I have been such a whirling dervish since T Day, as I now dourly regard November 11, that I scarcely remember my own name. I’ve said yes to every invitation: gone to parties, theater, talks, protests; joined with others in prayer, laughter, dance, resistance, tears. I’ve told myself: This is not the time to stay cozy with Grace and a cauldron on the stove. This is the time to rally with the troops. There’s no one right way to grapple with this new reality, though I disapprove of mindless entertainment since we Netflix-binged ourselves into this regime. My way has been to open my heart.
I’m behind in my work, though I keep telling myself that this activity, this activism, is my real work; that this is how it will be for at least the next four years. Last night, though, as I was talking with a comrade and making a stew and writing a missive all at once, my heel split open on a huge nail that seemed to emerge from the floor out of nowhere. So instead of keeping my thousand whirling-dervish plans today, I’m being forced to stay put, to soak my foot while working through a long list of writerly tasks. First and foremost I blame my injury on Donald Trump. Why not? It’s the kind of puerile finger-pointing that propelled him to the presidency. But as I sit here, slowly sipping tea and clickety-clacking on my laptop and feeling my heart rate finally finally return to normal, I’m also thinking: This is what always happens. What we consider an accident, an unforeseen disaster, is the universe’s course-correction system–its GPS, essentially. “RECALIBRATING,” it’s shouting. It’s the most grating sound in the world.