no matter what someone wants you to believe about something, facts will stand the test of time, they will rise to the surface like a bobber on a lake, floating in incandescent shine into the air, ready for discovery. facts will – and should – lead the way, speaking loudly, burning down all the detriment of machinated false narrative, twisted stories that serve no purpose to truth.
“living your life in a bubble will give you the illusion that everything is ok.”
i know this is true. i know that – even though we are not members of the fiscally-elite, the upwardly-mobile, the investment-heavy, on the supposedly-can’t-be-touched rung of the caste ladder – we still live in a bubble. because we are white. because we were born to citizens of this nation and are – clearly – citizens ourselves. because we – even in the mediocre middle-ish of middle-class where we plop our pins of existence – are privileged. we – even with the challenges we face – in terms of income, healthcare and living expenses, loans of whatever sort we all need, the ability to get and consume food and water and a safe place to live – we are fortunate.
we are aware. and we are grateful. there is not a day that goes by that we don’t look at each other and – truly – say how very lucky we are.
and, yet, in that awareness we know that everything is not ok.
the membrane of whatever bubble in which we might reside is permeable. we participate in the gleaning of information, the parsing out of truth, the speaking-up against bigotry and extremism, the knowledge that these are dangerous times. we cannot linger within a bubble that allows us to flit from one day to another sans worry.
to walk in a world where you won’t talk about what is actually happening, where you won’t discuss corruption or the decimation of our nation, where you won’t “go there” as we have heard from those unwilling to, well, go there – feels as if there is an illusion that everything is just fine, that one feels untouchable, that someone else’s pain is not yours, that empathy is no longer in vogue.
it is disturbing that in order to reclaim our country we need all talk and join together and yet there are so many who just choose to linger in their bubbles, flitting about doing “normal” life – at a time when nothing is actually “normal” or, worse yet, floating in an echo chamber of propaganda – like a pod unto itself.
the bubble wand is one of those instantly recognizable things. it immediately conjures up images of iridescent bubbles floating mid-air, powered by nearby breezes. it is a visceral memory of childhood – ours, our children’s. a happy thought.
bubbles go hand in hand with unicorns and magical sunrises, joyous icons of life.
but bubbles pop. and unicorns don’t exist. and the sun draping the sky with the colors of rising doesn’t last beyond dawn. and reality is reality.
we are all in this…this world. everything is not ok.
lest we get lost in the illusion – and are therefore surprised at the cruelty, the destruction, the demolition of things good and natural and constitutional and humane – we need to be open to the truth of it all, to not be deluded, to not place stake in a mirage or a floating effervescent air globule.
everything is not ok. can we please address this honestly?
today. be the change, today. in your own little corner of the world, today. the change. what you wish to see in the world. today. be it. right where you are.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will change the narrative. i will expose ill intent, brazen abuse, toxic audacity, all manner of power and control that yields long-term devastating trauma.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will push back against lies, against spin, against complicity, against all manner of hiding the truth, all manner of abdicating responsibility, all manner of forever escaping culpability, all manner of those who walk free and without conscience.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will lift every one who has been harmed, every one who has been victim of monstrous wounds, every one who has not been safe. i will hold them tenderly and fiercely, i won’t let go.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. because i have spoken up, spoken out, acted on my words. i will protect my little corner of the world – historically and contemporaneously.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will lift the rug and sweep the dirt from beneath it. i will scrape through layers of the disregarded toxic, the loathsome secrecy of it all.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will not be silenced. i will breathe. and…exhale.
it is today. and today, i will be the change.
just as you can.
bridie’s words – an addendum to those of mahatma gandhi – be the change – in your own little corner of the world. that is where we all must start. that’s where i’m starting.
and the icefall went on and on, a looming presence as far as the eye could see, the night inky, the serac-umbrellas like mushroom caps over smooth slopes in shades of white and grey, the spectrum peeking out with the changing light. snow had fallen, stacking up in dune-piles created, urged by the wind, not yet sharpened by the coldest of temperatures. the telephoto lens captured it up close, though we were far away, many, many steps from the dangers of traversing the icefall, its chasms and crevasses.
