The morning after. . . .

Before the election, I made myself a promise.  After this is over, no more obsessive news-checking.  No more stealing 'breaks' from my work to pour over the latest on my phone, no more half-mumbled replies to my children because I am checking Nate Silver's latest stats.  No more binge-watching satirical late-night shows.

This morning, brewing tea and breaking eggs into the pan, I told Martin, "No matter who won last night, I am going to keep my promise to myself.  I have spent quite enough time listening to that man and his vulgar mouth.  I'm done.  It's not healthy.  I have so much to do: my writing, my work, the kids.  I am going to continue building my own community the best I can.  I have good books to read.  I have laundry to do!"

"I hear you and I support you," Martin answered.  "But I also think of so many people who don't have the luxury to do the same--all the vulnerable who will be directly impacted by this."

Ay, there's the rub.  The nightmare.

Still, this morning, I have refused to cue up the news on my phone.  I have not turned on the radio once except after I dropped off Elspeth at the bus stop, and then I was just in time to hear what I most wanted to hear--a bit of Hillary's concession speech.  I drove home in tears through a morning that looked the same, where, as Obama promised, the sun still came up, but which felt at its core, irrefutably altered:

I know how disappointed you feel, because I feel it too. And so do tens of millions of Americans who invested their hopes and dreams in this effort. This is painful, and it will be for a long time. But I want you to remember this.

Our campaign was never about one person, or even one election. It was about the country we love and building an America that is hopeful, inclusive, and big-hearted. We have seen that our nation is more deeply divided than we thought.

Last night we slept badly, waking at intervals, at once soothed by the sound of rain and troubled by the reality that yesterday, over half of our country voted for a man who is divisive, hate-spewing, and xenophobic.  A man who builds walls between us, who inspires fear in children who look up at their immigrant parents and ask, "Does this mean you will have to leave?"  A man celebrated by the Ku Klux Klan.  A man who speaks of women and minorities as if they are trash, who has promised more power to the powerful, who has mocked the weakest among us.  A man who speaks of slaughtering the families of our enemies and torching religious freedom.  Why, why, why?  America, is this who we are?

Last night I stepped close to the abyss and looked into it, and it was not a joke.  It was a dark, frightening, horrible place.  So I stepped back, and I refused to dwell on the darkness.

This morning, I acknowledge the darkness, and I grieve over it.  As a white, middle-class American, I feel implicated, though I always opposed it and will continue to oppose it.  I feel only the edge of despair that many in our country must feel this morning, those who feel the full force of hatred, fear, and disenfranchisement.  A lot of people "held their noses" yesterday when they voted, but when they held their noses, they also turned their face from whole groups of people, from the diversity and unity that makes America great, from the hard work and sacrifices of so many brave people.  I feel deeply grieved.  Deeply troubled.

Hillary ended her speech with the words that we all know so well: But let us not grow weary of doing good.

This morning, I keep my promise to myself, to refocus my mind from this wearying political battle to the many goodnesses I can do, at home, in my work, and in my community.  I am weary--aren't we all?--and this is our chance to retool, to remind ourselves that we all contribute to the fabric of our country.  We voted, and as I told my daughters last night, this is the danger and the goodness of living in a democracy.

And this morning I found this text from my beloved mother-in-law, who has very different political views from mine:  Sweet ones, I know you must be very disheartened and sad this morning.  Just want to say I'm sorry.  I love you.

That brought me to tears, and embodied the healing that I so hope for in our country.

Here's goodness, and this is what I tell myself this morning: go out and do your job, and love your neighbor, and build unity in a hundred small but important ways.  Be courageous.  Tune your ear to words of love, not hatred, and concentrate on those good things with all your strength.