You Can Reach Out to Them, and All Day Long

The other day at a work meeting our leader gave us each a piece of paper and instructed us to draw a line down the middle to divide it into two columns, then quickly list five things we like in one column and five things we dislike in the other. She collected the lists and read them anonymously to see if we could guess who belonged to each one as a bonding activity.

I immediately knew the first thing I would put in each column, for both "like" and "dislike," would be "myself."

No one else put that word or anything like it in either column. I'm pretty sure I was the first one to finish, and could have easily added many more entries. Mine were the most abstract, conceptual items--from the realm of ideas--because that's where my mind always goes first. Others had more specific items like "running," "pizza," and "Taylor Swift." I would have gotten there eventually had I kept going, but I started big (with one exception related to the heat and uncomfortableness of the day.

First and foremost, though, was one of the truest things I know: that I both like and dislike myself.

Speaking of true things, I love this excerpt from a book I just read:

I'll survive this. I'll live. But there's a hole in me, never to be filled. Maybe that's why people die of old age. Maybe we could live forever if we didn't love so completely. But we do. And by the time old age comes, we're filled with holes, so many that it's too hard to breathe. So many that our insides aren't even ours anymore. We're just one big empty space, waiting to be filled by the darkness. Waiting to be free.

I've never found much truth or wisdom in the adage, "Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger." I feel instead that "whatever" adds baggage, grief, scars, and other issues that accumulate over the course of a life. Wisdom, possibly, and some other positive things, too, but much more likely fragility than strength. Sabaa Tahir has the right idea on this one; it resonates deeply. More from her book, All My Rage, soon.

Tahir's thought, a lifetime spent collecting an accumulation of holes, was in the back of my mind when my older son recently wanted to revisit a favorite book of his, The Pebble in my Pocket: A History of Our Earth by Meredith Hooper.

Everything on the surface of the earth is slowly being eroded and broken down into smaller and smaller pieces. Boulders powder into streaks of mud. Cliffs crumble to grains of sand. The tops of mountains disintegrate into pebbles. It has always happened. It will always happen. It is happening now. All that is needed is time. And the weather.

Hmm.

Everyone on the surface of the earth is slowly being eroded and broken down into smaller and smaller pieces. It has always happened. It will always happen. It is happening right now. All that is needed is time.

Yep, that works.

It's a delightful book, by the way. A geological history of rocks that emphasizes how everything is impermanent and constantly changing when looked at from a broad enough perspective. And how all the parts of the earth are constantly mixing, moving, mingling, and evolving.

I share this picture simply because I love it for being so delightfully odd and slightly disturbing.

If I were to just read the words, "Ms. Snail's eyes telescoped into Ari's soul," I would not expect the accompanying picture to be so literal.

It's from Sorry, Snail by Tracy Subisak, which is also delightfully odd and slightly disturbing.

That book is not mentioned in the following article, but I think its author would appreciate the image (and the entire book).

Let the Kids Get Weird: The Adult Problem With Children’s Books

On Jon Klassen, Ruth Krauss, and the Grown-Up Weight of Nostalgia

Picture books must hitch a ride on the parent if a child is to get a look-in so the children’s publicity machine is tilted fully at the adults. . . . 

 . . . It’s the perfect story. Strange and with a logic all of its own. . . . 

This is not typical of most children’s books.

Walk your fingers along the children’s bookshelf at a store and you’ll see a nostalgic or abstract viewpoint that I’m not convinced children share. . . . 

While critics often read fantasy in terms of good versus evil, these forces are really opposite instincts, parts of a single character split in two—Gollum and Smeagol, the Elves and the Orcs. . . . 

Picture a middle-aged author wrestling their own existential fear of death while writing a bedtime story about bunnies: Writing good children’s fiction as an adult is hard. . . . 

We toggle between confronting children with the reality of the world (note the bleak realm of climate fiction for young readers) and with blanketing them in fluffy chickens. . . . 

“Children like sweet and safe stories but they also like dark, bleak, unsettling or horrible stories. Children are like everyone else, they want stories that reflect the whole contradictory tangle of their lives.” . . . 

Overly sanitized stories mostly risk being forgettable . . . 

There’s an inventiveness that sprouts from the alternate reality children live in. . . . 

So, to speak to a young audience the children’s author needs to find a way to beat back their own adultness.

"The perfect story" is "strange and with a logic all of its own." Indeed. Just like a snail's eyes telescoping into your soul to see your guilt and true feelings.

