I walked the kids home from their after school program yesterday, as I do every day. The early winter sunset had already given us an ice cream sky, and I stopped to take a picture. On the bike path, my daughter carefully put milkweed in her coat pocket. I know she’s going to scatter the spores on her way out tomorrow morning; she is always hopeful that we can save the monarch butterflies. The kids ran ahead, down the sloping path towards our house, and I stopped to admire the way the orange sky was reflected in the pond below, the winter branches of the weeping willow, a mother raccoon dipping her baby into the water (if you have never seen how tenderly a raccoon bathes its little ones, I recommend slipping out to a body of water around twilight).
We are ridiculously fortunate to get this view every evening. It is all well and good to talk about mindfulness and inner peace, but outer peace certainly aids it.
Meanwhile, my heart is in Pakistan, where it is already early morning, and my family is rising to head to the polls, to vote in a rigged election. They know there’s no winning, but in my mind, people of conscience have already won, because something still matters to them. In my mind, in the next life, or somewhere in the multiverse, my spirit is going to be asked what I knew, and how much I cared. And in that universe, it is the act of caring, and not the outcome, which truly matters.
I bought a new planner in January. On page 1, it asks for my goals for the year. I ripped it out and used it for a grocery list. What is my goal? To care, and not too much; to notice; to pay attention. It seems a silly thing to write. I have hopes-too many of them-but I no longer believe in “goals.” I work for the sake of work, and I hustle for the sake of money, and somewhere they intersect and I suppose you can call that intersection a goal.
This February sky, this living in two places at once, this grief and rage and impotence, is this what they call a godful life?
I don’t engage in traditional worship, but I am never not thinking about what is sacred. It occurs to me often these days, when the depravity of the human condition is so obvious, that everyone worships something. Money, power, status…the easiest gods to spot. Validation, reputation, short-lived emotions…less obvious, unless you scroll through social media. Conscience, hope, radical community…rare, and probably the preserve of saints.
I want my children to know what we left behind. Someday, I will share the noise in my head. Someday, after we save the monarchs.