I just finished a novel by James Patterson and Bill Clinton, The President is Missing.
I did not vote for Bill Clinton. I say that with neither pride nor chagrin; a mere statement of fact. And I do not read much of James Patterson; too much violence and intrigue for my kind of reading.
Somehow a week has passed, and here I am, writing once again, the morning sunlight pouring in. Outside, my husband and the kids work in one of our outbuildings, warmed by a cozy fire in the wood stove.
What fascinates me is the
discovery that we sometimes are
only the one thing they see, and that
how I know me to you may not be.
Most never discover or try to
uncover why we are one thing to one
and to another some other, whether
enemy, friend, neighbor or brother.
I’d just started supper when the phone rang. My husband answered. “Really?” He said with the hard laugh he often uses when receiving bad news. “How big are the flames?” he asked, then paused for a beat.
Our son begins college next week
and we are both sad and happy to see him go.
His future has been patiently waiting and we all know it.
These are exciting times for him, but anxious times for us.
America is grappling with a difficult legacy. Our society was built by the blood and sweat of slaves, on land previously occupied by Native Americans. When we won independence, only white male property owners were fully enfranchised. Enslaved peoples were not fully counted under the constitution.
Words matter. Fellow Americans and the rest of the world watched as President Trump called for the large group of his supporters to “walk to the capitol” after implanting the thoughts of “You will never take back our country with weakness. We will never give up. We will never concede.