At Kings Theatre, she said, “We have to begin on a very sober note.” Sitting in the room with 3,000 others, that was how I heard that Iran had sent missiles to American bases in Iraq. It was so refreshingly analog – service was jammed from a packed house, and throngs of people lined up down the streets who never got in, and we heard real world news from the mouth of a leader. I was glad my face wasn’t plastered to my phone, scrolling through internet outrage, and the anxiety and fear was held for a moment, allowed to breathe.
Even from when I entered earlier that afternoon, I felt something tangibly positive. The multitudinous wavelengths vibrating through the air were much higher – hearts and brains of voters and volunteers come to support our female candidate. During the event, I stood by security check-in, counting people as they entered the beautifully renovated theatre. I smiled especially with each toddling child, or baby in a stroller – and counted them.
At this point, January 2020, I have given equal amounts to both Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders. I’ve been feeling helpless, and with a surprising, scraping amount of disposable income, it’s been helping me cope with the escalating hijinks of Trump on the eve of his Impeachment Trials. I do support both candidates.
As I was sitting there in the balcony listening to Warren’s stump speech, I noticed a negative, defeated feedback loop happening in my head. Interspersed with cheers of “YES!” were “How’s that going to happen? Who’s going to agree to that-all the MEN?”
I fear for Warren, too, and for women, that sexism will prevail. I feel guilt about not doing more for Hillary. I’m afraid Biden won’t drop out. I’m afraid Bernie won’t get the nomination. I’m afraid. I’m doubtful.
Why have I accepted this as true? Where did this feeling coming from – like nothing will change – as if I have no effect? Why does my mechanism for hope feel so shaken by fear?
Lest we forget Barack Obama, who said,
“Hope is that thing inside us that insists, despite all evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us if we have the courage to reach for it, and to work for it, and to fight for it.”
It is a big fight. And I am afraid. But admitting I am afraid feels good and takes the edge off Trump Depression. Fear is released into something more positive, less stultifying, and directed toward changing us, on a molecular level, into creating the country we wish to see.
Volunteer if you can. Meet the organizers, see the teams in action. Rip the bandaid – it’s such a high.