it’s dark when dogga’s cold nose wakes us; it stays dark while we sip coffee. we watch out the window and talk quietly, waiting for the sky to lighten and the sun to rise. we have happy lights on the windows over our headboard and those are lit as we wait for natural light to fill our room.
but now – in the middle of all the chaos happening, the middle of this dark period of time, the middle of sadness and disappointment and fear, the middle of divisiveness and rifts and anger, the middle of uncertainty and insecurity – now, we light this lodgepole pine. every morning. it is directly in front of us – through the single french door and across the sitting room. its light is a beacon for us, not even an exaggeration to say this mustard seed is like a lighthouse.
we’ve – of course – taken down all the holiday decorations. everything looks a bit drab in comparison to the sparkle we all add to the season. but we’ve added some more happy lights, cause, dayummm, we truly need them. on the ficus tree. on the old door that stands against the wall in the living room. in the sunroom. and candles at night – wherever we are.
you may tire of hearing of our happy lights – and i understand if you’re already there. we all have to do what helps keep us centered, keep us grounded, keep us vigilant, keep us hopeful. happy lights are what do it for us.
i remember, years ago, visiting mammoth cave. we purchased tickets for the tour that takes you down, down, down underground, where you walk the walkways of the cave, where they take a moment to turn off all the lights so that you might experience the darkness of that place. it’s bracing. i have decided i am not a cave person. i cannot imagine the intense difficulty of working in the mines; i cannot imagine exploring caves for research. some people have way more moxie than i do.
the things happening in this country are beginning to feel as dark as that immense cave system. no, that’s generous. they do feel as dark as that cave, as dark as any cave beneath any towering mountain, deep into the earth, without light.
it seems obvious we need to choose a luminary. we need to gather and stoke this light. we need to bring everything we’ve got. if we wish this sea-to-shining-sea to remain a democracy, we need to stand in the light, light up all the dark dank corners of vitriol and authoritarianism, shine light on that which is hidden, on twisted lies and untruths that protect the most powerful. we – bravely – need to speak up and speak out. we need to expose the shadows for what they are.
and if it takes happy lights to get there, then so be it.
it is a raw clay plate dating back to the 1940s. signed by the artist in 1947, four years after my parents married, two years after world war II ended. the painting depicts a scene that i would guess most of us might yearn for: idyllic, quiet, a dirt driveway to land next to a lake, a house, a barn, aspen trees. really simple. really beautiful.
along the bottom edge of this plate – its paint peeling from lack of firing finish – is what appears the artist’s monogram logo and the number 47, clearly the year this decorative plate was completed.
and therein is the problem.
for there will never – in our lifetime – be a number more burdened by foul memories. there will never be a number that has caused more pain, more divisiveness, more rifts, more sadistic cruelty, more self-serving agenda-ized policy that undermines the potential goodness of this country, even in the context of the greater global world.
that number – i wish it was not on this plate.
just like i erase the word “great” every time i write it. just like the word “tremendous”, the word “ballroom”, the acronym “maga”, the word “woke”, the words “better than anyone else”, the word “fraud”, the word “pardon”. just like red hats. just like the american flag. just like the thought of congress or the supreme court. just like alternative facts and people talking over, talking over, talking over others asking questions. i wonder how i might ask others if they want frozen water in their glasses without using the word “ice”. i wonder how we will fare in the future with so much ptsd on our plates.
there will be fallout from all this. and much of it will cause a great number of people in this country much long-term angst. not withstanding actual suffering of people far and wide, we will suffer the use of words, the turn of phrase, the sight of the white house, viewing the vast footage taken at the nation’s capitol on january 6, 2021. we will suffer the stripping of rights, the stripping of conscience, the stripping of truth, the stripping of sheer morality, the stripping of democracy. we will shudder to hear recordings of certain voices; we will turn away from the video of people’s faces twisted – contorted – by hatred, vitriol, bigotry.
we will need time to heal. we will need quiet to heal.
the trail was a mixture of ice and mud. in some spots – where the woods doesn’t let in as much sun, there was still snow…with evidence of hikers, horses, some kind of atv tracks.
we needed to get out on the trail. it had been several days since we’d gotten there.
this trail, as I’ve shared before, is the place where we do much sorting. it is the place where we re-center when we feel disoriented. it is the place where we speak of celebrating, where we acknowledge grief. it is the place we can talk or be silent – and either way – in both conversation and silence, we are fully communicating.
