February. Sunday morning. Four degrees above zero. The neighborhood is draped with snow, the furnace growls without cease, and the cat has returned to bed. I'd like to light a fire in the wood stove except that I have to scrape out the ashes first, which means venturing outside, which means piling on the clothes, which requires more get-up-and-go than I have at this moment.
I spent two hours yesterday on a zoom call with Jeannie and Teresa, digging into the poems we'd all written to a common prompt, asking each other questions about how the drafts had taken shape, talking about what we were reading and how we were reading . . . In the midst of this Teresa burst out, "We're all working at such a high level!" And I thought with shock, How brave to say something like that about oneself!--to speak without boasting but with clarity and excitement and confidence. I don't know if I am quite able to mouth those words myself. Yet it was beautiful to hear them.
The American nightmare continues to unfold. Every evening I have to coach myself away from panic into sleep. But in the parallel world that is my daily life I am at the top of my game. Granted, my game is small and economically embarrassing. But I am writing well, I am reading well, I am teaching well; I am cooking good meals and managing the household and upholding my role as an interested and eager partner and parent and friend.
How long can such worlds exist in parallel? Part of the problem with being so well read is that I am all too aware of the patterns of history. I don't need to doom-scroll the daily news to recognize what I'm seeing.
What is my task as a writer of these letters? Is it to make you feel worse? Is it to act as if everything will be fine? Neither approach seems right at all.
What do artists do in the midst of chaos and fear? They do what they can do, which is to keep making art. And art is not one thing. It is an individual's slow and sudden interaction with materials and a moment. Every day offers a thousand variations.
This blog has about eight regular visitors, and few of you are full-time artists. Some are serious readers. Some are serious teachers. Some are serious gadflies. Some are serious community members. Some fit artistic endeavors around the edges. Some don't.
I have no authority to offer advice, no ability either. All I can say is: The work you do matters. Keep doing it.
3 comments:
You raise the precise question I've been worrying over: how is it even possible that the sun even comes up, given the darkness that is smothering our country? But yet, it does. And we carry on, we do what we know is sustaining and sustainable: we love, we clean, we work, and occasionally, we laugh. It feels like a very strange dissociation. But how else do we survive? Thanks for writing what I'm thinking.
This post Dawn! You, your voice, your example is gold. Thank you.
A comment from Dan:
This is a dark time. Spreading light through one’s art in the broadest sense is a lifeline, and a lifesaver for those who need one.
I think also of a zen story of two masters meeting for the first time: upon the guest’s arrival the host asked, "What have you come here for?" The guest answered, "Not for anything else."
Strength and love to you.
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