Dear good people, dear friends,

One of the most important things my father taught me—bless your soul, Freddie—was that when life gets tough, don’t forget your sense of humor. At times of family discord, he might start marching around with his finger under his nose, doing a little jig of a Charlie Chaplin Hitler imitation. It worked! The argument stopped and we’d all laugh. What a great gift! He taught me to appreciate the absurd.

Alas, I’m finding it mighty hard to find humor in the whiplash velocity of our rapidly changing cultural crises.

I am reminded of a wise Buddhist teaching story. It goes like this. One day a farmer looks up from working in his field and sees his neighbor fly by on a galloping horse. The farmer yells out: “Neighbor, where are you going?” The neighbor yells back over his shoulder: “Don’t ask me, ask the horse.”

Here we are on the other side of the election, and it feels important to connect with you. Whatever circumstances have brought us together, to my mind, we are becoming a community of artists, writers, readers, and seekers. My pre-election newsletter prompted the largest number of responses I’ve received so far. I’m grateful to those who took the time to write. Perhaps we all sense the magnitude of our difficult existential situation. Isolation is not our friend.

I recently looked up the etymology of the word “community.” It derives from the Latin communitas, or “public spirit.” Communis means “common, shared by all”; the prefix com means “together.” Munis relates to “performing services.” Many of us, some for the first time, are asking ourselves, “Do we belong in America?” And if not here, where? Do we see our values reflected in the culture? If not, what can we do about it?

We want to converse. We want to understand. We want to know if others have similar feelings. We want not to feel outside the circle of belonging. Certain words recur on social media, in conversations, among podcasters and pundits: rage, fear, uncertainty, hope, despair. Blame, blame, blame. And for some, celebration and relief.

I am a believer in words. I am a believer in language and its incandescent ability to make visible what’s hidden in the dark corners of our psyche. I am a believer in stories that arise spontaneously to explain us to ourselves. I wonder what stories you are telling yourself about this time on the planet. I wonder what words repeat in your head.

How do we move forward in this new America?

Maybe forward is not the right direction. Maybe we need to stay in place and widen our perspective. I’m reminded of a book I’ve probably mentioned before: The Immense World by Ed Yong. The introduction starts with an elephant, a mouse, a snake, a mosquito, and a bat in the same room. And whoa! What each creature sees, hears, smells, and feels is vastly different. Put a human in the room with them, and we, too, would experience our own limited sensory apparatus.

The truth is, we cannot see the whole picture. This is both a reality and a metaphor.

Have I felt this way before? Well, yes. See “Finding Exuberance in Difficult Times.”

Personally, I go to poets to help me see farther, deeper, clearer into my own reality. I go to poetry for ballast, for beauty, for opening my heart and mind—and often to tell myself a difficult truth, gently and exquisitely. I say more about this in “The Healing Power of Poetry” and “Why We Need Poetry.”

For now, I leave these poems on your pillow for your inspiration.

“Once the World Was Perfect” by Joy Harjo

“Try to Praise the Mutilated World” by Adam Zagajewski

“An Old Story” by Tracy K. Smith

Kintsugi

by Dale M. Kushner

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.

Smash the bowl.

Gather the pieces and

fit them back together.

Mend the cracks with gold dust

and tears

so that the scars

                   shimmer.

 

Place the bowl on an altar.

Offer the hospital bracelet bearing your name,

a photo of your sister before dementia

                 conquered her face.

 

Get on your knees

And praise the terrible.

 

Submit yourself

to the song you make, howling.

Call out the name of the lover

                who assigned a bullet to your heart.

 

Marry the warrior called desire

But scorn those who say hurt is your friend.

Hurt is a seed

Inside other seeds.

Only you can name what blossoms.

 

You are the speechless soil.

You are the howler of names.

 

As always, with care and gratitude for your presence in my life,

Dale

P.S. In the words of my friend, the author Mark Nepo: If so moved, please share this offering, and spread the word. Anyone can subscribe at this link. You can read my previous newsletters here. I invite you to keep up with my offerings by following me on Facebook and Instagram. And, of course, I’m grateful for any comments you’d like to leave about The Conditions of Love or M on Amazon, B&N, Goodreads, or LibraryThing (wherever you talk about or buy books).

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Top image: Absurd billboard (Photo: Burt Kushner)