so, pulling up our turtles and foregoing any imperative to keep our boots mud-free, we started walking.
in the quiet of these woods, the pastel sun sinking lower in a slowly-graying sky, stark trees as sculptural interruptions with the horizon, thoughts have a way of making their way to the forefront, unimportant stuff drops off, existential takes the limelight.
it was a couple days after this country we live in invaded venezuela, a couple days after a citizen right-around-the-age-of-my-own-children was shot three times in the face and killed by a government agency, which then went on to demonize her.
there are moments when i literally cannot imagine what it must feel like to believe – absolutely and without a doubt – that you are the most powerful person in the world, you are the smartest person on the planet, you are better than anyone else – anyone, anyone, anyone, ever, ever, ever. this kind of exponential narcissism is beyond anything i can comprehend, a complete and utterly ego-driven attitude beyond the pale. the callousness, the cavalier mob-boss certainty, the self-devotion is revolting. being witness to this is living inside this person’s sickness – and, as contagious as it is if one is a sycophant – to which, indeed, we bear witness – for me, it is nauseating, incomprehensible. appalling doesn’t begin to cover it.
we hike because it helps us sort to clarity. even with all the innate complexity of the forest, the ecosystems present, the symbiotic relationships in place, there is still not much that is complicated when you are hiking through. it is all there – surrounding us with beauty and simplicity, the goodness of planet earth.
to juxtaposition that with the hideousness of an administration that is warped beyond comparison is to walk in some sort of unreal reality. this place – these woods – make sense. in the way that winter falls upon the land, the leaves have fallen, the underbrush is in fallow, the land is simply waiting. this place – this nation – makes no sense. in the way that this winter falls upon the land, cruelty has beset us, goodness as-a-country is nowhere to be found, the land from-sea-to-shining-sea is waiting…for its soul to return.
for right now, the clarity that is evident, the thought that i literally cannot imagine but is ever-creeping-forward, is clear-eyed and colored with the horrors of democracy being dismantled – right before our very eyes.
and i wonder about those who find this worthy of cheering. i wonder about those who are aligned with the miserable, vile nature of people in current leadership. i wonder about those who believe in the mass deportations of their neighbors, the abject sadistic horror inflicted upon the populace, the removal of medicaid, of childcare, the endangerment of the LGBTQ community, the loss of affordable healthcare, the unemployment, the cost of living day-to-day, the loss of absolute sanity regarding actual medicine, actual research, actual science, actual healing, the dissolution of international agreements for safety and peaceful coexistence in the world. i wonder how it is that their brains – and hearts – have bought into – hook, line and sinker – this vacuous, ill-intended, dangerous administration.
many of these people were one-topic voters. their immaturity – and their ignorance – are evident. it is shameful that they did not look beyond their one flag-in-the-sand to seek actual clarity about the bait-and-switch in which they were participating.
because now – the thing they can say – as their country teeters dangerously close to falling to authoritarian fascism – is that women have no choice about their own bodies or that we don’t have to succumb to “socialist” healthcare or that we are cleaning out the “dangerous criminals” and, mind you, everyone else with skin color they don’t like or that they don’t have to worry about government oversight over or taxation of their big money and that air will be clean – only it won’t – and it will be deregulated and filled with fossil fuel particulate, and that water will be clean – only it won’t – and it will be deregulated and continue to be vulnerable to pollution and long term harmful pfas, and that crops will be clean – only they won’t – and deregulation on pesticides and fertilizers and sustainability and public health protections will add fuel to the dangerous fire and then – my personal favorite, surely the heartbeat of a healthy country – that their froot loops will soon – in 2027 – finally, finally, finally be safe.
these people – clearly – need to take a walk in the woods.
(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)
and so…
reticent to un-decorate, we left it all up. we were just hesitant to take down all that glitters, all that sparkles, all that gives light to the season. we were hesitant because there has been so much dark.
it is not out of the norm to be questioning what is happening here. to give over – without inquiry to integrity or morality – is to abdicate, to align, to be complicit.
in this earliest part of 2026, i hope that there will movement to right this country and its unconscionable adoption of the unprincipled as its leaders. i hope there will be steps made that, instead of demolishing diversity, equity and inclusion, will light a fire beneath the heart strings of this very diverse populace, powerful wicks embracing differences. i hope that the inhumane and unjust treatment of people – downright cruelty – will cease. i hope that the constitution will hold.
