My feet ache from running around with our new pup Felix. I am wearing a dress with no pockets so my phone lies on some table somewhere. I glance at the notifications on the screen. A democratic lawmaker in Minneapolis is shot and killed. My heart feels heavy. It has been feeling heavy for a few days now. Tears prick the back of my eyelids, the pain exquisite in its invisibility.
People share protest signs in a WhatsApp group I am part of. I press the heart on each. I am disconnected from what is happening around me. I hear things. I hear of things. I let it all wash over me, water gliding over a lotus leaf, leaving no trace it was even there. In another lifetime, I probably would have been sharing pictures of signs I planned to carry. I decline invitations to meetups that plan ahead for the next election season. I will be part of it, just not yet.
Palestine. Gaza. Israel. Iran.
Air crash. Buildings on fire.
Military motorcade. Lawmaker assassination. Protest marches.
I feel deeply. I feel nothing at all.
I am tempted to write what I feel, I demur. I let it go. I did what I could when it felt like it mattered. This time around, I am waiting on people shielded by privilege to be at the front lines. I feel exhausted. This exhaustion feels bone deep, soul deep.
I let the tears fall. I send a prayer for the lives lost in a senseless war. I see a tweet about fairy tales that resonate with me.
Perhaps all is not lost. Yet.
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