Also: children "want stories that reflect the whole contradictory tangle of their lives," the acknowledgment that good and evil are both instinctive parts of each person.

I both like and dislike myself.

So, back to All My Rage by Sabaa Tahir. My review:

"This life is jihad--struggle," Shafiq says. "Sometimes the struggle is more than any sane person can bear. I won't judge your father for his jihad, Salahudin. How dare I, when I couldn't begin to understand it?"

Lives of struggle. Generational struggle, passed from one to the next. In communities.

A small community of immigrants and refugees from Pakistan struggling through life in California, in the case of this particular story. It's a powerful, nimble, and skillfully told story that does indeed help readers begin to understand what its characters are struggling with. Understand and empathize with.

I'll survive this. I'll live. But there's a hole in me, never to be filled. Maybe that's why people die of old age. Maybe we could live forever if we didn't love so completely. But we do. And by the time old age comes, we're filled with holes, so many that it's too hard to breathe. So many that our insides aren't even ours anymore. We're just one big empty space, waiting to be filled by the darkness. Waiting to be free.

And while the story may elicit empathetic heartbreak, it also manages hope.

Solitude is very dangerous, great passions grow into monsters in the dark of the mind; but if you share them with loving friends they remain human, they can be endured.*

Because even life filled with holes is still life worth living.

That's what we all get, after all, a life full of holes to endure.

That's what this book is about.

-----

*Quoted in the book from Robinson Jeffers' adaptation of Medea by Euripides 

I feel lucky and privileged to have accumulated my holes ever so much more slowly than Tahir (I would guess) and her characters.

If you want a bit more detail about the plot of the book, here's the description from Goodreads:

Salahudin and Noor are more than best friends; they are family. Growing up as outcasts in the small desert town of Juniper, California, they understand each other the way no one else does. Until The Fight, which destroys their bond with the swift fury of a star exploding.

Now, Sal scrambles to run the family motel as his mother Misbah’s health fails and his grieving father loses himself to alcoholism. Noor, meanwhile, walks a harrowing tightrope: working at her wrathful uncle’s liquor store while hiding the fact that she’s applying to college so she can escape him—and Juniper—forever.

When Sal’s attempts to save the motel spiral out of control, he and Noor must ask themselves what friendship is worth—and what it takes to defeat the monsters in their pasts and the ones in their midst.

From one of today’s most cherished and bestselling young adult authors comes a breathtaking novel of young love, old regrets, and forgiveness—one that’s both tragic and poignant in its tender ferocity.

Her previous books were a stellar fantasy series, so this is a big change of pace.

Solitude is very dangerous, great passions grow into monsters in the dark of the mind; but if you share them with loving friends they remain human, they can be endured.

I've had the thought of late, and shared not long ago on Facebook:

I can't tell lately if the source of my serenity is acceptance or apathy,

and it's bugging me.

I'm not sure if I'm getting better at giving up a need to control things and letting go of annoyance and frustration related to them;

or if I'm giving up on things I can influence and learning to not care about things I should.

I'm just not sure.

The other day, this randomly showed up on my feed as one of the things "the algorithms" thought I might like.

It's a Facebook post from the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago, an image of the work "America's Joyous Future" by Erika Rothenberg. It depicts a fictional signboard for a church's upcoming week of events:

Mon. Alcoholics Anonymous

Tue. Abused Spouses

Wed. Eating Disorders

Thu. Say No to Drugs

Fri. Teen Suicide Watch

Sat. Soup Kitchens

Sunday Sermon: "America's Joyous Future"

I'm assuming the work is meant to be ironic, to draw attention to the apparent contradiction between all the issues addressed at the events and the possibility of a "joyous future." I don't find it jarring or depressing, though, since I "want stories that reflect the whole contradictory tangle of [our] lives," the acknowledgment that good and evil are both instinctive parts of each person.

"This life is jihad--struggle," Shafiq says. "Sometimes the struggle is more than any sane person can bear. I won't judge your father for his jihad, Salahudin. How dare I, when I couldn't begin to understand it?"

I both like and dislike myself.

What I found most striking about the signboard in my feed, though, was the fact that it immediately followed a post from Homeless Training by Ryan Dowd. Here's most of it:

The World Is Worth Saving

The World is Hurting

Homelessness is worse than it has ever been.

Politics are more divisive than ever.

Mental health challenges are more widespread than ever.

