One of my favorite things to do to inspire and allow for nuance, conversations, and even hope, is to hold space. Yesterday, while sitting with River watching hands transition from one invisible one to the next, I felt unbridled joy. Her hair laid in my arm, and questions abound. During in-person school, Oak shook hand-made streamers and wore a t-shirt that matched my own.
In therapy today, I said the whole day felt like a post-fight fog. You know the kind you get after having a really bad fight with someone? You feel foggy and off-kilter; your body moves around the world at it’s own pace. Your spirit remains untethered to its lived-body experience. I allowed it. I allowed the tears and the gasps, and the sorrow. I allowed the complexities and the undeniable power, too.
I’ve spent much of my time during the last six years, marching, singing, protesting, crying, working, making, dancing, calling, and knocking on doors. I’ve spent the last four years feeling broken, trodden-down and passive about the possibilities. While also vibrating at that same possibility for progressive politics and justice. The possibility to feel just a tad safer, a day closer.
Yesterday, those days and moments culminated. While it didn’t end any fight, my joy relies in simply allowing myself to be there. To lay my armor down for a short while. I imagined in that space, Muslim friends who knew they could see their families with a swipe of a pen. I imagined friends leaning on the edge of homelessness, exhaling at an extension of a federal eviction moratorium. With the swipe of a pen, a ship of LGBTQ friends stood up-right and recovered from their bent breaths. I imagined and I saw, girls and boys all over watch a ceiling shatter. I imagined this collective space of insuperability shrinking.
No one day or moment means erasure or justice. But yesterday and last night, meant that in one day, the maximum capacity for pervasive bigotry and weathering that has unnecessarily killed over 400,000 Americans and so many more, would no longer be given grant.
Racism remains. The work remains. But for a day and evening, my bones stood still. I imagined that space grew larger. A space in which the beds of many quieted for a night, as their shaky and tired bones found their way home again. And I stood still in it. I wept in it.
How are you doing today?