I feel physically ill. I feel like my soul has been punched. I feel the worst cultural disappointment I have ever experienced.
I am not alone in these feelings.
Hillary is me; I identify with her. The hardest working, most earnest, passionate and compassionate girl. Trying to make something good. Driven by an inner light. Seen truly half the time; reviled and abused the other half.
I do the only thing I can do. I grieve.
I reaffirm who matters: women, children, people of color, people working for minimum wage, people with disabilities, LGBTQIA people, migrants, refugees. People who occupy those spaces and more. This is the body of my country.
I do the only thing I can do. I hold them precious.
I do the only thing I can do in this moment. I take care of my house. I wash the dishes kindly; I thank them for being serviceable and beautiful. I husband my space and the things in it.
This is how I make meaning.
I take pictures of small things I find beautiful. Flowers, berries, a crescent moon. I am open-hearted to beauty and I create beauty in many small ways, over and over.
Beauty is not frivolous. Remember: bread, but also roses.
I do not engage with angry and hateful people. Not even if they’re related to me. That’s not my job right now.
I understand the deep heart of this error for what is: a cancerous, self-hating id. He doesn’t love himself. He doesn’t love anything. He seeks power and attention because it’s all he has. And it’s less than nothing.
You have more than him. You are more than him in even your smallest moments. Because you are real to yourself.
I cherish my family and friends. I give kindness and compassion and I see it reflected back to me.
I do the only thing I can do. I take care of myself.
I look for the ones like me. Artists, sensitives, radicals, thinkers.
I remember we are spirits in bodies. The spirit is invisible but it is not fragile. We’re not done. We will get up again.
I do the only thing I can do. I write.
The one thing you can do, do it.
In each humble and particular moment, do it.