Every day a new book about a vulnerable population is banned.

I could go on, but I’m depressing myself and that’s not my point.

The world desperately needs saving.

It needs YOU to help save it.

What does this have to do with my trip to Colorado?

Everything.

How to Save the World

The only way to make a true impact is to fight for a better world over the course of a lifetime.

I wish a single election, action or donation could set everything right forever, but that just isn’t how it works.

The only way to sustain the fight over a lifetime is to remember why the world is worth fighting for.

There are two types of people who try to change the world:

1. Those who look for the beauty in this world.

They take pictures of the night sky and play cards with cheating toddlers and do the chicken dance at weddings and get dirty feet on barefoot walks at sunset and laugh with farting babies and play Hannah Montana music too loud.

They find beauty.

They are reminded why the world is worth fighting for …

… which gives them the fuel to fight for the world.

2. Those who don’t.

They think that anything other than rage is hedonism. They live in their anger 24/7 and believe everyone else should live in anger too. They look at joy as weakness.

They fight but have forgotten why.

Starved of joy, they grow bitter and cynical … 

And ineffective.

The irony is that those who forget why they are fighting for the world are unable to save it.

I beg you to actively look for the beauty in this world.

Let’s be clear: I am not admonishing you to take vacations to avoid burnout. (Though, you should take vacations to avoid burnout).

This is different.

As G.K. Chesterton said, “The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.”

Find the wonder in this world.

Find the beauty in this world.

Then find the pain in this world … and fight it!!

The world is worth saving …

The world is hurting; the world is worth saving. It's a contradictory tangle. Even with all of our problems and struggles, our future can still be joyous.

A poem from my feed:

Leslie Gerber

NEGLECT

Already, still morning,

I have fed someone helpless

and attended to the needs of a dog

 

but as I walked

my little hobbling walk with her,

I failed to worship the sky.

 

As I ate precious cheese

I forgot to thank

the cows, farmers, microbes who made it.

 

The generous world grants me bounty

beyond measure every day,

yet I spend my time

 

regretting my losses,

a ship with its paint cracking,

neglecting to thank the ocean for its buoyancy.

—from Rattle #80, Summer 2023

Remember, over the course of a lifetime, why the world is worth fighting for.

Another book I read recently is Rust in the Root by Justina Ireland. My review was a short one:

An excellent tale of magic, mystery, and maltreatment in an alternate historical setting. Ireland offers a fascinating magic system, great world building, and a wonderful protagonist. Recommended.

So, more about the story from Goodreads:

It is 1937, and Laura Ann Langston lives in an America divided - between those who work the mystical arts and those who do not. Ever since the Great Rust, a catastrophic event that blighted the arcane force called the Dynamism and threw America into disarray, the country has been rebuilding for a better future. And everyone knows the future is industry and technology - otherwise known as Mechomancy - not the traditional mystical arts.

Laura disagrees. A talented young mage from Pennsylvania, Laura hopped a portal to New York City on her seventeenth birthday with hopes of earning her mage's license and becoming something more than a rootworker.

But six months later, she's got little to show for it other than an empty pocket and broken dreams. With nowhere else to turn, Laura applies for a job with the Bureau of the Arcane's Conservation Corps, a branch of the US government dedicated to repairing the Dynamism so that Mechomancy can thrive. There she meets the Skylark, a powerful mage with a mysterious past, who reluctantly takes Laura on as an apprentice.

As they're sent off on their first mission together into the heart of the country's oldest and most mysterious Blight, they discover the work of mages not encountered since the darkest period in America's past, when Black mages were killed for their power--work that could threaten Laura's and the Skylark's lives, and everything they've worked for.

The main reason I mention the book is this description of one part of its magic system:

Mechomancers mostly power their machines with an alchemical compound made of buried Death that they call diesel. But it wasn't always this way. For hundreds of years, all the way up until the end of the Afrikan Genocide in the 1860s, Mechomancers had huge factories and compounds filled with enslaved colored folks. The Necromancers they employed would draw the life out of them, using their souls to power their constructs. The slave trade and the power of white Necromancers made Mechomancy what it is today, and this country was built smack dab on that foundation. It's not a thing most folks like to talk about, all those millions of Negroes that died during slavery, but I can't sniff out a Mechomancer construct without thinking about it. It puts me in a bit of a funk, knowing that all the work the Skylark and I are doing, as well as the Elementalists who raised the beacons, will be for naught, consumed by the Resonators. All so that the factories I'm looking at now get to merrily chug along forever.

