On using our talents for love

Thoughts on what happens now

Hello, friends. Welcome to my November newsletter, For the Noticers. I’m so glad you’re here. Read on for some thoughts about what I’m noticing lately…

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This week, the nights in Eastie have been extraordinarily clear.

Walking up the hill after work, I’ve tipped my head back to gaze at the velvety dark sky, studded with more stars than I can usually see in my city neighborhood. I know there are billions of stars out there, but I love spotting even a handful, clear and bright. And the few constellations I can pick out – Orion, Cassiopeia, the Dippers – feel like old friends.

Last week, the U.S. national elections made some other things extraordinarily clear: for starters, the number of people who are willing (or even eager) to support a second Trump administration; how difficult it is for a woman of color to make a run at the country’s highest office; and the enduring chasm—ideological and conversational—between voters on different sides of the aisle.

None of these things, perhaps, are truly news. I find myself just as saddened, but much less shocked, than I was in 2016. But, amid the rage and disappointment, what I also find myself focused on – the question I am asking, of myself and my friends and coworkers – is what happens now?

More specifically: what am I going to do now? What have I learned over the last eight years? How can I care for myself and my community in the coming days? And – as we face the second administration of a man I find both despicable and unfit to serve – who am I going to be now?

Last month, I had a rare dinner with my friend Roxani, a longtime Internet pal whose path occasionally crosses mine in three dimensions. She had been on book tour here in the States; her work, over the years, has shifted from focusing on the effects of violence and trauma in post-conflict spaces to economies of love and care. Her new book explores power dynamics and agency among victims of war, and her research, increasingly these days, focuses on love and care as practices (and their political effects) in the wake of loss.

During dinner, Roxani told me about a discussion during a book event stateside, where another academic expressed bafflement at her work’s direction. He asked, his voice dripping with disbelief (and disdain), “Why would you use your talents for love?”

My immediate response (and hers) was: What else is there?

I remember, days after the 2016 election, sitting in a colleague’s office at Harvard, venting my shock, rage, and bewilderment about what to do next. He looked at me and said simply, “I think we get very small.” For him, that meant tutoring refugee teens at a Cambridge high school, and listening to folks like me who needed an ear. For me, it has meant a variety of things over the years: working the polls on Election Day; making lasagna for people in need; volunteering at the community garden. Checking in on my people, especially the ones terrified of what this political reality might bring. And showing up at ZUMIX, and working hard on behalf of our young people.

We are a smallish organization in an old firehouse in East Boston, and every day, we open our doors to young people craving art and connection and a space to hang out and be themselves. At our staff retreat earlier this fall, our facilitator asked, Where are you finding hope these days? The responses, overwhelmingly, involved our students (and they are amazing), but my answer has expanded to include all people using their talents for love.

Right now, as the days grow short and cold, there are people using their talents for love, all over the place. My friends at Eastie Farm are hosting garden work parties in the greenhouse, and distributing produce to our neighbors in need. My friend Mike is leading a small congregation in Houston, with kindness and humor and thoughtful words. My coworker Steve is teaching local kids about Diwali, which celebrates light, and asking them, What does it look like to be light in the world? How can you be light today?

Roxani is nudging her students to notice, and amplify, love and care for one another and the natural world. My mother is caring for her parents, both of whom are approaching the end of their lives. My colleagues are teaching, listening, repairing instruments, raising money, coming alongside our students as they grow into themselves.

We are doing our best, today and always, to protect and care for one another. We are using our talents – not for hatred or bigotry or personal gain – but for what Krista Tippett calls “love, muscular and resilient.” We are baking pies, giving hugs, donating money, gathering together. We are girding ourselves for whatever comes next, and also trying to stay open to love and hope and possibility. We are wondering, alongside Elizabeth Alexander, “What if the mightiest word is love?” and working toward a world where that can be true.

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New on the blog: thoughts on talismans, a low-key fall list, and exploring a new city, my way.

Reading: Wendell Berry’s poem “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” (my sacred text for this moment). Christina Dodd’s hilarious Shakespearean(ish) YA novel, A Daughter of Fair Verona. Stunning novels for review, including The Eights and Homeseeking. And my friend Dani’s lovely essay on motherhood, icons and prayer.

Listening: my friend Alanna’s recent talk at Mem Church Morning Prayers. The tracks for our annual Lessons & Carols choral service in Eastie (it’s time!). Ukulele and teenage giggles (at ZUMIX) and house sparrows and mockingbirds (on my walks). And my friend Nina’s wise, practical podcast on friendship.

Loving: Lipstick-red fall tulips and ranunculus. Actual red lipstick (did I mention I love MAC Ruby Woo?). Earl Grey, pumpkin chai, and lemon-ginger tea in my favorite mugs. Crunching leaves and bold blue skies. Crisp apples, butternut squash soup, after-dinner walks. And that November sunset light.