I really wanted to write a quiet post this morning. I wanted to write a post about food, about quotidian domesticity. And yet here I am, again, all caught up in the emotional unrest of the world and unable to settle my words.
More deaths. More anger. More protests. Frankly I am all for anger and protests and even for the toppling of symbols of control, symbols of repression. As much as I abhor violence, I believe anger and revolt is a necessary step toward change. I am all for these things even though I myself am not a direct participant in the current wave of marches and rallies. Admittedly, I have been to a rally here and there in recent years, although not at this particular moment. When I was young I marched; some of my friends were gassed and others were arrested, but I realized early on that this is not where my gifts lie.
I suppose this is the nature of my true strugglee: an internal struggle with the value of my words; the relevance of of the intention and purposes of this blog; of what is said and what is not said. With blogs, as with everything in life, what is revealed is only part of the story. What is discussed on this blog is reflective of my own internal struggles, as to whether writing about gardens and dinner and internal musings are even relevant to the world, even as I increasingly think that as our industriousness has managed to distance us from hands-on involvement in meeting the physical needs of life, of having our hands in the earth, of preparing to nourish ourselves, we have made our lives easier but also more fragile. As we become increasingly disconnected we find it easier to disconnect from each other, harming ourselves and others without intent really, but out of blindness.
And so the question returns. Should I write about the frivolous? And who is to determine what is frivolous? I often refer to this blog as a frivolous thing, not because I believe it is true, but because of my own struggles between the importance of the small, the intimate, the quotidian and some culturally imposed belief that the only good work is work toward the greater good. I am part of a generation of women taught to turn our backs on the domestic. And yet I know that whatever other things I do in the world, it is this that brings focus, calmness, and even strength to carry on. These things inform my ability to do more, to give more, to be more. So then, why do I struggle so?
I haven’t yet read Ibram X. Kendi’s How to be an Antiracist, and I therefore do not know how the author defines anti-racism. But I do know this: I know it is not enough to claim to not be racist, because all of us, every one of us that lives in this society is shaped and touched by racism; I know that every decision we make or fail to make matters; I know that for all we take pride in how the human race has evolved, how can we say we have evolved at all if we cannot address our recurrent inability to treat each other inhumanely? This all means that we all have much to learn, both about others but also about ourselves. It means we need to make active choices to do our part. It also means that each of us has a different part to play, and it does not further anything to judge one part as more important or effective than another. We are notoriously bad at judging the impact and repercussions of our own actions, and judging people by their gifts is not much less superficial and specious than judging people by the color of their skin. Our only strength is our humanity.
I don’t know where are all these mutterings are leading. I will probably write about something contentedly small in the next few days. I may yet struggle. These are not easy times. Thank you for attending to my mutterings.
