That’s the title of a chapter in The Long Winter, about yet another blizzard that comes to the prairie in April (after the blizzards started in October).
There’s four inches of snow on the ground as I write this and another foot predicted by tomorrow night, and wow do I feel Laura’s despair over seven months of winter:
There were no more lessons. There was nothing in the world but cold and dark and work and coarse brown bread and winds blowing…The winter had lasted so long. It would never end.
It took me 30 years to learn that Dr. King was a radical and I didn’t learn about the Poor People’s Campaign he organized before his assassination until this year. (It involved 3,000 people camping on the Washington Mall for 6 weeks! You’d think someone would have mentioned it!)
Anyway, here’s a quote from the man himself:
And one day we must ask the question, “Why are there forty million poor people in America?” And when you begin to ask that question, you are raising questions about the economic system, about a broader distribution of wealth. When you ask that question, you begin to question the capitalistic economy. And I’m simply saying that more and more, we’ve got to begin to ask questions about the whole society.
Despite all the work I’ve done on myself, despite trying to reframe creative endeavors as a process, not a binary, I realized I still expect myself to be able to do the new job perfectly after less than a month. Because it’s just writing! I should be able to do that, I’ve done it forever, it’s easy…except when it isn’t.
Austin Kleon linked this last week in his newsletter and it blew my mind. It’s from a book by Verlyn Klinkenborg, as blogged by Mandy Brown:
If you think that writing—the act of composition—should flow, and it doesn’t, what are you likely to feel?
Obstructed, defeated, inadequate, blocked, perhaps even stupid.
The idea of writer’s block, in its ordinary sense, exists largely because of the notion that writing should flow.
But if you accept that writing is hard work, and that’s what it feels like when you’re writing,
then everything is as it should be.
Your labor isn’t a sign of defeat.
It’s a sign of engagement.
The difference is all in your mind, but what a difference.
We went up the canyon (as far as we could; the upper half still isn’t open) and did our Afternoon River Hang (TM) for the first time this summer. In my 41st year, I’ve realized that I really like the water? I’ve never been a strong swimmer but I realized that hanging out by a lake or a hot springs or getting into a river is all I’ve wanted to do for the last year.
I am, of course, going to quote The Wind in the Willows:
Never in his life had he seen a river before—this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver—glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
It’s a new week and here are some words for it, from Sister Corita Kent.
It’s hard not to look at the date of this (40 years ago) and be discouraged at how far we still have to go to “share as equals” but… the crocuses have always come up.
It’s going to be hot all week but the weekend was just perfect: blue skies, big clouds, just the right intensity of sun. Bradbury-rereading weather for sure:
Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow. You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first morning of summer.
(The opening of Dandelion Wine, the summer book)
If you’ve never read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s The Long Winter, I think it would make good quarantine reading. They run out of fuel, they nearly run out of food (Almanzo saves them!), they can’t leave the house, there’s nothing to do, and near the end of the book everyone is so broken down they’re ready to give up.
But then! Good old Pa jumps up and shakes his fist at the blizzard howling outside the tar paper shack:
“It can’t beat us!” Pa said.
“Can’t it, Pa?” Laura asked stupidly.
“No,” said Pa. “It’s got to quit sometime and we don’t. It can’t lick us. We won’t give up.”
Then Laura felt a warmth inside her. It was very small but it was strong. It was steady, like a tiny light in the dark, and it burned very low but no winds could make it flicker because it would not give up.
It’s got to quit sometime and we don’t. That’s right, friends.
Hey have you paid attention to the news lately? Nationally, we get to watch one old white guy with a history of inappropriate touching try to beat another old white guy with a history of inappropriate touching. Globally, we might all die/see the collapse of society as we know it! NOT A GOOD TIME for people with anxiety.
So I’m doing what I can: staying off Twitter, reading books, keeping my personal life raft of loved ones and home and hobbies afloat. And I remembered this post from Austin Kleon, where he shared a quote from Leonard Woolf’s autobiography (it ended up inspiring Kleon’s latest book, Keep Going):
The last months of peace…were the most terrible months of my life, for, helplessly and hopelessly, one watched the inevitable approach of war. One of the most horrible things at that time was to listen on the wireless to the speeches of Hitler—the savage and insane ravings of a vindictive underdog who suddenly saw himself to be all-powerful. We were in Rodmell during the late summer of 1939, and I used to listen to those ranting, raving speeches. One afternoon I was planting in the orchard under an apple-tree iris reticulata, those lovely violet flowers…Suddenly I heard Virginia’s voice calling to me from the sitting room window: “Hitler is making a speech.” I shouted back, “I shan’t come. I’m planting iris and they will be flowering long after he is dead.” Last March, twenty-one years after Hitler committed suicide in the bunker, a few of those violet flowers still flowered under the apple-tree in the orchard.
I was reading Death on the Nile and found this passage:
Jam maker, therapist, world’s greatest detective–what can’t Poirot do?
I can’t mention Mole without having to go back and read parts of The Wind in the Willows again–this time, the parts where it’s getting to be winter and they’re settling in to rest:
No animal, according to the rules of animal etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter. All are sleepy—some actually asleep. All are weather-bound, more or less; and all are resting from arduous days and nights, during which every muscle in them has been severely tested, and every energy kept at full stretch.
I would like to adopt this way of life, please.