it is outrageous – in this day and age – 2026 – a time that should be filled with brilliance, forward-advancing research, safety measures and social safety nets for all, a dedication to action concerning climate change, and a world concerned with those who follow – that we are in this place – by most measures – becoming a cauldron of atrocities.
it is unbelievable – in this day and age – 2026 – in this country – that we are surrounded by untruths, steeped in the tactics of evasion, drowning in elitist indulgences, worried about basic necessities.
it is chokingly sad – in this day and age – 2026 – right here and right now – that we are watching this democracy shake at its core, that we are being bullied from republic to regime.
leaving the holiday decorations up didn’t change any of it. but in these winter days of early darkness, it helped hold the light a little longer. and so, we have left a few bits still – bits of light surrounding us, not packed away.
another. and another. they statistically stack up, these school shooting victims, the children – children – who have died at the hand of a lethal shooter with a gun.
it is beyond comprehension.
and it has become the norm.
all the empty rooms was released on december 1. we watched it a couple days after its release. the trailer alone had made me weep, so i was aware ahead of time that it would be gut-wrenching.
steve hartman is a reporter who has often been sent to the site of the innumerable number of school shootings that happen in this country. over the past 30 years, he has attempted to help the viewers “stay optimistic”. pushing back against whitewashing these horrific acts – against simply finding something of goodness in something so heinous – he decided to do something different.
he and photographer lou bopp went to eight homes where they photographed the bedrooms that used to belong to school-shooting victims. the short documentary depicts three of these bedrooms. every nook, every cranny, every tiny nuance. not wanting any semblance of their child to disappear – the trinkets, the scent, the aura, the essence – parents have kept the room the way their child left it – on their very last day on this earth – perhaps to – desperately – try and feel their child once again.
the colorful rubber hair ties wrapped around the doorknob did me in.
because there are two bobby pins on the old desk side table next to the couch in the living room, left there by my daughter in 2019 which i dust and place back, to feel her there. she – thankfully – is very much alive and well.
but those colorful rubber hair ties – elastics of a little girl killed by a school shooter.
if you aren’t already aghast, it should not take any more than this to stop you in your tracks.
and i agree with steve: “i wish that we could transport all americans to stand in one of those bedrooms for just a few minutes. we’d be a different america.”
though i now have my doubts about the morality of some americans – even if they watched this profound short – i hope that steve’s words – his if-this-then-that antecedent-consequent trigger-action conditional statement – would be true.
and though i now have my doubts about the government of this country – the government that has not protected the children of this nation – the government that has panted over the second amendment – the government that has lost itself in big lobby money and corruption – i would hope that steve’s words could be true.
and so, instead of zealously lusting over guns, we – as a country united by broken hearts – would raise up – value above all else – the safety of our children. every single one of them.
the list keeps getting longer. more items to offer to others, more to sell, more to simply dispose of.
i have been the recipient of many hand-me-downs. now, mind you, we use – or repurpose – many of these hand-me-downs….remember, we are the people with the almond 1970s sears kenmore range in our kitchen. still.
because i love numbers, i recently realized that when you add the ages of our three vehicles up right now – this year – in the year 2025 – they add up to 100 years. now, that’s pretty doggone amazing. granted, our little vw bug is included, but if you take that one out, the other two still add up to a whopping 46 years. eh. i digress.
i keep referring back to my sentimental-people-trying-to-divest-of-their-stufffff book. it’s essential self-help material, particularly at a time when we are truly paring down. it helps to read that you don’t have to keep a gift forever – you are not indebted to the gifter in a forever way. and, even if you give some gift away, the sentiment remains. common sense stuff, but not when you are lost in the memories and angst of what to do with the antique relics in a bin or a box.
and so – the box with decorator hanging plates.
i am most definitely not a hanging-plate girl. though they are beautiful, their self-actualization of hanging-on-the-wall will never occur because of me.
we photographed them all the other day, carefully placing them on a black cloth on the table, taking care to avoid glare, turning them over for markings on the back, photographing any written certificates of authenticity that accompany them.
we got through the marketed plates and i have no reticence about listing those for sale – granted, at a low selling price, for the time of hanging-plate-popularity is well past. then we got to the family-handed-down ones. the ones with initials on the back or years (like 1917 or 1930). the ones with sticky notes that my sweet momma wrote, describing the origin of the plate or how it had been passed down. ugh. these are the ones that invoke guilt.
