The trickster move.
Photo by Yaoqi via Unsplash
We are gutted by the headlines. Again and again.
And then somehow we stand in twinkling arenas singing along to our favorite songs with tens of thousands of other voices.
We are paralyzed by the grief of the terror that has become normalized in this country.
And then somehow we slice fresh tomatoes in the kitchen and laugh at stories around the dinner table.
We are terrified that our child’s school could be the site of the next devastating tragedy.
And then somehow we take them to pick out a sparkly dress for the school dance.
We are full of rage and sadness and scream at the top of our lungs alone in the car.
And then somehow we create art and turn pain into great love.
I don’t know how any of us are doing it.
AND
We are doing it (even if just barely) every single day.
It’s too much for any of us to carry.
AND
We carry a little at a time - together.
It’s the trickster move.
This both/and living.
This archetypal shape-shifting between the light and the dark, the playful and the tragic.
This deep paying attention and also tuning out the world to survive it.
This refusal to give up and also fully giving up at the end of every single day.
This burning it all down and also kindling embers of hope to build something new.
This understanding that the system isn’t broken but was designed to preserve itself - not us, and also maneuvering strategically within it to bring incremental change.
This grief over constant death and also the little every day celebrations of miraculous life that continue.
It all belongs.
And so we let ourselves feel the despair of it all.
And then we make our phone calls to our elected officials.
We let ourselves go dark and go silent and go under for as long as we need.
And then we kick for the surface and show up and speak out and take action.
We let ourselves feel hopeless and grieve and wave our white flag at the end of every single day.
And then we wake up and act on behalf of ourselves and our families and our communities in the smallest ways which we know are always the biggest ways.
We are mad as hell and we hug our kids tight.
We march and we rest.
We sign petitions and we write poetry.
We show up at our local area meetings and we turn the music up loud and roll the windows down and sing on the drive home.
We create from the depths of our truths to build the world we want to live in and we sit still in slivers of afternoon sunlight streaming in through open windows throwing those prisms all around the room.
We do not put our heads in the sand of ignorance.
We do not die to ourselves on crosses of martyrdom.
We will not leave the work to those most affected by the violence.
And we are not waiting for someone else to come and save us.
We are the ones we have been waiting for - all of us - and this is how we go the distance.
Together.
“If you have ever been called defiant, incorrigible, forward, cunning, insurgent, unruly, rebellious, you’re on the right track…If you have never been called these things, there is yet time.”
-Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes
Everything hurts.
AND
There is so much beauty to be shared.
It’s too much to carry.
AND
Being fully alive is so punk rock.
Goodness can feel offensive in the face of great pain.
AND.
Joy is an absolute radical act of resistance.
Holding the gut-wrenching and the awe-inspiring at the same time is the only way we make it.
Please keep making beautiful things.
And make phone calls to your elected officials.
Please keep doing your creative work in the world.
And get involved in local grassroots action.
Take breaks. Take naps. Go dark. Go quiet.
For as long as you need.
And then come back to your work, to your light, to your fire
and keep going.
And we will too.
Five Faves
Founder of Moms Demand Action Shannon Watts’ Twitter bio which lists “shrill harridan” in her description and “NRA’s head, rent free” as her location. Ultimate trickster vibe.
The video from @stillwerise on IG of Nashville parents and youth singing The Beatles “All You Need Is Love” inside the capitol building as they demand common sense gun laws from those elected to represent them.
My text thread with Steph (@wildsoulcommunity) about the finale of DJ&6 and the beautiful power of women who refuse to be pitted against each other and who are actually each other’s biggest fans.
This book. Picture the rapture, but make it 1955 and thousands of housewives mysteriously disappear all at once leaving pretty dresses on the ground and dinner burning on the stove. (Also, I just noticed it just so happens to be written by the author of this other book I loved.)
The sample size of this eye cream that came in my first IPSY bag. The packaging read “an energy drink for tired eyes” which really came in clutch in Vegas where I didn’t drink, was in bed by 10pm the first night, and still woke up looking like I got punched in the face.