Be kind to yourselves
I'm not going to beat around the bush. We're in the shit.
The past two days have weighed heavier on me than at any time in my life. We are facing the worst health crisis this country has ever faced, and we lie at the tender mercies of feckless idiots who, even if they meant well, are completely unsuited for the enormity of the task at hand. However, the fact that they are both idiotic and malicious lends a decidedly dystopian, finis mundus air to the proceedings.
If I were younger, perhaps I'd be more devil-may-care. I'd be under the illusion that my youth, my strength, dare I say my beauty, would stand me in good stead against the world's vicissitudes. My elders might not get through this, but I'm young and will conquer the world.
Of course, I'd be wrong; but for some time I'd be assuaged by that mistaken belief.
However, I'm not young. I'm past the suburbs of young. I'm getting to the part where the roads become emptier, where the mobile connection gets spotty, where wi-fi isn't the best. I'm not in the downtown of life, but starting to get into the outskirts of the city.
Intellectually and spiritually, I've always felt young. Up until all this hit. Then the rush of experience washed over me. It washed over me as I saw and gaped aghast at people not taking the pandemic seriously. It washed over me as people again ignored history, sure in their own power and immortality. Now I feel my years. I've seen this movie before, if only from my reading and watching, and the end is never happy.
It would be so much better for human civilization if we could somehow graft the experiences of those who came before us onto our memories. If we could feel their pain, their anguish. If we could feel their joys, their victories. If we could rely on something other than just words in a book, or images on a film. But we're not Bene Gesserit. We can't consume spice and awaken our ancestral memories. We have to muddle along, as best we can.
Because of this: be kind to yourselves. Be good to yourselves. Be beautiful to yourselves.
Feel everything you feel. Feel fear, feel pain, feel despair. But don't judge yourself for those feelings. Don't excoriate your "weakness". You're not weak. You're human, gloriously human.
Mourn all the good people who are being claimed by this plague, while those who profit off of misery keep living, seemingly immune. Then resolve to make their deaths not be in vain, not be consigned to the muteness of time.
Be beautiful to those around you. Be mindful of their fear, and of their joy. Be present where they are. By going outside of yourself, you become greater than you were.
Do not castigate yourself for not measuring up to your impossible standards. They're impossible. Recognize that, and recognize that you can do what you do. Sometimes you can do more; sometimes you startle yourself and the world. But it's okay if you don't beat the universe one day, or most days.
We are in the shit, but we're in the shit together. Words to that effect are plastered all over our workroom at the library. As the poet said: No man is an island. We are all bound by ties of commonality and affection. Don't abandon those ties. Rely on them.
As we go into the weekend, I close with a video of two men whose wit and wisdom I treasure highly. One of them is no longer with us, having listened to the voices which said he wasn't good enough. What I wouldn't give to have his thoughts, his presence during these times. We can only do what we can do.