Due to some personal issues, this week’s story has been delayed. I am hoping to have it ready tomorrow. I am very sorry to miss my deadline. I hope you understand.
George Floyd’s murder at the hands of the Minneapolis police was horrifying, but all too common. George Floyd’s murder isn’t even the most recent. David McAtee was killed in his business by either the National Guard or the police. Previously, Breonna Taylor was asleep in her bed. There are too many names. Not to list, but to contemplate. Too many black lives have ended at the hands of the police. You can find a partial list based on The Washington Post’s database at https://pittsburghfoundation.org/we-will-not-be-silent.
Over one thousand black people have been killed in police shootings in the last five and a half years. This is not a new phenomenon, but George Floyd’s murder has focused attention on an issue that has gone unanswered for far too long. If we, as a society, cannot find the will to change a system that has abused black people, indigenous people, and other marginalized groups for decades and longer, then we have given up the claim that we are, in fact, a civilized society.
This blog has, since its inception, been reserved as a creative outlet. I have run other blogs in the past that took up social commentary and other topics. With everything happening, I cannot keep my creative outlet separate from the society that is so broken. There is a cancer in our society, and we must be willing to face it and deal with it. That requires listening to and believing people of color and others when they tell us how they are treated. It requires demanding solutions and working towards them.
If those of us who are white do not recognize the police in the stories that others tell, that is one indication of our privilege. If we think, what will do without the police to protect us?, that, too, is a sign of our privilege. We can think of the police as guardians. For too many Americans, that is not the role the police play. The system needs to change. We have the luxury to ignore racism and pretend it doesn’t exist, or at least isn’t as pervasive. That is a luxury we must give up. Lives depend upon it.
Protest. Talk to your government representatives. Donate. Talk to your friends and relatives. Use your voice. And don’t forget to use your ears, too. Listen. Learn. Let those suffering lead. Don’t speak for them, but support them.
Black Lives Matter. The problem is that, in America and elsewhere, they haven’t mattered. Black lives need to matter. They need to be treated as inherently valuable and with respect. Black Lives Matter. And we need to keep saying it at least until society actually treats black lives as though they do, in fact, matter.
I will resume posting fiction and creative works. But we cannot forget that our fellow citizens, our fellow human beings need us. They need us to listen. To stand with them. To fight with them. It is an ongoing fight, and we must be willing to support them, to amplify their voices, through the long haul.
Black Lives Matter (https://blacklivesmatter.com) has resources and accepts donations.
The Cut has a list of other nonprofits that you can donate to: https://www.thecut.com/article/george-floyd-protests-how-to-help-where-to-donate.html
You can find black owned businesses to support on Black Wall Street: https://officialblackwallstreet.com/directory/
Why am I always your scapegoat?
Wait, are we assuming you’re real, or not? My answer may change accordingly.
Curious. Just for fun, let us assume I am not real.
In that case, it is to satirize believers who claim that you are the source of good things but not the bad. A sort of dramatization of the problem of evil, if you will. Mixed with a healthy dose of pointing out the absurdity of the story.
Do you think you change any minds?
Probably not, if I’m being honest.
So why do it?
Blowing off steam, I guess. Against an institution that shaped me in so many ways, many of them negative. A way of working out some old issues.
Does it help? I mean, you have been doing it for all of these years. Have you gotten anywhere?
Maybe it is time for a new tack?
Okay, so what if we assume I’m real?
Then it is a direct attack on you.
That doesn’t seem wise.
I have yet to be struck by lightning.
There is, however, the matter of your immortal soul.
A lot of bad things have happened; the pain and suffering have been immeasurable. If you’re willing to put up with all of that, I suspect you can handle a little criticism that no one pays any attention to. Furthermore, I don’t want to be on the good side of someone who allows all of the things that go on here.
But is it not possible that there are reasons for . . .
Stop. I’m not interested in that sort of speculation. There is no humanly recognizable reason to allow this much misery. If there is some reason, it has nothing to do with us.
That seems . . . uncertain? . . . at best. It certainly deserves more discussion.
So which is it? Do I exist, or not?
The jury is still out, though I suspect it’s a different option altogether. You do exist, but not like so many believe you do. Thus the real you isn’t my scapegoat at all. My target is those who mischaracterize you.
That seems like a dodge.
Does it? Maybe it does. Maybe I’m just avoiding taking a side. Still, the truth is almost never so cut and dry.