the peony giggled, thinking it had fooled me for a moment, delighted with its fictitious story, its little tale of shape-shifting. knowing that it was just joshing me – steady in the real and good impact it has in this world – its merriment was because it was solidly based in its goodness. it had nothing to prove, no reason to make us believe it was goodness, because it just was.
and so it could play with us a bit, help us visualize, let us fly over the arctic or the himalayas in our minds. it could encourage imagination and fantasy. there was no fear of losing its way – for it would still fulfill its peony life, its peony self-actualization.
things that are good – that do no harm – do not concern themselves with convincing others that they are good. they just are. there is no reason to pretend to be something else, to permanently twist reality, to alter that which is truth.
the soft petals of the peony layered over each other, gorgeous bits of the bloom, exquisite.
we are fortunate to see such goodness, to witness it, to breathe it, to hold it.
i’m having a chance to renew my relationship with the harbor town. a tiny spurt of time here, a tiny spurt of time there. one of my favorite places on earth – the dock, at night, clanking masts, the sound of small fishing boats and soft troll motors – it is a good thing for me to revisit all this at a new time.
i didn’t know how much i needed to re-create this tie, to heal it. i didn’t know how much i needed to walk the pebbled beach, to scout for rocks and shells and driftwood, to sit and stare at the waves coming in.
when we left the last time we brought home this driftwood garland. we hung it in the place in our sunroom that seemed to be waiting for it. we sit next to it every day. and in the night that was draped in darkness from the storm, we sat next to it in candlelight.
we’ll go back. we’ll maybe pick up some more rocks for our rock garden. we may find a shell or two. we may bring home a piece of driftwood or other sea treasure. we’ll see.
the thing i do know is that each of these times i find another piece of me there. i rejuvenate another memory, process another bit of it all, feel affirmation.
somewhere on that beach, on that dock, in that town are pieces of my 19 year old self. the girl with the dog who climbed on the jetties and danced on the sand, who ran on the boardwalks and soaked in the sun on big old beach towels. there are pieces of me to reclaim, to go pick up in the corners of my memories, to re-empower. there are truths to release into the air of the world – finally. there are notes poised, floating in the air to compose, words in peripheral vision biding time to be written. i can feel the vibration of it all – that flutter in my chest.
and, though it is now a fancier bistro, the next time we’ll go – this place that was a pub where i’d fill up on baked clams and salty air. we didn’t go the last time because we knew it would be expensive and we are careful about our budget.
but the next time – yes – we will go.
because there is no price that you can put on the restoration of power, the retrieving of juju, the butterfly-net-capture-and-healing-release of muse that had been muted, stalled from trauma. to sit on those stools – even if they are different stools – is to sit on the sacred ground of yesterdays ago. it is something to celebrate.
the driftwood next to me in the sunroom taps my shoulder and my heart. it tells the story of ebb and flow, of survival and resilience, of transformative renewal and of a metamorphosis into something that has ridden the waves of the sound and – ultimately – emerged stronger.
and so i have some hesitancy on this. it was on the bottom shelf, tucked back into the shelf unit in the storage room, next to the blow-up pool floaties. it didn’t seem like i had thought about it for years. ok, for decades. i listed it for sale – after researching its ‘value’ as a vintage (circa 1980) cut-glass punchbowl set.
but part of my research brought me to a few blogposts others had written. and in those blogposts were these absolute gems about all the ways to use a lovely punchbowl. not just for punch.
the one that really stuck out for me – and debilitated my quest to sell-sell-sell – was the story about a lovely summer gathering where the person served gazpacho and crusty bread, glasses of chilled sauvignon blanc. yikes. i immediately wanted to have a lovely summer gathering where i serve gazpacho and crusty bread – each attendee ladling delicious soup into their handled cup and visiting on the deck or the patio under warm sun and blue skies.
so, yup…hesitancy. i mean, it all fits conveniently into a box – the base, the bowl, every last cup and hook – so why not just keep it a while longer…?
