Anticipation

I remember the feeling vividly. In the final weeks of each of my pregnancies, I experienced a particular energy that seemed to unfurl from the core of my being. As I physically prepared to birth a new life, my spirit, or soul, or whatever accumulation of energy, awareness, and mystery threads through each of us, awoke in anticipation. I was about to pass through a threshold, and I knew it. 

I also knew that nothing, no amount of meditation or diapers or long walks, could truly prepare me. I was not “only” about to birth a new life. I was about to be transformed: by the labor, by becoming a mother, by all of it. I could only imagine what any single moment within the whole process might feel like, and all that was truly within my grasp, in terms of preparation, was to ground myself as much as possible within each moment as it occurred.

I remember how uniquely challenging it was to hold such churning energy. I was nervous, yes, but mostly eager to encounter the threshold, for the unknown to be revealed. I remember walking in the May woods, as new leaves burst forth and the sun pierced the sky with fresh energy, as late spring breezes tossed the ocean and animals all around me cast hope into the world with new offspring. When I was moving, it was easier to be with the rising tide of anticipation. 

This fall, I am on the move again. I am walking, striding, urged out of my seat and into the woods once more. The leaves are falling this time, branches now lifting newly bare fingers almost as if to graph the fading light. A few shocking bursts of color remain: the huckleberries, the larch. 

Anticipation churns within me yet again. I know I am moving ever closer to another threshold. This time, it is not the birth of a new life. It is an election, and the unknown of the days and weeks that will follow. This time, I am not eager to meet the change. If I could pause time to savor this likely relative peace, I would. If I could grant us more time to perhaps dig deep and navigate a return to kindness, I’d give almost anything. 

This election holds the potential to transform this country in ways both profound and ugly. Although, of course, being here means that the roots of that transformation have already spread. When I stop moving and sit, I can taste my own fear and it discomforts me. I know this is not just a moment I must navigate; this is a long haul. 

As I move through the woods and watch fellow animals prepare for winter, I recognize vigilance. I reflect: how quickly we humans become complacent or dissociate ourselves from discomfort. We do not believe that our country could become an autocracy. We do not believe that climate change could render this planet inhospitable to human beings. We do not wish to believe these things, to hold the discomfort that floods our bodies with such thoughts. We turn away.

I understand. Vigilance is exhausting. But what about responsibility? This, too, can be exhausting, but that seems to depend on how we hold responsibility. Is it a battle, or is it a creative endeavor, an expression of our love? The fact is there: we cannot be assured civil liberties if we do not work to protect them, for ourselves and for others. We cannot be assured of a livable planet if we do not work to preserve it, for ourselves and for others. 

What if we dug our hands into responsibility collectively, with curiosity, compassion, and an awareness of how strong we can be together? What if we stopped seeing each other as a threat, and instead recognized the real threat: a few who have been corrupted by power and hold no respect for the many. They seek to divide us, to use that division to increase their control.

What if we understood that we can’t wait for perfection to be delivered, that we must work to retain our agency to shape the future, to keep it from the grasp of those who fear what that future will look like if it is not shaped only by their power, by their greed?

Because I know this to be true: there are far more people working every day to honor the core aspects of life that I firmly believe nearly all of us hold dear, if asked in the right way: a liveable planet; the right to have quality, safe healthcare and make really important decisions about our bodies without government intervention; the right to walk around in society and not fear for our lives, whether from gun violence or severe illness; the right to love who we love. Every day, I see people doing honorable, important work. 

How this work looks and the ease with which it can be undertaken hangs in the balance of the coming days, and within our collective response to the threshold we will cross together. Once again, I am struck by the simplicity of what I can do and the enormity that is beyond my control. I can vote. I can encourage others to vote. I can donate. And I can turn towards each moment as it comes, giving it my presence, attuning to all the places where joy remains, remembering again and again how fiercely I love this world and the utter honor of being alive right now, called forward to acknowledge my responsibility in this particular moment.