All around there is darkness, no light anywhere and nothing beneath me. There is nothing to focus attention and nothing solid on which to find footing. I am falling. What waits at the bottom? Is there a bottom?
How much time has passed? How much time is left? I do not know the answer; we never do. Right now is when I am. The past is gone. The future is blank. What will I do right this moment?
I close my eyes. (Or were they already closed?) I listen to the air move past my ears, feel it touch my skin. I focus on my heartbeat, use it to steady myself. I am still falling, but more peacefully now.
I can’t ignore my situation, but I do not let it rule me. I am not the master, but neither am I the servant. What thoughts might I have, what worlds might I create as I plummet in the dark? I do not know; I will not know. Not until I think, not until I create. And so, in the darkness, I begin.
Longest night of the year. A sacred time.
You don’t think anything is sacred.
Yes, I do. Humanity. This night, maybe more than any other, reminds us that we need one another. The darkness can only win if we try to face it alone. Humanity is sacred.
Humanity isn’t sacred. It is an insignificant blip in the universe. In the grand scheme of things, we just don’t matter.
I’m not talking about the universe, not saying it thinks us sacred. I’m talking about us. What do we hold dear? For my part, that’s humanity. It’s worthy of honor and respect. That is what we owe each other. And ourselves.
Who is more important? God? Or people? Listen closely to how someone answers; it will tell you everything you need to know about them. Does God need anything from us? If so, that’s not God. Who needs? Humans. We need others. God doesn’t need anything from us. Other human beings need help. And that’s where our focus should be. Winter reminds us how fragile we are. Look to your neighbor, to the stranger. That is where the sacred is. If we cannot see the sacred in each other, it doesn’t matter what else we call sacred.
Do you have any friends at all?
I have you.
I suppose that’s true. Happy solstice, then.
What are you thankful for?
I hate that question.
Because the answers always seem so rote. Family. Friends. Home. Health.
You aren’t thankful for those things?
I am, but that’s not the point. We have answers like that memorized. One day of the year, we give the most cursory thought to what we have before moving on to other concerns. We rarely stop to truly reflect on what we have to appreciate. Most of the year, we take things for granted. Then we set aside one day for token thankfulness.
Is that true for everyone? Or is that just your cynicism showing?
So it’s just me, projecting my own failing onto everyone else?
I hate you.
Because I’m right?
Set aside everyone else. What are you thankful for? And don’t give your rote answer. Don’t do the thing you hate. Really reflect. What are you thankful for?
That is a hard question.
Quit deflecting. What are you doing, right now?
I am thankful I can write?
No. I mean, I am thankful for the ability to hold a pen, the resources to own paper, the luxury of time. I am thankful I can write, whether or not I’m any good at it.
Okay. That’s a start. Anything else?
Ugh. I keep going back to negative things.
Look, it’s not a question of ignoring the bad. But you’ve got all year for that. Just a few moments for balance. You don’t need to pretend it’s all sunshine and roses. Just acknowledge some good.
I am thankful that there are other people who love and care for animals.
Yeah. It gives me hope. It connects me to other people, even if I don’t know them. I’m glad people feel something I do. And that animals are getting taken care of.
For that matter, I am thankful for the internet, for showing me that there are others who share my values, my concern about the world. As much crap as there is, it’s good to know I’m not entirely alone.
You think it’s important to remember this more than one day a year?
Do you think others might share that value?
Then – and I don’t mean to sound preachy – maybe dial back the cynicism a little?
It’s almost winter again. The stillness. The quiet. The cold. It is a time for introspection, a chance to review the year. Winter is an end, not merely a waypoint on the path to spring.
Some do not like the cold and the dark that dominate the season, yet it is part of the year, just as death is part of life. Winter serves as a reminder of the ephemeral nature of the world around us. It is a different kind of wonder that permeates the long night, and it should not be quickly dismissed.
Winter reminds us to turn inward, to pay attention to who and what is with us right now. The rest of the year we can spend outside, engaging the external world. For right now, we have time for ourselves and our ghosts.
Life has death. Day has night. Waking has sleep. And the year has winter. It is a holy time, a sacred time. It is the rest at the end of work. It is necessary for recuperating. We rush through it to our own detriment.
The snow blankets us with warmth. The stars and moon give us light. The wind carries secrets. If only we are willing to feel, to see, to hear. Winter is there, waiting for each of us. We may try to run from it, but we cannot run forever. And when we stop, she will be there, her arms wide, ready to welcome us to the quiet beauty she has prepared.
