.-Mexican border, including those who here seeking asylum.
My friend Allison just spent several months at the border translating
women’s stories for a nonprofit legal team helping mothers and children seeking asylum.
The past couple of days, since I heard this news (bullet point number 9 or so in a daily news listing), I’ve walked around stunned. He waited until everyone was so overwhelmed with our current crisis to do what he always wanted to do and kick “those people” out. I wonder about those parents separated from their children. I wouldn’t put it past the administration to deport children without parents, delivering them directly into the arms of those who would exploit them.
When I try to put myself in the shoes of our “leader” rather than condemn him, what I feel is fear. I know that everyone is doing the best they can. I’m not out to blame anyone. I haven’t sent President Trump love and support as much as I’ve intended to, because I keep feeling so overwhelmed and shut down by the deep cutting wounds he and those empowered by him have made to the fabric of our planet and our democracy and the basic well-being of others.
Like the women, men, and children at the border. How do you live with choices that put others in harm’s way, in particular when you had the power to do something that could have helped them?
It matters every second how we treat others, maybe especially during a crisis, but no, all the time. That includes treating well those who wrong us or those with whom we disagree. It always includes “those people” because “those people” are just people you haven’t talked with yet, whose stories you don’t know. I think that treating others well may be one of the most important things of all.
My heart burns and stretches. I reach with my heart across this radio silence toward all people. I radiate kindness. I imagine those women safe and happy. I cannot imagine them being raped or killed, or I will crumble. I put my body beside theirs, hold their arms, hug them. I would have given you a shower, some food, hugs. I would have helped you find your babies.
Beating ourselves up seems to be one of the favorite sports of women, at least we bleeding heart liberal women, for not doing more to help.
Should-ing ourselves isn’t why we’re here. I turn to my heart. It aches like a caged bird against my ribs. It can fly free, across borders. It can feel you. I feel you, male and female. I feel you, caring but also scared. I feel you wanting to help, but also angry and disappointed. I feel these women, and they need our love. You need your own love. I need my own love. Let us fill with the Big Love that expands each of us, that can help us reach both these women and their children so we may know ourselves through loving kindness.
Yes, it breaks my heart all over again. I hug this world anyway, and through my tears shines a joy more powerful than any totalitarian or viral threat could reign in. We will remain the land of the free through all these dark times. And like hummingbirds, our hearts will exist and vibrate and float into being in ways we have only glimpsed. I am with you. You are not alone. I bring you breadcrumbs from my own journey and wrap my arms around you. You are safe. You have soap and water to wash your hands, your bottoms, your dizzy tizzy minds. Stay firm and believe: The best is yet to come.