Well, it happened to me yesterday: I was offered a well-paying gig that would have had me working directly for a Republican institution. The person who contacted me was friendly and well mannered. I turned down the job in an equally well mannered way. There were no fireworks. But I can't quite rub off the dread. This is the sort of job that pays far more per hour than I am accustomed to receiving. The institution is well known and has an academic gloss. I've had interactions with one of its staff members in the past, a scholar who has been published by a press I edit for. A couple of years ago I did a smallish proofreading job for the institution, just checking preexisting speech text for errors. There was nothing wicked involved, no compromising of morals. But this time? No. No. No.

I understand our entangled money trails. My husband builds houses for wealthy people, many of whom are undoubtedly conservatives. I work for an arts organization that's been funded by early-stage Silicon Valley wealth. There is no purity in how we earn our livings.

But we earn our livings precariously. That, I think, is the source of the dread I feel about having turned down the Republican gig. I recoil from the thought of taking a direct paycheck for editing a book that would promote that ideology. I will not do it. But what is the future of the jobs I will do? What will my options be?

For now, I splash forward into my everyday tasks: writing and teaching, talking and listening, scrubbing and folding. Last night I invented a soup based around yellow-eye beans, slow-cooked chicken, a rich vegetable broth, and a salsa of chopped cherry tomatoes, scallions, and home-dried basil. It was chunky and velvety and deep-flavored, and we ate it with fresh cheddar biscuits and a salad of mandarin oranges and spinach. It was one of those moments when everything fits: a cold night, steam rising, food satisfying and beautiful, candles glinting on blue bowls, pleasure in the other's company.

Every day is a seesaw. Every damn day.