For the last many months, taking in news both national and local has been like living in a dystopian novel where Diamond Dogs is playing on a loop in the background: unsettling with weird moments of beauty. While I actually typed a list of those events here, I just erased the whole of it since it ate up the rest of my blog space like a Ms. Pac-Man gone berserk. So at some point between my learning curve of California fire tornados (erps, let me not forget to put the adjective rare in front of that) sparking one of the many many blazes currently torching the state and my discovery that the LA Times runs a daily earthquake tracker because they happen on the regular and that’s information I need, my brain started to smoke and I thought about shutting the whole amygdala cortex down. When I realized that’s not actually a thing (blame the fact we just finished viewing Watchmen for that bit of mental digression), it occurred an easier, less messy way to deal would be to choose how I could participate in the world’s goings-on in a more realistic way.

Not participating is not an option. At this point in time, I realize that if I care even a little about the world I’m living in and the people who are in it with me, then I have to pay attention, do my research to stay informed, and continue to put in the effort/fight for a more compassionate world. This week, while listening to one of my favorite podcasts…wait for it…This Jungian Life (people, I should just move into this podcast I love it so much), the episode had to do with living a provisional life. I’m not going to go into great detail regarding the specifics of what that means—here’s the link if you want to—but there was talk about the phrase “follow your bliss” and how that Joseph Campbell phrase has been neutered into a tra-la-la sensibility. To some it suggests that if a moment is too hard or doesn’t yield your dream in a set amount of time, then move on, because if it’s meant to be it will materialize with ease. But, no, desires are messy affairs that require work to make them happen.

I’ve for sure, absolutely shied from sticking with dreams that seemed like A) they were impractical because fer fux sake, how would I pay the rent; B) that’s a helluva lot of work and no doubt a good amount of rejection, and I’d rather not, thank you; and C) what would people think, me giving up a perfectly good, paying (though not pay that is good, but that’s another topic) job in order to fill my days with the long shot of writing. Those are just my top three run-screaming from dream items. There are plenty of other reasons lurking side stage. What I did choose sustained me creatively for a certain amount of time. Writing about music, being in publishing, these were not small moments of fulfillment, but retreating from the scene because I became unsure of my own talent, that’s where I chose a backroad that contained a solid dose suppression. Corporate jobs and abandonment of words on a page, fingers stuffed in my deep-down-inside ears so I wouldn’t listen to the voice going Hey, you, why’re you ignoring me? Yours, Creativity.

I chose a road back when I started writing my first novel for real, and then sent it out to agents on the regular, and then accepted that it wasn’t getting picked up in the immediate. This realization was followed by the resurgence of the teenager in me that said, “forget it, I didn’t want to do that anyway” and I shut down operations for awhile. Being a grown-ass woman never inoculates one from all those past ages we’ve been. But I did at least allow the adult back in the room when I realized it didn’t matter whether my first collection of characters saw the light of day. I’d loved creating them, and I would love creating more. So I started anew and that’s where I am today, and even more recently (Thursday) was invited to take part in a three-month virtual writing seminar for the novel I’m working on now.

The tricky thing I’ve realized in all of this is that there are always choices in what voices to take to heart. I feel really lucky that the people in my life are as engaged in seeing me for where I am as I am engaged in the steps they take to figure it all out. And I’m getting better at recognizing that when a message comes across the ether from someone who may have their own reason to dig a little hole and plant a seed of doubt in my day-to-day, that I can refuse to fertilize that particular plot.

For real, the choices that are swirling personally, range from sartorial, since, I kid you not, the amount of mask choices I have in my special COVID basket is testimony to where my shopping reflex has gone. And yet, even with all those choices, my dad, Dennis, and I (the Three Maskateers) had a bit of a face-covering fail this week. This served to reinvigorate our commitment to safety, which has a ripple effect out into the world at large. And on that front, 2020 has been and continues to be filled noggin to nethers with life-changing choices.

The election, which it’s not an understatement to say, feels to be the most important election in my and all other humans current lifetime. As I watched the clip of Brayden Harrington during the DNC convention, I cried for a few reasons: Because as a 13-year-old young man who stutters, he bravely told his story on camera to a few million people; because I’ve seen people be cruel to those with disabilities whether during my teaching moments when I saw kids tease a boy who was autistic or seeing our current president belittle a reporter with a congenital joint condition during his campaign—really a view in on his need for attention at the expense of any and all. I live in a place where plenty of Trump flags are waving in the wind and I’m on alert for more Biden/Harris signs to spring up alongside the ones we’re about to put out front. I’m also looking forward to wearing this awesome Kamala Harris t-shirt as soon as it arrives. All to say I’m desperate with hope that enough people will choose empathy over fear so we can move into, while certainly not a perfect new era since there’s no such thing as that, at least one that contains a collection of people at the top who can locate their heart and are smart enough to know how to use it. Maureen Dowd’s column this week nails it—because of course it does.

Choosing the light over the dark, even with shades of gray, is a muscular act of hope. Gloria Steinem, when asked on the Newshour this week, “So, you have some optimism or some hopefulness right now?” she answered, “Yes. Well, I try to be realistic, but hope is a form of planning. So, that should not be taken away from us.” Hope is a form of planning. It’s not passive. It’s not cross your fingers. It’s active. It’s, I have formed this thought that I hope to happen. Now how do I get there?

I really think if we can choose to listen to our better natures and not let the shrieks of fear take over, if we can stay informed, check sources, support what we know is right and good and decent, that there’s hope. All lined up like that, it may seem exhausting or overwhelming, and for sure that can be true. There are so many people right now without (homes, health, insurance, livelihood, just to name a few) who are choosing to speak out, and also those who are without and working to merely keep it together day to day, so for those like me and others who can help with the heavy lifting, then why wouldn’t we choose to do what we can?