Life inside the bubble

I got my son into watching The West Wing over the holidays and now he's off to the races with the series, on season three already. He said, "This is the first time I've glimpsed why anyone might want to work in politics," he said. "It never made any sense before." Of course, we're so far away from that vision of political life now, but it's still a comfort watch, to imagine a world in which people serve with an actual desire to make others’ lives better. My boy is such a good son. He came with me to all my pre-surgery screenings this week, drove me there and back, sat in with me on the PT recovery planning meeting, helped me order the stuff I'm going to need, and has generally made me feel very taken care of. Yes, he can be a bit bossy, but we do understand it's his love language.

The little one is back in Dallas with her parents, and I miss her little face, her nonstop chatter, her busyness and rich imagination. She said to her grandma, "Let's go and play in my room," and I love that she has identified a room on our apartment as being her room. It is where she sleeps when she is here, so it stands to reason, after all.

Here's something else I love: How my daughter and her cousins love and enjoy each other. How when Harper's mom is in town, they all get together and paint the town, young women together having a supremely grand time. I told them send me pictures so I could relive my youth vicariously, and they indulged me. The next day, they lay on beds and couches all over my house, somewhat hung over, but all in agreement that the time they had was worth it. It certainly looks like it was!

My husband is upstate today, working with a small natural history musuem, teaching its science associates and student volunteers updated best practices for preserving its ichthyology collection. While he was there the snow started to come down. He's making his way home now through the still falling snow. I'm just sitting here, The West Wing playing on Netflix as I get ready to pick out end pieces for a puzzle my daughter gave me for Christmas and wait for the sound of his key in the door. Here's what it looks like right now outside my window.

And here's the very cool puzzle I'm about to lose myself in. Puzzles are my mediatation.

One more, this is me one week before my bionic hip. I look so optimistic, like I'm saying, okay fam, here we go.

Whimsy and rage

I ran across that long ago photo of myself while looking for some records for the lawyer who is drawing up our will and healthcare proxy and advance directives and other important life documents one should have in place when one is about to undergo surgery, no matter how routine. My children were four and one when that photo was taken in 1995. It ran with a story I wrote for a magazine about my father's last days and how watching him die brought into sharp focus the tender long married love between my parents. I recall the photographer told me, "Don't smile, it's a sad story," and I said, "But it's also a beautiful one."

I find myself unable to write much here. I heard a woman the other day speak of the schizophrenia of holding whimsy in one hand and explosive rage in the other. I lie in bed at night beside my husband, reading or maybe streaming something, distancing for a moment the tragedies unfolding daily, a woman, a mother of three, her head blown off by the state while citizen cameras rolled, we all saw it, we watched it again and again from many angles, the spray of red against the windscreen of her car as it meandered out of control into a telephone pole. The shooter, whose words in the immediate aftermath, caught on tape, were "Fkn bitch," was quickly whisked from the scene and rushed into hiding by the state. In the days since, his masked and heavily armed cohorts have doubled down, terrorizing American citizens with threats of the same happening to them, their only crime, caring for their fellow citizens, and simply existing with a sense of decency intact in their souls. It's all distraction, distraction, distraction from the darkest tales you can imagine, no, darker than that. And it's working, too. Another woman asked, "How do we vote our way out of this?" I have been wondering the same thing. I'm not saying don't vote, but how do we come back from where we now find ourselves? It's not that I've lost hope. My city managed to elect a bright young idealist for mayor. They'll try at every turn to stymie him, but at least he's an agent of light shining a torch into the descending night. But you see my dilemma: how can I comfortably write here when what flows from my fingers only makes me a target, too.

Christmas came and went. It was low key and undramatic inside the bubble of my whimsy. We gather, we hold each other, we laugh and love, we commune. The Dallas crew was here again this weekend, the little one had another one of those playdate things at a crunchy granola Quaker preschool her parents hope she will be admitted to for when they move back to the city later this year. She is in rare two-year-old form, testing the boundaries and her vocal range, how well I remember this stage, but also sweet as can be, brilliant and imaginative and verbal, our darling girl. 

I got laid off from the magazine last week, so that happened. I was one of thirty-six editorial staffers released from employment, including some very key personnel, suggesting the publication will be suspending print and going all digital. The Chief Content Officer quit the same day the layoffs came down, as if to say, Nosireeebob, I'm not presiding over this sh*t show. I respected it. At least I won't have to worry about juggling the editing of stories while I'm trying to rehab from my upcoming hip surgery. It's two weeks away now. I'm scared and excited. I'm really doing this thing.

The politics of hope