Going to hell in a handbasket - without me

On crafting my own revolution

As waves of oligarchical subjugation and self-interest continue to crash over the foundations of our democracy, I am increasingly unable to compartmentalize the chaos. It leaks into my quiet places and allows mold to grow on my creative spirit, all while making everything else seem unworthy of my attention.

Why, when the wolf is slobbering on our thresholds, would I call attention to the marcescent leaves of the young oak trees or how the cashier moderates his voice when he greets the weary-looking man behind me in line? I find myself fiddling with pockets full of guilt when I allow my focus to drift away from the real and present danger affecting so many of earth’s inhabitants.

A collection of recent conversations even leaves me wondering if hope, my old standby, has lost its appeal in the face of so much peril. Spare me your idealism, people seem to say. Good vibes and general encouragement are insulting at a time like this.

They’re kind of right. Looking toward the promise of the future can obscure the view of what’s wrong right now. In fact, idealism and the inability to face hard truths may have had a part in creating the mess we’re in.

I may not be able to do what some are doing, but I can avoid letting this miserable time pull me into thinking myself powerless.

For a little while, I sit with the notion of letting fear or fury, disappointment or discouragement lead the charge for me. I’ve no shortage of those emotions, that’s for sure. Maybe concentrating on the harshness of our current reality will inspire me to see differently, act differently, write differently. So many people who make their voices heard do it with more firepower than I. Maybe it’s time I learn to put a sharper edge on my rhetorical tools.

The problem is, with rare exception, that’s not who I am. I admire folks who let fly the civic rallying cries. I respect that democracy is not a spectator sport, that government is a lever for so much of what we want to see happen in our world. But it’s not the only one.

Hope is a lever. Joy is a lever. Compassion, curiosity, and connection are all mechanisms that can inspire their own kinds of revolution. Trying to conform to someone else’s idea of what matters most is an experiment doomed to fail. Activism takes many shapes but is rooted in the heart. I may not be able to do what some are doing, but I can avoid letting this miserable time pull me into thinking myself powerless. I still have agency. I may mobilize small conversations more than I protest in the streets, and that’s okay.

I recently spent time taking in a 2024 podcast series called We Are the Great Turning, with 95-year-old Joanna Macy and 35-year-old Jess Serrante, both devoted climate activists. The bond between the two women is compelling, and the sincerity with which they discuss their lives and world events kept me engaged. Along with their exploration of how continued declines and positive shifts can and do coexist, I was especially attracted to their discussion of “active hope” which they describe as a way of building the future we want to see.

It’s not a denial of danger, it is a reminder to celebrate being alive today!

They talk of courage and commitment. There are admissions of desperation. It all feels so truthful and transparent. Jess says, “We cannot give despair the power of prophecy.” I hit replay and grab my notebook and pen. This is the essence of my resolve. No matter how bad the situation, I can’t predict what I don’t know. It’s not a denial of danger, it is a reminder to celebrate being alive today!

There are forces at work insisting that everything, everywhere is going to hell in a handbasket. Well, you know what? I’m not going!

I’m going to look for ways to listen harder and understand more completely.
I’m going to resist the urge to be vengeful.
I’m going to tend to people who are vulnerable.
I’m going to seek connection.
I’m going to see beauty in what’s closest to me.
I’m going to be ridiculous about the birds in my backyard.
I’m going to stare at the stars.
I’m going to write about stars, and birds, and beauty, even when other things feel more important.
I’m going to write about them because other things feel more important.
I am going to try my best to love, even when it’s hard to like.
I am going to pay attention.
I am going to pray.
I am going to practice defiance by maintaining my faith in humanity and miracles.
I am going to work, through my fear and despite my despair, to build the future I don’t want to lose.

~Elizabeth

By lwolfartist on Wikimedia Commons — This is not my photo, but it was taken in a wildlife refuge that is only about an hour from my home. As it happens, there is also a pair of bald eagles who nest just off the nature trail behind our house year after year. I can see them flying overhead daily, and it always brings me joy.

Okay, your turn. I’m always excited to meet you in the comments, though I have a hunch the mere mention sends some of you in the opposite direction. Please consider winging some digital 💚 before you go. Or share the post with friends. Or restack it. It’s not about popularity. Writers like me rely on your engagement to build interest from a wider community.

And speaking of resolve, this week, I also want to link you to a post I find especially inspiring. Rona Maynard, author of Starter Dog, has a gift for storytelling and for finding the soul of what moves us. I’m sure you’ll agree.

The Green, Green Grass of Gettysburg

If my writing and what we are building together here brings you value, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber. Or “buy me a coffee.” Both are optional, because I want to create avenues for connection that aren’t tied to our wallets. But for those who have the means, it would mean the world to me.