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Tuesday, Nov 24, 2009
I will pray for George Bush because he's part of the human family. But he's a dangerous relation, like a Klansman.
Mar 28, 2003 | There is the most ancient of sorrows in the world again, dead civilians and such young soldiers. None of us knows quite what to make of things, or what to do. In our minds now it feels like midnight on the Serengeti, dangers everywhere, some you can see, but most hidden. At the peace march this weekend, we carried signs that said, "Shock and Awe, and Shame." We pray for innocent lives and young Americans. Some of us pray for impeachment, and for a real leader to emerge, and not to lose our minds in the meantime. But when we pay attention, we can see just as much messy mercy and hilarious grace as ever: Yesterday at Sam's tiny school, the kindergarteners and first graders were out on the field when military planes flew overhead. They were so afraid, but when Peggy, their teacher, told them they were safe, that the planes were headed for the Middle East, the children relaxed. They watched. Then one smart child began to wonder if there might be children in the Middle East, too, and that these pilots just didn't know that. The children began to fret and Peggy could not lie and tell them there weren't children in the country where the army planes were headed. So they found a giant sheet of paper, and colored it with a peace dove bigger than any of them, and they got the older kids to come help, and they all signed their names, so Army planes flying overhead could see it: The kids kept telling Peggy that the pilots just must not have known. And now they would not go to the country where they might accidentally bomb children. So even amid the smashing and crashing and terrible silences, the trees are all in blossom, and it's soft and warm and bright. Spring is pushing through.
What are you supposed to do, when what is happening can't be? When it's all too scary and weirdly fascinating and grim, and the old rules no longer apply? I remember this feeling when my mother was in the last stages of Alzheimer's, when my brothers and I needed so much more to go on than we had -- explanations, plans, a tour guide, and hope that it really wasn't going to be all that bad. But then it was all that bad, and then some, and all we could do was talk, pray and stick together. We somehow managed to laugh a lot, the great miracle, and we sought wise counsel -- medical, financial, spiritual. A nurse from the Alzheimer's Association finally entered into the mess with us. We said, "We don't know what we're doing; we don't know if we should put her in a home; we don't even know what's true anymore," and the nurse said gently, "How could you know?"
And so we kept hobbling forward, and all we could do was the next right thing. I kept remembering an old Xeroxed photo of Koko the signing gorilla, with a caption beneath it that read, "The law of the American jungle: Remain calm, share your bananas." That's what we did -- cried, tried to make each other laugh and stay calm, shared our bananas. And when the time came to know what to do, we did. I took the cat out of her arms; we put her in a home. It was a nightmare. It killed something in us, and we came through.
I asked a hopeless friend today, "What story would help you most? A story about God? A nice story about quirky miracles?"
"No, thank you," she said. "I'd like to hear the story about how we don't know what's going to happen, and how it all sucks, and that we are scared to death, and we don't know how we're going to get through it."
Like her, I am depressed and furious and grief-stricken. I often feel like someone from the Book of Lamentations, or a tense, abandoned puppy to whom someone has given LSD. You're not allowed to say what an entirely awful administration this is, or you're accused of cosigning Saddam's brutality. Peace marches really help. So do walks on the mountain. So do the pets, my furry little psyche nurses. I try to remember things that ring true, like Gandhi saying we must be the change we want to see in the world. Or Barbara Johnson saying that we're Easter people, living in a Good Friday world. The problem is, I'm not really one of those Christians who has the right personality for Good Friday, for the crucifixion part. The resurrection for Easter isn't for two more days, and of course you have to go on faith that it will take place at all. Your mind tells you that it could all be a trick -- crucifixion Friday, descent into hell Saturday, root canal Sunday. I don't even actually have the right personality for the human condition. But I do believe in the resurrection: The trees, so sticklike and gray last month, suddenly went up, as in flame, but in blossoms and leaves -- poof! Like someone suddenly opening an umbrella.
Maybe I'll just tell you what I am going to do today.
I am going to pray that our soldiers come home soon. I am going to pray for the children of American and Iraqi soldiers, for the innocent Iraqi people, for the POWs, for humanitarian aid, and for our leaders. I am going to pray for the children in America's inner cities. And I am going to pray to forgive one person today, a little -- just to give up a soupçon of hostility. Maybe a couple of tablespoons' worth. I am going to pray for the willingness to forgive someone today -- Bush, or my mom, or me -- even though I do not expect it to go well. It hardly ever does. It is not my strong suit.
Miracles take money, so I am going to send $100 to people I trust -- Doctors Without Borders, Clowns Without Borders, and Rep. Barbara Lee, who speaks for me. I am going to ask her to send it to someone who is nurturing children in the inner city because this country's poor kids will be the hardest hit by wartime cutbacks. I am going to send money to Howard Dean. I am going to buy myself some beautiful socks, and buy my son some new felt pens.