After the conflicts that ended the Afrikan Genocide and slavery with it, many wondered if Mechomancy would survive. But the country's Mechomancers, shrewd as ever, helped the government to capture the outlawed Necromancers and worked with all sorts of powerful mages to find new sources of power. That's when they discovered the Death buried in the earth, the material left over from dead life millions of years old—first coal and crude oil, the latter of which was eventually refined through alchemical processes into diesel. Wherever you look, there's always more Death.

Now their factories are still filled with people, even if they're technically not enslaved. Inside those nightmarish constructs a mile away, folks are making sure everything is well oiled and functional, doing the grunt work that pays their wages. It seems like such an awful way to live. I know that economic collapse after the Great Rust made work hard to come by for many, and the Prohibition just made things tougher, but just thinking about slaving away in a factory, stinking of oil and metal, makes me feel a bit nauseated. The government maintains that the Blights were caused by reckless experimentation with Craft. But standing where I am now, it's impossible not to believe that the poison the Mechomancers dump into the air all around us had something to do with it. And I'm not the only one who thinks so. Not that anyone cares what a bunch of Negro mages think. Mechomancy is quick, cheap, and easy, and everyone is convinced it can fix everything.

What no one seems to consider, though, is that the Possibilities always win out. The bill will come due eventually.

The idea that fossil fuels are a form of Death magic is fascinating.

I'm also really drawn to this short quote:

The things people believe never really die. Ever they rise, and ever they need to be defeated anew.

Though I can't yet fully articulate my thoughts around it. In context, she's referring to new forms of racism and the KKK; having been defeated, they return in a new guise. I want to expand on that, but don't have it yet . . . 

I'm very slowly working my way through Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver. I've sprinkled a few selections from it in my previous few posts. Here's another.

Of the Empire

We will be known as a culture that feared death

and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity

for the few and cared little for the penury of the

many. We will be known as a culture that taught

and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke

little if at all about the quality of life for

people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All

the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a

commodity. And they will say that this structure

was held together politically, which it was, and

they will say also that our politics was no more

than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of

the heart, and that the heart, in those days,

was small, and hard, and full of meanness.

by Mary Oliver

The world is hurting; the world is worth saving.

I find this fascinating.

Everyday Noises Are Making Our Brains Noisier

These are the sorts of sounds most would consider “background noise.” For this reason, we tend to ignore them. We tune them out. But are we really tuning them out, or are we simply living our lives in a constant state of alarm? . . . 

Chronic noise exposure, such as might be experienced by individuals who live near an airport, can lead to an overall decrease in perceived quality of life, increased stress levels along with an increase in the stress hormone cortisol, problems with memory and learning, difficulty performing challenging tasks, and even stiffening of blood vessels and other cardiovascular diseases. According to the World Health Organization, noise exposure and its secondary outcomes such as hypertension and reduced cognitive performance are estimated to account for an astounding number of years lost due to ill health, disability, or early death.

Noise disturbs learning and concentration. Students attending public schools in New York City had markedly different reading outcomes depending on whether their classroom was on the side of the school that fronted a busy elevated train track or on the other side of the school, which was shielded from the train noise. . . . 

The effect of noise is not limited to auditory or language tasks like reading. . . . 

Adult animals were exposed to “safe” levels of noise, again in the 60–70 dB range, for several weeks. Their hearing threshholds did not change, but the way the auditory cortex responded to sound changed, reflecting a disorganized tonotopic pitch-processing mechanism. The frequencies present in the noise took over the real estate in the brain that rightfully belonged to other frequencies. Thus, damage done by “safe” noise is not limited to sensitive periods during development but can affect adults as well. . . . 

We should be concerned with noise inside the head as well as outside. . . . 

Divided on the basis of maternal education, children of more educated mothers have a lower level of background activity—a less noisy brain. . . . 

A lifetime of noise exposure and linguistic understimulation, in a vicious cycle, can compromise the ability to make sense of sound. . . . 

[We need to] recognize noise as a powerful and detrimental force, even when it is not the type that makes us clap our hands over our ears.

According to the World Health Organization, noise exposure and its secondary outcomes such as hypertension and reduced cognitive performance are estimated to account for an astounding number of years lost due to ill health, disability, or early death.

Another poem.

The Old Poets of China

Wherever I am, the world comes after me.

