I’ll start with a segment from Ann Patchett’s new novel, “Tom Lake.”
“Turn your head in the other direction —’’ I pointed to the explosion of white petals out the window.
“You can’t pretend this isn’t happening,’’ Maisie said.
I couldn’t, and I don’t. Nor do I pretend that all of us being together doesn’t fill me with joy. I understand that joy is inappropriate these days and still, we feel what we feel.
The mother and her three daughters were watching the nightly news, though Patchett avoids providing further context other than it’s disturbing.
The specifics matter little. Afghanistan. Iraq. Russia invading Ukraine. Israel and Hamas. Mass shootings here in the U.S.
It’s all horrific.
And that it’s profanely unfair to the innocent is a weight on those who feel helpless by way of an adequate response.
Look at the blossoms, the mother urges. Seek beauty.
Which isn’t the same as saying ignore the violence.
But try not to let its horrors lead to despair and dysfunction.
That’s our challenge.
IN A RECENT Washington Post article, readers responded to how the COVID-19 pandemic changed their lives.
Some found “cocooning” restorative.
Jenny Kuderer of Goodview, Minn., wrote that she took comfort in getting to know herself.
“While the anxiety of the pandemic was a constant white noise, I was more intentional about the practice of gratitude, especially for my health,” she wrote. “The pandemic taught me about the stillness inside myself, a fullness and aliveness that knows how to be, even in the glory of watching a sunset alone.”
Others struggled.
“I could have read books, exercised and decluttered my surroundings,” wrote Lynn McIntosh of Columnia, Mo. “I did not. I commiserated, wrote a weekly whining observation and aged. I did not return as a fine wine or a nuanced bourbon — more an old-fashioned with a bitter twist of lemon. Getting out there, more and more, does feel better every time. But it seems to take more effort.”
Holly Weiland of Franklin, Tenn., became a stranger.
