I read today that Joyce Carol Oates describes sitting down at her writing desk as “low dread.” Hmmm. Just how I see America today: “low dread.” What new horror will our president and his enablers bring upon us? Crying children torn from their parents, closing the door on immigrants because of their country’s majority religion, taking healthcare away from millions who cannot pay out of pocket…I could go on. But I won’t.
Low clouds cover the sky as I write outside on my deck, as if someone unrolled the batting I sew into a quilt and spread it over the world I see. Birds chirp, but is that a happy sound or a frantic cry for help, like the sparrow under attack on my porch last month? I think I smell something burning, go inside and search my house, but no. It must be outside, or in my head. “Low dread.”
I know somewhere the sun is shining. I know it’s above those batting clouds. But how far? I know they will part, even here. But when? What comfort is here for me now, on a day with a lowering sky?
I turn to this poem from my writing teacher, the late Judi K. Beach.
No Matter How Dark
There is always the possibility
of light. The deepest forest spills its
leaf to leaf like rain, falling.
At the far end of the tunnel,
light dilates as you drive closer
and darkness falls behind.
No matter how dark, the light
finds a way in. The night of no moon
is sequined with stars.
Even this blackness, this treading
in ink, this ebony residence, this
vulnerability to the opiate of despair
has light, though your eyes
have not yet adjusted to it, looking
as they do to the well-lighted past.
There is always a time of blindness
moving from bright into black.
Remember the sun
is making its way to you and remember
how far light must travel. Somewhere
the sun is rising and somewhere
it is high in the sky. In your house
this night, this fortnight or year,
the sun will find the loose clapboard,
the east-face of your sorrow.
Your world is
turning toward the light.
p.107, How Far Light Must Travel, 2007, Fithian Press
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