there is one that i will keep. it’s hand-painted, floral, dated 1930, with a hand-threaded wire for hanging, leaving the delicious mystery of who initially placed it there. other plates, however, would only be stored – and that is what i am trying to avoid: long-term storage. and so, i suspect i will offer them to others, perhaps sell the ones that are not family-member-painted or have distinct family connections. it’s a bit stressful. but i keep reminding myself…they are plates, for goodness sake. it isn’t actual DNA strands i am giving away or selling. sheesh. (back to the book!!!! stat!!!)
and then i’ll be moving on to the punchbowl and the old spinning wheel, a plethora of milk glass vases, too many hobnail pieces to ever use, 1970s-1990s sewing patterns.
the thing about all this going-through that is helpful? the fact that i don’t think much about the state of THINGS while i open bins and boxes and sort and photograph and ponder what to do.
the history of these objects – such treasured items in their day and even now – is forefront in my mind.
it is often the handwritten note by my mom that is more difficult than the object itself. everyone has their own line – i’ll never forget when a sibling threw away years and years of my momma’s calendars. as a calendar-girl, i was devastated to hear this. i would so prefer to read my sweet mom’s calendars and notes she jotted on them than have any piece of furniture or jewelry or painted plate. like i said, we all have different value sets.
and so i puzzle how to properly respect these artifacts i am unearthing – particularly some more obviously family-connected – but dates like 1917 on the back of a plate – a scalloped limoges porcelain plate handpainted in soft blue and green hues – forget-me-nots – in the same year as the united states entered the First World War – in order that the world would be made safe for democracy – these dates, the history of such pieces fast-forwards my thinking to today, catapults me back into what is happening now. i cannot help but travel through the history of this country as i unwrap that which is in the plastic bin.
THE BOOK reminds me that no longer having an object does not disconnect one from its meaning, its emotional value, its gifter or pass-it-down-er. all of that – the true worth – is still valid, still present. nevertheless, i take my time and consider carefully the options of parting with something.
which makes me think: what if this country would stand by its values, its rights and freedoms, its constitution with the same level of respectful restraint? what if this country – and its leaders – would consider carefully the options of parting with the very somethings that have made it a republic, a democracy? what if this country would value handing down to our children and their children and so forth the best of what we can all be?
what will the trinkets and artifacts of this very era conjure up in future generations as they open the bins and boxes left for them?
i just can’t keep everything. and right now, i’ve been more valiant about going-through-giving-away-selling-getting-rid-of.
and so, despite the really beautiful wood handle on this vintage cast iron meat grinder – passed down to me by my mom and dad – a manual kitchen gadget – a peck, stow & wilcox – from the late 1800s or early 1900s – i have decided to move it on.
we aren’t big meat eaters and we are definitely not meat grinders. as a matter of fact, i am hard-pressed to remember my mom grinding meat. and, as antiques go, our old kitchen isn’t big enough to add the meat grinder as a displayed collectible, even with its patina of worn-smooth wood, the curve of its handle, the working vice clamp – really, the whole curiosity factor. no, it is time to let it go.
in our economic blackout protest, we won’t be shopping today – or the next few days – and we didn’t the last few days – anywhere but smaller retail. over this weekend we may go to our favorite antique shoppe or we may stay in, continuing the big-clearing-out, maybe hiking as a respite from the going-through.
every now and then, as i touch something that’s been packed away, i pause for a few minutes. in the flash of memories that flies through my heart in those minutes, i do my best to detach from the item and simply attach to the feeling. some things are easy – the meat grinder is sort of one of those, despite its collectible value. some things are a bit more difficult or downright hard – an old felt hat of my dad’s, a mid-century modern black and blue ceramic ashtray i remember from forever, a cypress clock, my momma’s wedding dress, hobnail milk glass pieces – these all run wide that spectrum. my tinier-than-i-remembered horse collection, multiple plastic seagulls on wire stuck into driftwood, the metal yellow and white smile face wastebasket, an old bread box – these are also mixed and the ruthless-matter-of-fact-er in me takes a backseat to the flood of memories. but boxed is boxed and i am wondering what the point is if something that could be used by someone is simply boxed or binned away in the storage room in the basement, never to be appreciated, never to be purposed.
the hands that held this grinder handle, that cranked this, that churned out sausage or whatever it is the grinder is capable of, were hands related to mine. holding this handle is holding time-passed-by. it is holding people passed. and so i do a photo shoot of this cast iron piece, clamping it onto our kitchen table, appreciating its age, its handprints, its history – though i don’t specifically know it.