“for I do not know
if the ending will end,
or even if
I want it to”
All the trees looked the same.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Individually, each tree looked different from the next. Thin, younger trees. Large, older ones. Split trunks. Knots. In the context of the forest, however, they looked the same.
To put it another way, I was lost.
Okay, look, I’m trying to be a reliable narrator here, but it’s very easy to sacrifice accuracy for an economy of language. ‘Lost’ implies I was trying to get somewhere. I wasn’t. Or perhaps I should say, I was already there. Amongst the trees.
The forest really was beautiful. Quiet. Isolated. That was the point, to get away from everything, everyone. With all the distractions in the world, sometimes it is necessary to escape, to be alone with yourself. Breathing air that has been recently exhaled by trees. Feeling the bark. Spending time reminding yourself who you were, who you are.
So I wasn’t lost. I just didn’t know where I was. And that was alright.
She sat in front of me with her legs crossed, mirroring my pose. As I stared into her eyes, I knew it was me looking back.
“So . . .” I began, trying to break the stalemate of silence that had taken hold.
“So.” Her reply did not provide a way forward.
“What do I do? Do I ask you questions? I don’t know how this works.”
Her smile was enigmatic. I found myself wondering if I was really this infuriating.
“Go ahead, ask questions if you like.”
Just like that, any question I might have had fled from my mind.
“Hmm . . .”
“You invited me. Invented me. I assume you had some reason. What is it?”
I had no answer to that. The truth was that I didn’t remember inviting her. I had been meditating in my own eclectic way when she just appeared. None of this was expected.
“Oh. I see.”
“What? What do you see?”
“You did not consciously summon me.”
“Can you read my thoughts?”
“I am your thoughts. Some of them, anyway. I am a part of you.”
“So you’re a voice in my head?”
“I suppose that’s one way to view it. I am the personification of one of the voices in your head. All of whom, by the way, are you.”
As I was trying to process that, an obvious question occurred to me.
“Wait. If you’re me, why are you a woman?”
Her rather mild expression became a scowl.
“Don’t be naive. You know better than that. No one is all one thing or another. We all have many pieces, many aspects. You identify compassion and wisdom with a more feminine energy. It should be obvious, then, why those aspects of yourself would manifest this way.”
“I . . . I think I knew that.”
“Of course you did. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known it.”
“But if you only know what I do, how could you possibly help me find answers?”
“We often don’t remember, or don’t want to remember, things we know. Knowledge can be painful, frightening. Giving it to one part of ourselves for safe-keeping, can insulate us from it. In order to recover the knowledge, we need to confront the part of ourselves which harbors it. Besides, you seem to do better learning from a teacher.”
“This is . . . a lot.”
Her smile returned.
“And yet, none of this is really a surprise to you.”
“No. I don’t suppose it is.”
We looked at one another for a bit, the silence less awkward this time.
“If I didn’t consciously summon you, why are you here?”
“As I said, you must have a reason. Perhaps it would help to think of me as a sounding board, someone to bounce ideas off of. Talk to me like you might to a friend you might seek advice from.”
“And you’ll be here when I meditate?”
“I’m always here. If meditation helps you focus, use it. But there’s no need for rituals. Wherever you go, I go. I am you.”
“Okay,” I said, without much conviction.
“It will be.”
The world is a mess. People hate more readily, more broadly. Life is a chore. It’s hard to find any reason at all.
That’s just your depression talking.
I’m lazy and procrastinate. I’m unmotivated and squander my potential. I’m unremarkable and of no use to anyone.
That’s just your depression talking.
I’m inconsiderate, a bad friend. I’ve hurt people. I’m not good and shouldn’t be around others.
That’s just your depression talking.
So… what? All my thoughts are just my depression? Is that all anyone sees when they look at me? My depression? I have become defined by an illness. Nothing remains of me. My every thought, word, action is attributed to my depression.
That’s just your depression talking.
Unless it’s a happy thought, a positive word. If I act happy, people say that is the real me, even though I know it’s fake. The act lets other people feel comfortable, let’s them believe everything is alright. It’s necessary because if you show them how you really feel,
That’s just your depression talking.
So I lead a double-life. The life I fake for those around me, and the depression eating away inside. But neither is me. One is a fake, and the other is an illness that keeps me from trusting anything in my head. I don’t exist anymore. It’s all a lie. But I shouldn’t worry about it because
That’s just the depression talking.