Good Bones

Lately I find myself living in a constant state of paralysis. Overwhelmed, like everyone else, with a constant barrage of terrible news, and an inability to do much at all about any of it. Looking away feels both simultaneously necessary and darkly privileged, and guilt arrises with every small task -- ordering takeout, taking the kids to the playground with friends, watching a movie or taking the dogs for a walk. My mind wanders elsewhere throughout all of it back to images of war and desperation that will be permanently seared into my brain. I decide to set boundaries around checking the news, turning on NPR or looking at Twitter. And then I break them and regret it. 

I try to sift through it all to look for the stories of hope and inspiration. Looking for the helpers, as they say. And I feel guilty even for that privilege -- to be able to chose to turn my attention elsewhere. Away from an absolutely pointless war, from the barbaric laws passing in our country to restrict the rights of others, from the bottomless greed of powerful men, and the destruction of our planet.

I wonder what kind of future my children will have. What they will be left with. And then I look at them and feel so grateful. And I think of this poem by Maggie Smith:

Good Bones

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

    I go to work. I attend another video meeting. Revise plans and complete reviews. I wonder if anyone else feels normal right now. If anyone else can focus and hold their concentration. Every call starts the same way: "How are you holding up?" Everyone laughs half-heartedly and shrugs, "Oh, you know." All of our greetings have changed. And then we all compartmentalize, and go back to work. Continuing to do more with less, in every aspect. Marching forward like ants in a line. 

    And I need to plan a 5th birthday party. I try not to think about all the birthdays we've celebrated during the pandemic. All the things missed out on. I'll order balloons, the purple ones. I'll make the cupcakes, the  chocolate ones. And I'll try to make it beautiful. I'll check in with friends. Try to make amends with those I've lost touch with and miss. Try to bring something bright into the world. 

Music helps. This song has been on repeat since I discovered it a couple weeks ago: