Quote - Marge Piercy

"Attention is love, what we must give"

As the storm gathers

Today, I am unsettled. Itchy. Twitchy. Looking for things I can organize. Order I can create with a little effort. Asserting a little petty control on my immediate physical environment, as my old roommate used to say, nodding knowingly, as he came home to a whole new living room arrangement. 

On my way to church today (dragging myself away from shelves un-organized and cords still tangled and not tacked down), I found myself doing the math of how many years it's been since college. Since high school. As though nailing down the math will anchor me in this place now. 

Even those who avoid political discussions are asking me and each other - what does this mean? what will he do? how far will he go?

As far and as fast as we let him. 

And the voice of my wise friend Jimmy echoes a reminder: Don't let Trump be your spiritual center. He will expand to fill any space given over to him. He loves to be the center. A Moloch to whom we sacrifice our transgender and immigrant children.

But what do we do instead?

If we cannot demonize, because doing so is feeding the beast, then we must strengthen our muscles to love, to be of service, to smother hate with love, to bridge difference with compassion. The opposite of monomaniacal devouring is liberal multiculturalism - the affirmation of many truths, many values, many with worth of many kinds. 

And even as I write this, I think about how weak "And" can be. How small a dyke for such impossibly large waves of animosity headed our way. Aren't Democrats weak precisely when they try to be the most nuanced, which looks a lot like disorganization and disagreement to those who are used to the black and white certainty of a would-be dictator?

But I want to fight for the world I want to live in, and I want a world of many ands. Many sources of truth and meaning and values. And so I seek for the common ground with people who are acting and motivated by the wrong things right now. But still people who love. People who nurture their families. Who believe in working hard. 

And yes, I remember that ultimately, fighting for that world can mean taking up arms. And the winner gets to teach the lesson. 

And I fear. And gather my loved ones close. And organize another shelf. 

Take Love for Granted (poem) by Jack Ridl

Assume it’s in the kitchen,
under the couch, high
in the pine tree out back,
behind the paint cans
In the garage. Don’t try
proving your love
is bigger than the Grand
Canyon, the Milky Way,
the urban sprawl of L.A.
Take it for granted. Take it
out with the garbage. Bring it
in with the takeout. Take
it for a walk with the dog.
Wake it every day, say,
“Good morning.” Then
make the coffee. Warm
the cups. Don’t expect much
of the day. Be glad when
you make it back to bed.
Be glad he threw out that
box of old hats. Be glad
she leaves her shoes
in the hall. Snow will
come. Spring will show up.
Summer will be humid.
The leaves will fall
in the fall. That’s more
than you need. We can
love anybody, even
everybody. But you
can love each other,
the silence, sighing,
and saying, “That’s her.”
“That’s him.” Then to
each other, “I know!
Let’s go out for breakfast!”

Darkest Before Dawn (poem) by James Crews

Three days into the new year,
and despite the lack of adequate light,
our white phalaenopsis orchid
has eased open a third delicate bloom.

Perhaps coaxed by the warmth
of the woodstove a few feet away,
the orchid thrives in its tiny pot
shaped like the shell of a nautilus,
sending out new stems and glossy leaves,
its aerial roots— green at the tips—
reaching upward like tentacles
to sip the morning air. These blooms
stir something too long asleep in me,
proving with stillness and slow growth
what I haven't been able to trust
these past few months—that hope
and grace still reign in certain sectors
of the living world, that there are laws
which can never be overturned
by hateful words or the wishes
of power-hungry men. Be patient,
this orchid seems to say, and reveal
your deepest self even in the middle
of winter, even in the darkness
before the coming dawn.

It’s When the Earth Shakes (poem) by Chelan Harkin

It’s when the earth shakes
And foundations crumble
That our light is called
To rise up.

It’s when everything falls away
And shakes us to the core
And awakens all
Of our hidden ghosts
That we dig deeper to find
Once inaccessible strength.

It’s in times when division is fierce
That we must reach for each other
And hold each other much
Much tighter.

Do not fall away now.
This is the time to rise.
Your light is being summoned.
Your integrity is being tested
That it may stand more tall.

When everything collapses
We must find within us
That which is indomitable.

Rise, and find the strength in your heart.
Rise, and find the strength in each other

Burn through your devastation,
Make it your fuel.

Bring forth your light.
Now is not the time
To be afraid of the dark.

Let Rain Be Rain (poem) by Danusha Laméris

Let rain be rain.

           Let wind be wind.

Let the small stone

           be the small stone.

May the bird

            rest on its branch,

the beetle in its burrow.

May the pine tree

             lay down its needles.

The rockrose, its petals.

It’s early. Or it’s late.

            The answers

to our questions

             lie hidden

in acorn, oyster, the seagull’s

             speckled egg.

We’ve come this far, already.

             Why not let breath

be breath. Salt be salt.

How faithful the tide

              that has carried us—

that carries us now—

               out to sea

        and back.

Summons (poem) by Aurora Levins Morales

Last night I dreamed
ten thousand grandmothers
from the twelve hundred corners of the earth
walked out into the gap
one breath deep
between the bullet and the flesh
between the bomb and the family.

They told me we cannot wait for governments.
There are no peacekeepers boarding planes.
There are no leaders who dare to say
every life is precious, so it will have to be us.

They said we will cup our hands around each heart.
We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water,
a song so beautiful that vengeance will turn to weeping,
the mourners will embrace, and grief replace
every impulse toward harm.

Ten thousand is not enough, they said,
so, we have sent this dream, like a flock of doves
into the sleep of the world. Wake up. Put on your shoes.

You who are reading this, I am bringing bandages
and a bag of scented guavas from my trees. I think
I remember the tune. Meet me at the corner.
Let’s go.

Lake and Maple (poem) by Jane Hirshfield

I want to give myself
utterly
as the maple
that burned and burned
for three days without stinting
and then in two more
dropped off every leaf;
as this lake that,
no matter what comes
to its green-blue depths,
both takes and returns it.
In the still heart,
that refuses nothing,
the world is twice-born—
two earths wheeling,
two heavens,
two egrets reaching
down into subtraction;
even the fish
for an instant doubled,
before it is gone.
I want the fish.
I want the losing it all
when it rains and I want
the returning transparence.
I want the place
by the edge-flowers where
the shallow sand is deceptive,
where whatever
steps in must plunge,
and I want that plunging.
I want the ones
who come in secret to drink
only in early darkness,’
and I want the ones
who are swallowed.
I want the way
the water sees without eyes,
hears without ears,
shivers without will or fear
at the gentlest touch.
I want the way it
accepts the cold moonlight
and lets it pass,
the way it lets
all of it pass
without judgment or comment.
There is a lake,
Lalla Ded sang, no larger
than one seed of mustard,
that all things return to.
O Heart, if you
will not, cannot, give me the lake,
then give me the song.