Passing the Peace
A little drop of hope for this season of change.
Fall is my favorite season, after spring. I like them because they’re poetic, melancholic times of transition, flying in our faces with blinding beauty, leaves and flowers and weather that seems to kiss both your cheeks as it rushes past, before giving way to summer and winter. Both the latter are lovely in their own right, but there’s something stark and staid about them, in the air, in the landscapes, both uniform in their abundance and barrenness, respectively.
With change, however, often comes apprehension. Maybe fear, perhaps anxiety, but also hope. We’re teetering on a big change this week—no matter which way the leaves fall—and I do admit that I’m feeling some sort of dread. It’s a sentiment shared by all sides, I think, and it’s been easy to fall into the doom and gloom. I write this as someone who has gone and panic-bought two weeks’ worth of groceries and blanched a bevy of vegetables for the freezer, when normally my fridge barely holds enough for the week. But now that the broccoli is put away, I’ve come to realize that I’ve done all I can. (Besides voting, of course.)
I say this not as a fatalist but as someone who’s hopeful. I’ve always billed myself as a hopeful romantic—not just in the realm of Eros but in life, believing that it still and always has the chance to be magical. I, of course, acknowledge that the stakes are high, and I’m not talking about magic as if it’ll set things right. But what I was hoping to do was pass some peace.
When I was a kid, my parents would take us to church where we’d have to “pass the peace”. As an introvert, this was living hell. I haven’t been to any church in a while, but looking back now, it actually might have something to offer. The idea was that you’d turn to your neighbor and say something along the lines of “May the peace of God be with you.” Substitute God with whatever suits you best—maybe it’s the universe, the stars, or nothing at all—just peace.
May peace be with us in this tumultuous season, knowing we’ve (hopefully) done all we can. Every day I feel so small in the face of global suffering—and even just walking around New York, where it abounds in microcosms—but I don’t want to lose hope that while I may have little power in the grand scheme of things, I absolutely have power in my-day-to-day, because I can choose to love my neighbor. I can choose to volunteer, to remember to put granola bars and dollar bills in my bag for people panhandling on the subway, to bring a sick friend soup, to invite people I disagree with to have a kind and conscientious conversation, to choose patience over impatience, grace instead of anger. I can choose a multitude of actions in my daily life that invite love and peace and kindness and compassion into the lives of others.
I’ll leave you with a letter by E.B. White, who, in Letters of Note, wrote a reply to man who had lost faith in humanity.
As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.
Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.
Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
What I’m Reading
Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
“What Is the Cost of Sustainability?”, Jamie Linsley-Parrish, JSTOR Daily
“The People Who Quit Dating”, Faith Hill, The Atlantic
Dracula, Bram Stoker
“In Praise of Bad Readers”, Andrea Long Chu, Vulture
“How a Newspaper Revolution Led to the ‘Wide Awakes’—and the Civil War”, Jon Grinspan, Atlas Obscura
“When Aldous Huxley Dropped Acid”, Paul Lindholdt, JSTOR Daily
Klara and the Sun, Kazuo Ishiguro
“The Rooneyverse Comes of Age”, Amy Weiss-Meyer, The Atlantic
“The Paradox of the Nobel Prize in Literature”, Alex Taek-Gwang Lee, e-flux Notes
Five Star Stranger, Kat Tang
“Plato’s Cave and the Stubborn Persistence of Ignorance”, Daniel R. DeNicola, The MIT Press Reader
Go Tell It On the Mountain, James Baldwin
“The Messy Thicket of Change”, Anne Helen Petersen, Culture Study
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving
What I’m Writing
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10 All-Black Winter Outfits Perfect for Days When You Can’t Be Bothered
15 Air Dry Hair Products to Skip the Blowout and Banish Frizz
The 9 Best Haircuts For Thin Hair To Look Thicker & Fuller
I Tried the Mila Air Purifier for 4 Weeks—Here’s My Honest Review
I Tried $308 Worth of Naturium Skincare Products and These 8 Are Worth It
The other day l planted an oaktree seedling in our forest by the Rance River here in Dinan, France. It started as just as a seed I found over a year ago. I brought it home and planted it in one of my flower window boxes and now it's looking healthy in its new home. I often walk on the path along the river and look at it..and wonder who might sit in it's shade long after I'm gone.