I miss the pause
for mystery
the beguiling crook
of the crone's
withered finger
how a crevice advancing
through a toppled log
can fit the whole
of a kingdom, comfortably
moss overtop
to muffle
the secrets
I miss the wondering wave
of not knowing
collapsing upon
some silver-sighted shore
where the questions sprawl
across rocks
like sirens
calling, calling, calling
for more
Ten years ago,
I slipped inside
a backyard rocket
and launched myself
to the moon
Strange thing is—
I live here now.
Not quite as bouncy
as I was back then
Not nearly as beholden
to the eyes of men
And yet—
You should see the Earth
from my perspective
Blue and beautiful
if full of Martians
and thick with treasure
I long to explore
How to mark a year like this?
Has it, in fact, been a year? Time seems as slippery as everything else.
A year ago, I woke up to the knowledge that we were about to elect Hillary Clinton president of the United States. I was happy for the historical significance of the milestone, though I was not as excited as I was in 2008, when Barack Obama ascended to that office. The campaign had been too ugly, the divide in the country too troubling, and for as much as I hated Donald Trump, I did not love Hillary. I did, however, believe she'd make a good president, though I doubted she'd be given the chance to succeed by the opposition party in power. Still, when placed next to her competitor, I didn't see how a rational person wouldn't prefer her by a hundred million squintillion to one.
But anyway, that morning I was high on anticipation, filled with the sweet, near-relief of it all being done. In 24 hours, I would never have to think about that man ever again: or not as an existential threat, at any rate. Early in the morning, I went out to fill the bird feeder at the top of our hill which faces a steep, wooded ravine behind our backyard. As I approached the feeder, I stopped short.
There was a stag standing beyond the chainlink fence.
He looked at me. I returned the gaze. In the space between breaths, I counted ten or twelve points on his rack. He was imperious. Imposing. Magnificently wild. I'd never seen a buck so near before. They're notorious loners: people-shy.
In the film of my memory, he snorts and stamps his hoof a little. In reality, I think he simply walked on, crunching the fall leaves as he went.
A little thrilled, I chose to see this encounter as a sign. I'd never seen a stag so close! Our country had never elected a female President! It was meant to be, wasn't it.
That night, as it began to dawn on us that the impossible was fast becoming the nightmarishly probable, I fell off a cliff, like so many of us did.
Today, I'm still down here, struggling. Horrified. Disgusted. Mourning what we've lost and almost despairing of what's to come.
I still don't feel like I understand what happened. Nor do I know how we reclaim our footing and place in the world.*
I know this, though: I've stopped believing in signs.
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*I wrote this before the Tuesday elections, and the subsequent wave of Democratic victories in Virginia, New Jersey, Maine and elsewhere. Citizens came out in high numbers for an off-year election and rejected Trumpism full-throatedly. A startlingly high percentage of the new Virginia officeholders are women—including the first transgender person ever elected to a state legislature—spurred to action by their love of country and hatred for what Trump and the Trump-enabling GOP have wrought.
I am buoyed by these results. I am heartened. They are a chink in the side of that cliff. Now let's all grab hold and climb.
