Some days. Some weeks. Some months… are doozies. This past week alone, reeling from more news of violence – against one another, against our home planet, against ourselves – there was the awfulness of the loss of Toni Morrison, and of a dear friend’s angelic grandmother, accompanied by a comparatively minuscule but powerfully anxiety-producing flock of stocks that seemed to only go down. Way down. My lizard brain was steeped in fear, circling upon itself, hyper-vigilant and waiting for further attack.
I went to a concert, happily, but it was a school night and so I was thinking of all the other things that needed to get done once the music was over. I am a fan, yet not a very loyal or knowledgeable one, and we were in a formal concert hall that encouraged polite listening, nothing more. For the first part of the performance I was appreciative, in a sort of analytical, far-off way. Then somehow, finally, it all came rushing in. The bass was thumping through our feet and out the tops of our heads, and the band was focused and immensely talented, and the singer was iconic and brave and generous and he was having SO MUCH FUN that we were infected and at long last we all were on our feet, dancing our butts off.
Dear ones, we have buckets of cold water pouring down on us daily. We are often trying to light the fire of our spirits with a single soggy match. So when we feel a little spark, it’s natural that we’d sometimes think, why bother? The next deluge is coming soon. I can take it.
But we are not here only to endure. The rain is coming whether we want it to or not, whether we are ready or not. So when we feel a spark, our job is to not let it fizzle.
We need to fan the flames.
This week, dear friends, let’s not stay seated. Let’s do more than endure.
Let’s dance our butts off.