What's Left
An election week reflection on enduring when it all falls down around you
How on earth was I supposed to write something on Tuesday that would still make sense on Thursday? My head, my body, were buzzing. So at 2:30pm on Election Day, I took my own advice1 and went for a walk in the woods.
After parking my bike—even before hitting the trail—the first thing I noticed was the quiet. I was bathed immediately in relief. I’d lost a sense of how loud life had become.
The air was warm. Too warm for November, and it reminded me of the poem I wrote last year on a warm November day, reminiscing about another warm November day. I should probably accept the fact that days like this are now unremarkable.
The sun was out, but not quite strong enough to dry the leaf-strewn ground after the previous night’s rain. It was so low in the sky already that as I descended toward a stream bed, it sunk behind the hillside. The maple, birch, beech, and oak were all naked: ahh, Stick Season (a term I sort of wish I didn’t now associate with Noah Kahan). The only remaining color was that of the ferns, the moss, and the evergreen trees.
I sat down on a damp log by a brook. I saw myself, today, as one of those naked deciduous trees. I have always been proud of having big feelings, being a so-called highly sensitive person. I have high highs and low lows. And when big things happen—the world shakes—I have been known to judge others who don’t appear shaken. Your stoicism, your stiff upper lip, are unnerving to me. How can you proceed as though everything is normal? How can you just go on? If you are not fiery, or floored, or frozen, you must be unfeeling.
On Halloween, just last week, I ended up in tears multiple times. My child was resistant, belligerent, throwing tantrum after tantrum, and I broke. I didn’t even care that much about Halloween, but it was clear, at the end of the night, that I still cared too much. When your expectations are high, you have a lot to lose. And after the third holiday in a row (at least) that left me crying, I was getting sick of festivity-induced breakdowns.
That was to say nothing of an election with stakes like this one.
The logical solution was simply to lower my expectations. I have tried this, but I’m just not good at it. It feels out of character. As I’ve said, I am made of longing. I believe in heaven on earth. Even if I thought I could care less, I wouldn’t want to.
But what if today, in the woods, wondering what would become of everything and everyone I loved—I took a lesson from the evergreens? The hemlocks are not dramatic. The pines do not wear the seasons on their sleeves. The spruces don’t draw tourists from around the world with their ephemeral beauty. They just stand tall, and they’re here, humbly themselves, day after day.
Their lack of show does not make the evergreens static—they have life cycles too. They have seasons of producing and shedding. They sprout, and age, and die. And like the deciduous trees, they are still fragile. They are affected by storms, diseases, pests, soil chemistry, climate, humans.
They still feel.
It’s the response that differs.
As I rose from my log and continued up the trail, I felt like I saw—perhaps for the first time—the beauty in the evergreen response. It was about riding life’s waves, seeing the big picture, trusting the moral arc of the universe. There was a wisdom to it; a deep maturity.
The evergreens did not boast of their stamina. They didn’t belittle their once-bright, now-naked neighbors for their displays and pageantry. They simply watched, waved in the warm November breeze, and waited.
I climbed up the hillside, and with every step, the afternoon sun rose again above the horizon. It sent a single low beam of light streaming through the hemlock fronds, adorning them with glimmers.
With the leaves gone, it was the evergreen’s time to shine. I walked on.
I love you guys. Let’s keep con*spiring toward divine community and utter aliveness.
With light, life, and love,
Devon
P.S. Here are some quotes & poems & songs I’ve been inspired by in the last couple days. Add yours in the comments!
“Here is the place where it is glaringly evident that more work (didn’t she work the hardest of any candidate in US history, ever) can’t possibly be the singular and complete answer in a land built on stolen and exploited labor. More work can’t possibly be the singular and complete answer.” —Octavia Raheem
[Well, at least not work in the sense we’re used to.]
“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.” —Toni Morrison
This whole essay, including how it ends: “I hope you will write this on your wall: When a great ship is in harbor and moored, it is safe, there can be no doubt. But that is not what great ships are built for.” —Clarissa Pinkola Estés
This song on repeat
Poem: “What to do after voting” by James Pearson
Poem: “Any Common Desolation” by Ellen Bass (thank you, Cara)
Essay: “‘We have nothing to fear from despair…’” by Katherine May
“I got nothing for you but this shitty little prayer” by Nadia Bolz-Weber
By the way, thank you to everyone who reached out to say that last week’s prompt was helpful! It was heartwarming and inspiring to know that we were con*spiring across the miles in the face of terrifying unknowns.