It offers me its busyness. It does not believe

that I do not want it. Now I understand

why the old poets of China went so far and high

into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

by Mary Oliver

We should be concerned with noise inside the head as well as outside.

This is also fascinating.

Brain Scans Hint That Lonely Individuals Process the World Differently

 - Loneliness is "the state of distress or discomfort that results when one perceives a gap between one’s desires for social connection and actual experiences of it."

 - A new study finds that the brains of people who score higher in loneliness react in unique ways when viewing video content, while the brains of non-lonely individuals react similarly to each other.

 - The results suggest that lonely individuals may literally view the world in a different way, perhaps finding less value in life moments that non-lonely individuals would enjoy.

And it makes a lot of sense.

Another from my feed.

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

OP-ED FOR THE SAD SACK REVIEW, REGARDING NEWS OF ANOTHER RASH OF WRITER SUICIDES

In a fit of gloom, I googled the word failure,

just to see if my name would come up. Instead,

Google told me I misspelled the word failure.

Recounting this makes me feel like I’m starting

a very weepy poem, or a very dull suicide note.

Never begin a wedding toast with the dictionary

definition of marriage, and never begin a suicide

note by saying you googled the word failure.

These days, the number one thing preventing me

from killing myself is likely the idea of people

learning of my suicide via Facebook status updates.

There’s no dignity in that eulogy, its collections

of sad face emoticons, studded with apostrophe tears.

This is a dumb reason to keep living, but it is a reason.

I’m sure all you other sad sacks have your reasons too.

So let’s all cling to them. Let’s all agree that living

for a dumb reason is better than killing yourself

for a dumb reason. Let’s feed tears to the dragons

of misery, but let’s never crawl into their mouths.

Let’s write terrible poetry, dress like late-era Rothkos,

wear out the relentless hate machines of our brains,

but let’s never break. Let’s just keeping living. We can

do this. Trust me. Yours Sincerely, Me, A Poet Who

Doesn’t Even Know How to Spell the Word Failure.

—from Rattle #34, Winter 2010

Living for a dumb reason is better than killing yourself for a dumb reason.

One more science bit of interest.

Intelligent People Take Longer to Solve Hard Problems

The study shows that people with higher intelligence scores take longer to solve complex problems because they are less likely to jump to conclusions. The study also links problem-solving ability to differences in brain connectivity and synchrony between brain areas. . . . 

The findings challenge the assumption that higher intelligence is the result of a faster brain. They suggest that faster is not necessarily better, and that under certain circumstances there is a tradeoff between speed and accuracy which results in better decisions.  

Thus, while fast, “automatic” thinking is adequate for making decisions about easy tasks, a slower and more effortful mode of cognition, which supports the prolonged integration of relevant information, may be better for solving more difficult problems.

I like to make slow decisions.

Every so often, InspiroBot produces a bit of nonsense that is actually quite accurate.

Our brains are 50 percent illusion, and 50 percent knowledge.

Though in this case I think it might have underestimated the amount of illusion.

A random thought I articulated on Facebook the other day:

Asking for help at the library always involves a certain amount of guesswork, since you're asking for information you don't have, which means you usually don't know just what it is you're looking for or how to ask for it. Those of us who work library desks get a lot of practice (and training) being given vague questions and helping the seeker better articulate what they're after and narrow in on something specific. (see: "reference interview")

Anyway, I've noticed a pattern in a patron subset. Men of a particular generation were raised to be self-reliant and don't like asking for help, so when they can't avoid asking us they only want the least amount of information possible in the hopes of being able to figure out the rest on their own. They always start with very broad, basic questions (i.e. "Where are the history books?" or "Where are the DVDs?"). You know a straight response to the question won't be enough and want to tell them more, but getting them to ask something more specific and helpful is like pulling teeth ("Is there a particular topic or title you're after?" "No, I just need to know where that area is."). You have to negotiate with them to break through their instinctive resistance to accepting help a piece at a time. They often go away to look on their own then come back for another crumb of guidance multiple times over the course of getting what they're after. It's an interesting dynamic.

