Riding shotgun

It’s tough to know how to begin. My friend Sarah once said, “It’s not the writing that’s hard. It’s writing anything someone else would want to read.” As a rule, it has always been this way. Very few pieces pour out, steeped to perfection, temperature just right. But presently, I find it even more difficult to put it all down. Beforetime, the boundaries were better defined. I could stuff things into mental corners, relegate harsh realities to a seat in the back, allow light-hearted ideas to ride shotgun. Human suffering seemed more specific, less systemic, and therefore more easily sidelined.

For many - and I count myself culpable - the digital age dilutes response, engagement materializing as it does from behind a screen. Solidarity is expressed in posts and comments, outrage in likes and shares - a Minecraft version of reality. Adversity is everywhere and therefore nowhere at all. Everything is fine. Thoughts and prayers. Sit back there, you, and leave me be. I’ve done my part!

But, compartmentalizing can also be about avoiding paralysis and maintaining the will to keep paddling. Too much time in the whitewater is exhausting. We have to give ourselves permission to seek solace, to hang out in the eddies when we can find them. For me, that means reading fewer news articles, cooking delicious food, putting bare feet to cold, damp earth, believing, even if only for a moment, that we are capable of living in harmony.

I also recognize that having the option to get out of the swirl is indicative of good fortune and privilege. In my case, it is precisely this awareness which has blurred the edges, making me less able to disengage. The more I acknowledge what I have, the more I notice what others are missing. I wonder what right I have to turn my back on such important matters. How do you forsake responsibility when food is disappearing, homes are disappearing, children are disappearing?

A stranger knocked on the door asking for the opportunity to do a bit of yard work or take on an odd job. His clothes were unkempt, his long beard and hair gave the impression of weighing down his entire face. He needed money, and he was willing to work for it. I was in high school at the time, home alone, and my instinctive response was a mix of disregard and distrust. I turned him away, locking myself in afterwards, though he’d shown no sign of aggression. Then, I watched from the large windows of my parents’ well-appointed front entrance as he maneuvered his push mower and bucket of tools out the driveway. Minutes later, shame crept in and whacked me in the head. I found my purse, grabbed a few dollars and took off down the street. By the time I met up with him, breathless and distraught, he was at the top of a nearby hill.

“I’m sorry!” I apologized. “I’m so sorry! Please take this. I should have thought to give it to you sooner.”

“Bless you,” he said. “I hope you have a wonderful day.”

Someone I know keeps cash hidden at home, driven partly by a lack of trust in financial institutions and partly by the desire to have money ready to offer when a neighbor is in crisis. Another has dedicated a lifetime to the work of bringing culturally diverse arts opportunities to her communities, supporting national and global humanitarian needs in the process. Some work in politics, some with at-promise youth, some in visual storytelling. We all know them or know about them. The teachers, the volunteers, the activists, the humble donors who give even though they have trouble making their own ends meet.

A farmer in my area is mostly off grid, riding his bike the 20-some miles from where he lives to tend land he doesn’t own, to raise crops which he sells at a nearby market. He has no internet, no refrigerator, no car, no tractor. His needs are few, his lifestyle profound.

How do you begin? You commit to doing something real. A word. An action. You take one step, then another. Maybe that’s as far as you can go without stopping for a rest. But you look for opportunities to add to the story. And, more than anything, you decide that it matters enough to keep trying.

~Elizabeth