Hello friends!
I’m home again and finally healthy. Your messages of support in these two weeks buoyed my spirits. I was surprised and touched to receive them. Thank you, truly. I hope you feel the same warmth and support when you need it.
I’ve been looking forward to this particular edition of Meeting the Moment for months now. I began this newsletter in January with a meditation on running marathons. I rarely encounter my own writing in a way where it feels so right. There are things that have come to pass in the interim that I had only half-imagined, and we are all under terrible strain. I can also see opportunities to improve my thinking and metaphor, especially in thinking more clearly about ableism. But re-reading that piece invigorates me: “I am where I am. I must run my own race. And I have to adapt. It’s not going to be pretty. Our start times are staggered, this is all just the first wave. We can do this, let’s go.”
A marathon is 26.1 miles. This was week 26. We’re nowhere near done, but let’s honor the milestone and dig in.
While I was out sick, a wonderful friend sent me a 2019 Maria Popova essay titled Virginia Woolf on Being Ill as a Portal to Self-Understanding. It’s a lovely and unexpected piece that immediately made me think of Arundhati Roy’s searing The Pandemic is a Portal. Reading them together braced me and expanded my thinking.
Popova wins me over with this passage,
“In health, Woolf argues, we maintain the illusion, both psychological and outwardly performative, of being cradled in the arms of civilization and society. Illness jolts us out of it, orphans us from belonging. But it also does something else, something beautiful and transcendent: In piercing the trance of busyness and obligation, it awakens us to the world about us, whose smallest details, neglected by our regular societal conscience, suddenly throb with aliveness and magnetic curiosity. It renders us “able, perhaps for the first time for years, to look round, to look up — to look, for example, at the sky”
I found myself thinking not only of my own sick body as I read those lines, but of our failing nation. In my storytelling years, I was inspired by Rita Charon work on narrative medicine. I remember being so struck by how important it is for people to process and incorporate the reality of diagnoses. Serious illness changes everything, sometimes forever. It forces us to confront our own stories about ourselves. Who are we when our capacities and worlds suddenly change? There is a book I very much want to read, Disabled Ecologies, that explores disablement and alternative modes of connection, solidarity, and resistance.
In her essay, Roy writes,
“Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.”
Together, they make me think about how we will pick our fights. Do not despair – there are endless ways to find how and where you can find the right one for you. Maybe your realm is more procedural, and you can take inspiration from how District Judge Susan Illston is adjudicating her case in the wake of unsettling Supreme Court decisions. Maybe you will throw yourself into local efforts, whether that’s your community’s foodbank or Summer Fight For Science event.
Make your choice. Choose how you will walk through this. You are choosing right now and each day. Make it count.
Liz