Path forward unclear in tumultuous times

I open my front door to feed the birds. A hazy day with a sprinkling of mist, a chipmunk high up in a tree branch, upside down, enjoying a snow shower, a freshly shovelled walk.

I am resisting the urge to scroll through media reports about the dissolution of democracy in America, the mangled uprising in Iran, the gathering within NATO to foreclose Trump’s fascist ambitions. I am old enough to understand what is happening in the world. I have read much about tyranny, its theoretical and applied monstrosity, and I am trying to find balance within.

Feeding the birds is an expression of that desire.

I go inside, leaving the birds to their seeds, but cannot shake the imbalance I feel, the fear. I don’t know what I can do to effect change, protect the borders of my own sanity, knowing my children’s and my grandchildren’s lives are at risk, the world imperilled, lives extinguished, regulatory processes that would secure the rule of law, due process, civil and human rights dismantled.

I step back outside and listen again for morning sounds. I need to talk to the garden resting under the snow, welcome in my mind’s eye images of its glistening return as might be gifted once more this spring.

I note the tracks of rabbits, the pawprints of the remarkably robust cat who lives three houses down and graciously monitors mouse activity. She kills the mice; I am grateful because I have fewer to contend with. Though inclined toward a shared living space between “mice and men,” I remain reluctant to relinquish my mouse-free interior.

How do I make compromises that resolve divergent interests and competing claims? I can’t figure it out.

Still on the front porch, watching birds and bunnies, I attempt self-regulation in the face of so many irreconcilables. I repeat my earlier vow: Do not engage social media nor leave messages, as I have done with various malignant humans and institutions in the United States. Put that directory with names and viable contact information aside.

I step back inside and survey my workspace. I begin to pace. I am often pacing. I call a friend, a soul sister, and share my intention to be still. She shares hers.

We sit stunned on couches in our respective houses, unable to figure out what practice would preserve our equilibrium, even as we know we cannot but be engaged. We talk about bearing witness, bystander cowardice and complicity, resistance. We think there must be something that we can do: send more money to organizations trying to feed children, support immigrants and refugees, combat hatred, protect environmental projects, empower the agency of women and queer people, dismantle arms races. Such a long list.

We can do that, but still, we sit in our living rooms (and how lucky are we to be able to do so), overwhelmed, unable to discern further how our voices can be raised, how we might join the millions we believe could march on Washington, just as embattled peoples have done before us and in our time.

We want that level of engagement. We want that level of community action.

I set out a scenario.

We are together, my younger soul sister and I, in battle gear on the 49th parallel, readying ourselves for the invasion Trump threatens. I imagine we stand with millions of others, those living and departed, human beings who have suffered war-torn turbulence, endured displacement, the death of family members, the loss of autonomy, homeland, dignity, identity and freedom.

I see the extraordinary range of their battle gear — the sacred artifacts that distinguish their orientation, history and culture. I see the range of symbolic objects they carry, objects carried in spite of duress, passed down through generations to hold wisdom: talismans, totems, phylacteries, diaries, charms, amulets, manifestos and testimonies.

Outside again, I take a deeper breath. I watch the birds. I consider refilling the bird houses. I consider the paths of beauty made by rabbits and chipmunks.

I watch a young father holding the hand of his young son. Neither a romantic, nor a sentimentalist, I am avid this father and son should continue to walk in the world unimpeded, unmolested.

I consider once more my obligation to ensure that possibility in whatever way I can. The little boy is dragging a small red shovel quite like the shovel I bought for my own grandson last winter. I accept this boy will need help clearing his path, integrate that need with my vision of those standing on the 49th parallel.

Balanced and sure, I accept I will continue, in concert with others, to witness and act in defiance of the menace that would impede his progress and assault the Earth and every living creature within it.

arts@freepress.mb.ca