The Morning After the 2016 Election

When I went to bed on Monday night, the night before Election Day, I told myself that whatever happened in the Presidential race the next day, I would still go to sleep next to Marilyn the next night, our bedroom would still be cozy, our house would still be our safe haven, my immediate world would not change immediately. Even then, I knew I was telling myself a bedtime story. But I needed to sleep. And I did.

Now it is Wednesday morning, the morning after Election Day. The sun has come up; it’s a perfect, crisp, fall morning. Our Hillary sign is in the front yard, where it has been since the summer. And millions of us are faced with the inconceivable, awful reality—so awful that for now, I do not want to spell it out.

How do we go on?

For me, the answer for now has been to avoid the media, the analysis, and to follow my morning ritual of standing in front of the living room window, palms together, and recalling at least three reasons I am grateful. I managed to find three, even this morning, though I had to push much else aside. Then I picked up the grey Unitarian Universalist hymnal and read a meditation. I do this every day.  Today, I knew which one I needed: number 483, a poem by Wendell Berry titled “The Peace of Wild Things.” You can find it here: http://www.onbeing.org/program/ellen-davis-and-wendell-berry-the-poetry-of-creatures/extra/the-peace-of-wild-things-by

For now, it is giving me the perspective and the strength I need to go in and teach three classes and keep my devastation under wraps. Then I will face the rest of the world and probably let the tears flow.

How are you coping today?

It was difficult to reconcile this view from the living room window with the grief  and fear in my heart.

I had taken this photo early in the evening to post when HRC won.  Yes, I am that supporter, the one with buttons and bumper stickers galore.

I am grateful I went to this celebration of Votes for Women on Tuesday evening in downtown Champaign. I had hope then.

The Comfort of the Prairie

On two recent afternoons, I walked the familiar path through the prairie in Meadowbrook Park. 

On the first day, the clouds were thick as I parked the car by the popular play structure where a few children played despite the cold.  As I turned off the ignition, the drizzle turned to a steady rain, and parents began hurrying children to the cars, some bundled in their arms.  I had grabbed my raincoat as I left the house; with the hood low over my face, I looked down at the ground and walked on the familiar path.  I was sad, and the weather mirrored my mood.  The rain seemed just right, and the path beneath my feet grounded me. 

Twenty-four hours later, I was back on the path.  The sun was brighter than it had been in days, the air was crisp, and I felt lighthearted and wide awake.  I walked again on the path that has become a kind of meditation for me. 

On this last day of 2014, I am grateful for this prairie to which I return all year round, where I listen for the creatures that share the space, and watch the grass that blows in the wind.