It’s not like my appetite returned or that I could generally sleep past 5:55 a.m. It’s not like I gave up following the news or started praying. It’s not like the tears dried up. There was no dramatic, energetic shift. But something changed while I was in Santa Fe.

The paradigm of acute grief, where one toggles between distraction (or I should say “attempted distraction”) and anguished remembrance collapsed in on itself.

Instead, I felt a fullness, a fullness that I can only attribute to the sky, the landscape, and the incredible company I was keeping. Danny was present, mind. I talked about him and so did others. So it wasn’t about forgetting. No, it was how opening to the big, big sky, to the spirits of this place, to the generosity of others, to discovering commonalities about how we find meaning was nourishing. A balm.

A voice I’ve heard and heeded before is whispering to me. Wake up. Wake up. 

I’ll be digesting this for a while.

In other news, during our weekly Seven Sisters call we talked about where to find actions to take locally if the Republicans indulge in post-election anti-democratic tomfoolery. Good to know. “We are not potted plants,” as Robert Hubbell so often reminds us. 

Meanwhile, my older son was in São Paulo the day that Lula was re-elected and got to experience the jubilation firsthand. Wild, joyful, exuberation. He sent us videos. Talk about balms for the spirit!

My ironing board is back up. The iron ticks with heat. Finn and I walked Ken to the T. There will be tuna noodle casserole for dinner (because I refuse to go to the grocery store today). 

In other words, it is good to be alive.