The Snow and Being Snowed

“In this refulgent summer, it has been a luxury to draw the breath of life.”  Ralph Waldo Emerson, from his classic “Divinity School Address.”

The luxury to draw the breath of life is owned by bums as much as by billionaires.  Which gets the most from their breathing?  How much do you get from yours? 

Forget the angst for a minute.  Forget Trump’s assault on “We, the People” and on our clunky but partly functional constitution.  Forget his attacks on journalists, jurists, and judges.  Forget the neglected climate emergency for just a bit.  Alarm at this mixture of chaos and fascism won’t fix either.  It wears on us more than on those wielding this temporary power.  Such power rises and falls.  We might do a part to fight or fix it, and I’m proud of all those who try, but precious life goes on.

Emerson gazed out of the window at a snowstorm rather than listen to the preacher.   He described the snowstorm as “real” and a preacher as “merely spectral.”  The preacher was less substantial and impressive than the snowstorm.  The natural world matters more than preachers and pundits.  It is the beauty of interdependent life.  It is our rightful home.  The cosmos has come together as you, breathing, marveling. and caring. 

I care.  You care.  We care. 

But first, we breathe.  Before anxiety and within it, we breathe.  We’ve a right to breathe with deep satisfaction, whatever the political, social, and environmental context.  The cortisol of worry wears our wonder and wisdom as much as our testosterone and heart.  Grumpy and reactive, we fail to notice splendid sunrises, peaceful people, and accumulating progress.  Instead, we fret about social media, virtual reality, and spectral spokespersons.  Meanwhile, life is here for us and in us. 

Similarly, “Life goes on within you and without you.” The Beatles reminded us,

What a magnificent snowstorm we had last winter!  It closed roads and brought down trees with a heavy blanket of purified water, frozen into the brilliant, subtle rainbows of iced white.  You could pick up a snowball without having to pack it.  You could eat it for the freshest water.  Four-billion-year-old water made pure yet again. 

There’s quite a difference between a lovely snowstorm and being snowed. Trump “floods the zone” with his “weave” of words (See my “Words and The Word.”), befuddling us with bizarre overload. We rightly worry for one man sent to a foreign prison without access to his due process. Still, we forget to express similar concern for the hundreds of other similar cases, all forgotten victims of cruel xenophobia, abandoned to a prison-for-pay that we pay for but can’t access. Other countries have been “ripping us off” because we hired them to make our stuff for cheap. Insult replaces foreign policy. Faker News replaces Fake News. The gentlest, most euphemistic thing I can say about it is that we’re being snowed.

It isn’t just Trump. It’s the highly organized, well-paid team of DOGE/Project 25 working the levers of power like we’ve never seen. This is a historic moment. The richest of the rich are exploiting the poor for their limitless greed. Actual workers of life-long dedication and merit are being tossed aside by scores of unqualified sneaks. They often are, however, handsome men and attractive women, making me wary of both.

Political woes can block us from reveling in our birthright.  I gladly attended the first and second protests in town.  Hundreds of fellow citizens showed up for each other, reminding us we are not isolated and powerless.  Most cars honked, and occupants waved. 

A leader of a call and response chant went on loudly, “What do we want?”

“Freedom,” came the familiar response.

“When do you want it?”

“Now!”

All well and good, except I’d modify it to reflect the immediate and prevailing reality. 

“What have you got?”

“Freedom!”

“When do you have it?”

“Now!”

We weren’t oppressed.  We were enjoying our freedom on a crystal clear, pleasant day.  We needn’t wear the mantle of doom as we shared the will to conquer the doom.  Patriots flew their flags, all concerned for our precarious country.

The spectral play of pundits and preachers can distract and divide us.  Meanwhile, we’ve a larger life to live.  Yes, we are the incarnated generation, the ones writing what will be history.  We need to rise to this challenge and opportunity.  To do that well, we need to remember each other and the glorious gift of life itself. 

The one prayer I like to make is in the morning, just before getting out of bed, putting my feet on the floor: “Thank You.”