these past four weeks have been everything. 

the first two months were sweet retreat: a break from school schedules and dinner by six, rushed mornings and overloaded evenings. things slowed as my body synced with the sun and life dwindled down to the “essentials.” 

but by the third month, it all felt too long. the sweetness turned to sadness and a sense of deep loss over what had been: sitting in a cafe catching snippets of lives, spontaneous drives to out-of-town places. hugs, moments without masks, mad dashes for forgotten items and lazy strolls on downtown streets. 

the other day, I said to my husband, “all of america seems a bit depressed.” the summer humidity carries with it an emotional heaviness. I wake to the sound of birds but also something that sounds like suffering. 

suffering that is small and personal like waiting until 9am to take a walk with my husband who doesn’t want a walk because of a headache. my leaving angry—because really I’m disappointed because really I’m sad—because I wanted a walk with him more than he wanted one with me. 

like opening the fridge and staring at its contents hoping to find a food that will feel like happiness, but without sugar or gluten, and instead finding only cassava flour tortillas, a handful of olives and a box of mixed greens. 

like my daughter waking up every morning in a house she doesn’t want to be in. longing to be back in the world of friends and freedom and people who think for a living. and that this is normal. not just for me but for us.

and suffering that is big and global.

like boarded-up buildings and an emaciated economy. like killings and protests and the ravages of injustice. lifetimes of greed and oppression we can no longer outrun. 

in my good moments, I remind myself that we make up the story, that we give it meaning. that it’s only a matter of writing a different version or looking through a different lens. but in the not-so-good-moments, I get caught up wondering about the future for my children, for all our children.

sitting out back on my deck while a neighbor’s lawnmower makes nature’s sounds almost inaudible, my body feels like its too much. while my mind tries to talk me down my body wants to go back to bed and wake up when we all have mommies holding us and riding a bike is the best way to pass an afternoon and everyone has heat and a home, and justice. 

these are hard times which is not news but it seems important to say because maybe we’re feeling like they should be easier. 

so we take the next step—because it’s the only step to take—and say out loud, “I am grateful for…” because we need to remember what is bigger than what we wish to forget. and I hug my husband just a little longer and remind myself of nadia bolz-weber’s closing words to me in our interview for “art, activism, & the great unknown,” (coming out in late august)

“all of that stuff matters. small kindnesses matter. the way your eyes can light up behind your mask when you’re smiling at the cashier in gratitude can matter. owning our shit matters. that the divine impetus behind the movement that we’re in matters. that grace and compassion and forgiveness and truth-telling, oh my God, if we don’t have that, we’re doomed.”

so we march on. in the streets, in our living rooms, in our hearts and minds. with as much grace and compassion and forgiveness and truth-telling as we can muster. because we are all each other’s children and because it all matters.