Heavy days, heavy nights

I don't know where to begin. I haven't felt like getting out of bed for the past couple of days. They weigh heavy - the days. Or maybe it's me that's heavy.

I was glad to have gotten out of bed on Sunday morning though, and to have gone to church. To have listened to another one of Father Chris' sermons. He's rather soft-spoken, but once he gets going, it's hard not to respond with a "YES!" or "Amen!" He was quieter this past Sunday though. Or maybe I perceived his delivery as such.

I was glad to have seen one of my friends, a lovely octogenarian who, in spite of her health troubles, refuses to be knocked down. I was troubled when she told me of an upcoming surgery that would take care of one issue, but cause a whole other setback. It's one of those "damned if you don't and damned if you do" surgeries. And as she told me she wasn't going to let it get her down, I applauded her spirit while remaining anxious about what could happen even during the surgery. My friend has been through so much, but she keeps on trucking. I cannot picture church without her. I refuse.

And then, something happened. I was in danger of bursting into sobs. As we listened to the introduction to the hymn, "Fairest Lord Jesus," one of the congregants who is as old as Mum was when she died, she said to her daughter:

"This is one of my favorite hymns."

"It is?" Her daughter sounded surprised.

"Yes. I would like for it to be played at my funeral."

"Okay." The daughter replied.

I turned slightly and smiled at this exchange, but when we began singing the first verse, I had to stop. I was so choked up, the next word would have been a cry. The tears welled up to the point of overflowing, and all I could do was look at the page and breathe for a little bit. Then I returned to singing again. It was as if that minute of deep sadness had been the culmination of EVERYTHING that has raged within me, saddened me, and made me not want to get out of bed.

This part was not just about me. If you know, you know.

. . . . .

I decided to curtail my social activities, including my somewhat regular attendance at Karaoke. It weighed heavy on me, this continuing with life as usual, while a genocide continued to take the lives of more and more Palestinians. And then Israel's attacks against Iran, and now, the US caving in to Israel in this illegal act of war.

It is hard to look away. It's also a bit of a struggle not to make your own problems the center rather than war and genocide. And yes, sometimes I do equate my problems to a hill of beans in the wider scheme of things here on Earth, as Rick does below in the film "Casablanca."

This may be a spoiler for some, but Rick recovers from being the embittered lover and neutral "in all matters" to finding his way again, and preparing to take a side and fight for what's right. I always wanted to be Rick in this scene (only) rather than Ilsa. But I digress. The point I was going to make is that to some, perhaps my problems do amount to a hill of beans, but I don't think that's true. Even with our hypersensitivity and our feeling too much, where would the world be without such feelings? I've got to find a way to channel my grief into being part of the resistance though. So far I've felt rather inadequate to the task. It requires stamina. Energy. A lack of fear, although as a longtime immigrant who at this point is American, and has always been more American, fear never quite goes away, for me. Fear can also be positive, a driver for something better.

I haven't felt particularly hopeful these past few weeks. But when hope dies, so does any reason to continue the struggle. "Keep Hope Alive!" wasn't just a political slogan in the 1980s for Jesse Jackson. It was a call to action.

If these past few months have been depressing for more of us as we get hit with destructive policies, domestic and foreign, from all sides, we are not alone. I hope we can continue to keep hope alive, and stay aware, and awake. There will be heavy days, and heavy nights, heavy with giddiness and joy or grief, sadness, and rage. I know the latter to be the case for me. No one is free until all of us are free. Be it here in the US, in Palestine, or in Iran. Even those who think they are free, are trapped in their hate, in their need to feel superior to all those they dehumanize. No one is free until all of us are free.

Goodnight, world.

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