Raining Down On Us

I slept nine hours, and the rain is bejeweling the window panes, and people are voting all over the country, and we anticipate dire results, the trampling of democracy, the crushing of our hearts. But I’ve been hearing from friends, and I know that there are many of us, all feeling the same alienation and sadness, and today is not the end.

This is not how it will end.

The other night I spoke to an elegant, aristocratic fellow I know…I’ll call him Andre…about a mutual acquaintance who is a right-wing, MAGA Trump supporter in the extreme. Andre stated unequivocally (in his gorgeous subtly accented English) that he would never let politics interfere with friendship––never––it was simply not a factor in friendship.

I said nothing, but I looked at him, shielded by generations of wealth and privilege, almost gleaming with the armor of it, not the enemy, not the cause, a lovely man, but nevertheless immune to so many of the issues affecting others right now.

And it troubled me. Because I think what we are facing in this moment goes far beyond “politics”.

This is how I am lately––always on the edge of anger and heartbreak.

Felix would tell me to sit in the pillow house a little longer, then change my nappy and go play.

Meanwhile, I am so glad for the rain! I’ve been thinking of my old neighbor Jeanne, and our traditional post-storm walks. We would scrape tiny trenches in the mud with our tall rubber boots to divert the rain water that was pooling in the road. It was almost a dance, a wonderful combination of exuberance and usefulness. Stomping and stamping, new rivulets rushing, the splashing of galoshes!

When I started this blog post, I was waiting for a window in the rain. I imagined that I’d wrap myself in sweaters and scarves and stand on a bluff and marvel at the greening of the hills and the fury of the ocean. It was a fine plan, but we decided instead to drive to the west end of the ranch and visit our friend Aristotle. He gave us Greek cookies called kourabiedes, made with butter and almonds, and covered in powdered sugar that dusted our fingers like snow, and when the rain wasn’t pounding on the world, we watched the storm clouds moving in from Point Conception, and we vented and kvetched and admitted to a sense of helplessness and grief. Aristotle is nearing ninety and lately feels that life is guerrilla warfare. You make a little headway, he says, but then you’re derailed by some new malady or problem, and you try something different until the next thing goes awry, and you inch your way forward through another day.

It doesn’t help to be witnessing the demise of our democracy, if that’s what’s happening now.

“See you soon,” I called to him as we left.

“Maybe,” he replied. “I hope so. Who knows?”

It’s true. We can’t be sure of anything.

But there were rainbows all the way home.