and someone will eventually purchase this – or we will give it away – and they will also wonder about where it came from, whose it was, how it was used and when. they won’t know, but they will have honored it nonetheless, just by taking it home.
and the meat grinder will start its next phase – maybe displayed – maybe put into use. and the story will continue – about a hundred years of story.
and we will stand firm in our blackout of the kind of purchasing that enables the most privileged wealthy, the oligarchs. we will stand firm in our pushback of the economic inequality, the DEI rollbacks, the administration’s corruption and bow to special interests, to bigotry. we’ll do the best we can.
as always we will scale back, be frugal, lighten the load we have, repurpose, minimalize our needs, support others who have less, hold onto what is truly valuable – memories, feelings, connections….the heart of it all.
because a hundred years from now – from the time of this very story – i would hope the patina of that future time would show the well-worn bruises and scars and hard work of the people who pushed back, the people who – successfully – held onto democracy.
spent. the at-least-ten-foot-tall sunflower by the library looks spent. but oh, no, it is not spent. the transience of its time – of time itself – is just the beginning of a new phase, a new purpose, a new cycle. its seeds perpetuate its enduring soul. it keeps on.
“i’ve spent the past fifteen hundred days working tirelessly toward a single goal – survival. and now that i’ve survived, i’m realizing i don’t know how to live.” (suleika jaouad)
and so, here in the little garden just outside our favored library in town, this sunflower is still in its glory. tall, stately, i still catch my breath to see it. alone, it towers above all else there.
today we will have irish stew and mashed potatoes for dinner. it is not a traditional big turkey extravaganza nor is it a gathering of many at our table on this day. but we two will sit – with candles and cloth napkins and steaming bowls and bread – and we will give thanks for each person in each of our phases who have helped us work toward survival, helped us with endurance, with purpose.
we will be grateful for the full table in our dining room just two weeks ago, our beloved children, with us. we will offer up thanks for the food we will eat, for each other, for cherished ones, for being together. we’ll likely chat about thanksgivings of our growing-up, tales of earlier grown-up thanksgivings, thanksgivings when – to their delight – our childrens’ dad did an early-morning turkey-dance with the turkey, thanksgivings when our parents did the traditional end-of-the-table carving.
and we’ll dream about thanksgivings to come when – hopefully – this nation will have come back to its senses, when it will lead with gratitude and appreciation for all its people and its wildly fantastic diversity. we’ll ponder when extended families might return to the holiday table together, in love and generosity, with compassion for each other and all the others, all schisms laid out forever to rest. we’ll wonder about the seeds of the soul of this day – thanksgiving – and the true honesty and heart behind the honest and heartfelt wish – “happy thanksgiving” – we’ve heard so many times this week before today.
we are reminded every day – by something or other – that we all don’t really know how to live. it goes beyond survival, beyond the giant yellow bloom on the ten foot tall stalk. it stands the transience of time and its soul of goodness endures, cycle after cycle.
it is not spent.
and we are grateful for another chance to keep on.
“i once believed that silence was strength.” (anonymous)
and then i didn’t.
because “silence isn’t strength. it’s complicity.” (barbra streisand)
and so i – in my noisy – will stand firm and tall.
and i will wonder how others have not yet gotten there – to noisy. how others have not yet realized inside themselves that their silence – in these very days – is complicity. how others have not spoken up, spoken for, spoken against. how others have not been openly horrified at what this country’s administration is allowing, how this country’s administration is grifting, what this country’s administration is hiding, what this country’s administration is intending.
and i will wonder how others protect the wrongdoers. how others cavalierly wield the power differential around, like a discus before its release, spinning, spinning. how others thwart the rights of people they consider beneath them, lesser, somehow, than them. how others avoid accountability, culpability, the simple act of being responsible. how others stay quiet – seemingly a mute cheering squad for these, both voiceless and gleeful.
and i will wonder how it is that sexual assault survivors are expected to internalize their abuse, desperately seeking anything to normalize that which is not normal. how it is that sexual assault survivors are not lifted from their pain with the steady voices of everyone around them, instead of shushed or doubted or ignored. how it is that this question – “why we doubt accusers and protect abusers” – has any turf on which to stand.
but these are not my wonders to solve. these are mine to get noisy about. for it is my own heart i must answer to.
because, for me, silence is not strength. it is capitulating to wrong, quietly suggesting that i agree.
and i don’t.
“it happened. it was wrong. it matters.” (tarana burke)
reverse threading 