the power of story, eh?
i cried this morning. it wasn’t about the punchbowl. it was about seeing a post by my very own sister that made it obvious – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that she is completely on the other side of the current dangerous political divide.
gauging by how overtaken i was by grief, i guess i was holding out hope that the stories that are now reality in this country might have changed her mind, the minds of her immediate family members. because every story we are hearing breaks our hearts ever more. every story makes us question what in the hell is going on. every story makes us absolutely sick to our stomachs that this country has devolved into such a cruel and bigoted, sadistic and extreme place.
it is impossible for me to wrap my head around anyone – any.one. – finding acceptable any of these stories of the realities of this kind of depravity.
yet i know that there are media outlets that so many subscribe to – leave on in their family rooms, their florida rooms, their kitchens, their living rooms – for hours on end. these outlets distort the actual truth – to the nth degree. these outlets obfuscate. these outlets lie. and people are watching them, soaking it all in, pompom-ing them, lost in them.
lost.
and i feel totally crushed.
crushed.
the power of story.
used and misused.
i’ll probably eventually decide to keep the punchbowl. it is not likely to sell.
i will make gazpacho or vichyssoise and serve it in handled cut-glass cups. there will be glasses of chilled white wine and sunshine, laughter and conversation.
(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.
“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)
without the haze of humidity the sun seems brighter, the woods seem crisper, the sky seems bluer. it’s as if the soft-focus filter was lifted and clarity was restored.
tuesday we stopped by our much-loved-mechanic’s shop. littlebabyscion has had a mountain of emissions work done and we wanted to share that it passed the emissions test. (all – money and time and effort and good intention – ironically – in the middle of an administration that could care less about the danger of greenhouse gases while repealing clean air initiatives and gutting the environmental protection agency.)
while there, i noticed a copy of the local newspaper on top of a big toolbox.
i used to subscribe to the paper. i’d read it each day, catching up on local, domestic and international news. it’s been well over a decade now since i have had delivery. having shrunk by leaps and bounds in recent years, it’s about the thickness of my college newspaper these days.
there were several headlines on tuesday’s front page.
one of the minor – minor! – headlines was this: “court lifts immigration operation restrictions”.
i was aghast.
in a 6-3 conservative majority ruling, the supreme court of this united states – that is supposed to uphold the constitution of these united states – decided that racial profiling is a-ok with them – liberally putting a match to all-men-are-created-equal, gutting the 14th amendment’s equal protection clause and paying no heed to the 4th amendment’s probable cause necessity, subjecting the populace to the elimination of constitutional freedoms.
though an AP article reporting on the court’s appalling decision was copied and pasted, the weeny headline penned by the paper intimated – no, completely underplayed – with a light and positive spin for a hugely negative action by the highest judiciary in this land – the people charged with the protection of this democracy, its institutions, its law. a soft focus filter applied to a stark reality.
now, i am not a journalist, but i am a consumer of journalism. and a brief foray into definitions and descriptions of the use of headlines would lead one to believe that a headline will most definitely set the tone of the piece that follows, give the gist of the piece, signal its significance. in real application, however, we see that headlines expose the underlying slant of a journalistic institution. they give one insight to the stance of that institution reporting “the news”.
so…where is the headline “supreme court lifts restrictions on racial profiling“? the headline “court promotes indiscriminate roving immigration patrols and stops“? the headline that blasts out “court ceases constitutional freedoms“??
let us not forget that this decision by this highest court will impact every single person in this country. it is a decision that can be maliciously construed for any population of people.
the headline and article with the largest font and the biggest presence on the page was “hundreds turn out to ride“, an article featuring the town’s electric streetcars.
this may be the reason the paper is barely a paper. daily delivery for this is $60 a month.
this day – today – marks the 24th anniversary of the september 11 targeted terrorism attacks, a time when our country came together to push back against the atrocities of hate.
are not masked “roving immigration patrols” an atrocity of hate within our own country?
where is the paper’s clarity of this perilous moment we are now in? where is their screaming headline?
reverse threading 