sometimes I try to comfort myself with the idea that I have lived through times like these, before. That I’ve survived US imperialism and robber barons and Reagan-Bush-Clinton-Bush and wars of US aggression and the onslaughts of the 1 percent and of plague and so this, too, I will survive and carry my loved ones through. And maybe I will.
But today I am getting stuck on a verse from Yevgeny Yevtushenko, who writes about the need to live squarely in your own time and not shy away from accurately identifying what one’s time is:
You talk to me of freedom? Empty question
under umbrellas of bombs in the sky
It’s a disgrace to be free of your own age
A hundred times more shameful than to be its slave
I don’t know what my role is in this particular time. Instead of going to any protests this weekend, I drove my kids around to their various play dates and airport departures. I cooked meals with my beloved and worked in the community garden. My arms hurt so badly I had to take pain medication. I played video games and went to the hardware store. I went to a lovely garden party with friends who had been to the protests. We have to protest. We have to do it a lot. We have to throw sand in the gears, to take up space, to resist.
And yet, all of that takes energy. And y’all, I am tired. I bought a shower head and a toilet this weekend because we are renovating the upstairs bathroom after we just spent the winter replacing appliances. My job has been a series of unsolvable puzzles this past year. I am in charge of things I am not in charge of, if that makes sense. (I know it does not make sense.) My eldest kiddo will choose between her top three college options this month, none of which are within easy driving distance of me. It makes me want to stow away in her suitcase. To hold her hand and not let go.
One of the loveliest things I have gotten to do, recently, is sift compost. That is, swirl a bunch of composted material around on a wire mesh rectangle until it filters through the mesh and becomes the black gold material that we sprinkle on our soil to grow vegetables. The compost is a product of time and moisture and temperature and processes of decay, acting on leaves and green material and sticks. It knows its age, as Yevtushenko might say. And it expends itself in nourishing new life.




Things are in flames, the foundations of the house of our economy and democracy are shaking. But we know how to cultivate new life, together. We know collectively how to nurture ourselves and our communities. That’s all I can focus on right now.
Sending big solidarity and love,
Mariya