[In response to a comment about bad, presumptuous service received at other places:] I really hope--and believe--that's not the experience I/we provide at the library. I never interrupt or talk over someone, because (aside from courtesy), the more they say the easier it is to figure out what they need. And I always immediately answer their question (if I can) before offering additional help. Something like, "The non-fiction books are over there. Can I help you find a particular topic?" or "That author's books are in the mystery section which is right there, but just in case you're looking for such-and-such title I know it's all checked out right now with a waiting list; would you like me to put it on hold for you to add your name to the list?" That kind of thing. Answer first then supplement. A lot of times they say "no, thank you" and that's it. But sometimes the interaction goes more like this:

"Say, where are your non-fiction books?"

"Right over there. Can I help you find a particular topic?"

"Nope, that's all I need."

Ten minutes later he returns . . .

"So I looked through that whole non-fiction section and couldn't find any history books. Where are you hiding the history books?"

"Ah. The history books are going to be in the 900s at the end of the non-fiction. Can I walk you over and show you where?"

"Nah, I'm sure I can find it."

"Well, it's a really big section; can I narrow you in on a particular area of history?"

"I got this."

Ten minutes later he returns . . .

"I found the history section, but didn't see anything about WWII."

"Okay, those are at 940.53 for the most part."

Ten minutes later he returns . . .

"So I was looking through those WWII books, but didn't really see anything about the life of General Douglas MacArthur. Don't you have anything about him?"

"So you're looking for a book about the life of Douglas MacArthur?"

"Yes."

"I'm afraid those are going to be in the biography section, not with the general history. Let me show you where they are . . . "

That's not a real interaction, but based on many I've had. And they seem to happen with older white men more than anyone else.

Not really related to anything, just seemed an observation worth preserving.

Though I want to make sure to include that I don't say all of that as judgment or criticism; it's just the way they are. I think I can see it in them because I have a bit of that tendency myself.

A couple of memes from my recent feed:

Don't invalidate people's struggles because you've been through worse. If someone is tired after working for 5 hours and you worked for 7, it doesn't mean that they're not allowed to be tired. It doesn't mean they can't feel what they're feeling just because you've had it worse.

And: 

"We the People" Means Everyone

And (though not a meme):

Reclaiming Real American Patriotism

 . . . a feeling we used to think of as patriotism: the joyful love of country. Patriotism, unlike its ugly half brother, nationalism, is rooted in optimism and confidence; nationalism is a sour inferiority complex, a sullen attachment to blood-and-soil fantasies that is always looking abroad with insecurity and even hatred. Instead, I was taking in the New England shoreline but seeing in my mind the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I felt moved with wonder—and gratitude—for the miracle that is the United States. . . . 

I now see many voters there, and in other states, as my civic opponents. . . . I feel that I’m at a great distance from so many of my fellow citizens, as do they, I’m sure, from people like me. And I hate it. . . . 

Today, many Americans regard one another as foreigners in their own country. Montgomery and Burlington? Charleston and Seattle? We might as well be measuring interstellar distances. We talk about “blue” and “red,” and we call one another communists and fascists, tossing off facile labels that once, among more serious people, were fighting words.

I am not going to both-sides this: I have no patience with people who casually refer to anyone with whom they disagree as “fascists,” but such people are a small and annoying minority. The reality is that the Americans who have taught us all to hate one another instantly at the sight of a license plate or at the first intonation of a regional accent are the vanguard of the new American right, and they have found fame and money in promoting division and even sedition. . . . 

Such people have made it hard for any of us to be patriotic; they pollute the incense of patriotism with the stink of nationalism so that they can issue their shrill call to arms for Americans to oppose Americans.

Their appeals demean every voter, even those of us who resist their propaganda, because all of us who hear them find ourselves drawing lines and taking sides. . . . 

These voters have been taught to fear their own government—and other Americans who disagree with them—more than a foreign regime that seeks the destruction of their nation. . . . Now, thanks to the new rightists, an even worse and more enduring anti-Americanism has become the foundational belief of millions of American citizens.

"We the people" means everyone.

We all live within a contradictory tangle, contain both good and evil as instinctive parts of ourselves.

We are all likable and unlikable.

We are all hurting and worth fighting for.

One final poem.

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?

There are things you can’t reach. But

you can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,

out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing

from the unreachable top of the tree.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around

as though with your arms open.

And thinking: maybe something will come, some

shining coil of wind,

or a few leaves from any old tree–

they are all in this too.

And now I will tell you the truth.

Everything in the world

comes.

At least, closer.

And, cordially.

Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake.

Like goldfinches, little dolls of goldfluttering around the corner of the sky

of God, the blue air.

by Mary Oliver

You can't reach them, but you can reach out to them all day long.