What It Costs Us

Creativity and empathy, from the depths of despair

A lot of you have been asking me to talk about pro-active steps we can all take in the midst of the unfolding Constitutional Crisis to help safeguard our democracy, protect those we care about, and ensure we have a future worth living. I promise I have been working on this. I published the first post in what is intended to be a running series (“How to Fight Monsters”) a couple of weeks ago and then I got felled, so to speak. There will be much more to come.

But tonight, I want to take a step back for a second and explain something—or try to work something through, anyway. As you are aware, and to the chagrin of some of you, I sometimes post emergency art either before or after my main article. Occasionally, on Sundays, I indulge myself and write at greater length about a poem or a painting or other work of art that moves and challenges me, though I usually try to make the discussion relevant to our present circumstances if possible.

As for the work itself, the real work, if you will, I am honored to be able to do it. I know that I am fortunate beyond words to be in the unique position of engaging in this fight the way I do.

I’m happy to be in the fight. It actually suits me to some degree, which is not something I would ever have imagined in my old life. Most of the time, I’m energized when I step into the fray, when I land a punch, when my words break through.

But it takes a toll, too.

This is never in a million years what I thought I would be doing with my life. This is not a complaint, it’s a statement of fact, and very little of this in my wheelhouse. I think we do ourselves a disservice if we fail to allow ourselves to acknowledge what all of this has cost us and continues to cost us; what we often have to—or choose to—forego in order to stay engaged.

It is the only grace, at times—when I worry that I’m not doing enough—that I’m able to extend myself.

Those of you who read The Good in Us and many other Substacks are among the most informed people on the planet. What I try to offer you is my perspective. My goal, always, is to make sense of what I can through my particular lens in the hopes of bringing clarity and, as often as I can, comfort and solidarity.

I know unequivocally that this is what I’m supposed to be doing right here, right now. I have never for one second had any hesitation about that. It has never once occurred to me to back down, just as working with The New York Times back in 2017 and 2018 felt like an unquestioned obligation, and writing my first book felt necessary.

I regret none of it. But the fight we’re in is a stressful one.

I am lately increasingly mindful that all of this could have been avoided if white male Republicans in the North had done everything in their power to ensure Reconstruction never ended back in 1877. I try not to engage in such self-defeating hypotheticals, but imagine what this country might have been if instead of a hundred years of Jim Crow, all Black Americans had been able, without fear to participate in the franchise as fully equal citizens? But that way lies madness, I suppose, and here we are.

There are many of things I’m working on—figuring out the most effective ways to protest, to start a movement, to light a fire under the Democratic Party; how to find ways for all of us to have an impact at every level of government while continuing to build community.

But tonight, if you’ll indulge me again, I have a suggestion that has nothing to do with politics or policy. It’s something that will help us not only withstand but find joy. And it’s this—

We need to remember what we’re capable of. Every day, especially now, let your mind be blown by something you do or read or listen to or create. Be blown away by a meal, a hug, a concerto, a poem, a painting, a random encounter, a moment. That is one way we get through this—to remain open to everything that is wondrous in the world and everything we are capable of to make it more beautiful, more meaningful, and more fascinating.

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Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” came out when I was six. It probably went right over my head, but what I was aware of is that it was inescapable. By the time I was seven, I was heartily sick of it and avoided listening to it like the plague for the next few decades. It wasn’t until I learned it on the guitar that I began to appreciate the song (it’s really fun to play), but I still no interest in listening to it.

And then this happened:

That’s Heart leading a group of awesomely talented musicians and singers giving Led Zeppelin their due at the Kennedy Center Honors in 2012. Every single person involved in this performance—from lead singer Ann Wilson, to the drummer, Jason Bonham (son of band member John Bonham who died at the age of 32 in 1980), the guitar soloists, and that bowler-hatted chorus—is utterly in sync and lifted up by the extraordinary art they are creating and re-creating.

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Anne-Sophie Mutter was an upcoming violin virtuoso in the early to mid-1980s and I was really taken with her playing, which is incredibly dynamic.

I didn’t pick this video of her playing Pablo de Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen (Op. 20) because I think it’s a particularly great piece of music. I picked it because when I think that this women (who was 19 years old at this performance with the Berlin Philharmonic conducted by Seiji Ozawa), played that way on that fragile piece of wood crafted by a luthier named Antonio Stradivari three hundred years ago in a small town named Cremona, Italy, I can only stand in awe.

I am fully on the mend and will be back at it tomorrow. Stay safe and be kind.