8 November 2024

For several weeks leading up to Election Day, I was trying to find reasons to hope—or at least to calm the malaise made physically manifest in vague nausea, weakness, and occasional arrhythmia.  I found many temporary reprieves, one in the accommodating generosity of the folks who tended to my lawnmower and others who served me a fine lunch in Pembroke NH, and more calm in the beautiful sea grasses fringing the boardwalk at the Great Bay Discovery Center, with the delightful company of young moms and their curious kids.

I also tried diverting myself from election angst by making up new dishes, and spent a full hour “decorticating” the cardamom seeds I had on hand, removing them from their fibrous pods to bake Kardemummabullar, Swedish cardamom buns.

Election Day itself I filled quite deliberately, starting with a morning tai chi class, then helping with the Madbury Public Library’s book sale, and in the later afternoon, directing UNH students toward free rides to the polls, sweetening the call to vote with baked goods.  On Election Night, I sat by my neighbor Anne’s fire bowl, watching the sparks ascend in the dark and voicing Big Thoughts as we were sporadically entertained by her son kazooing tunes from The Nutcracker Suite while accompanying himself with accordion and tambourine.  Bliss.  And hope for the future.

And when the next morning after a broken sleep I dared to turn on the radio and heard the phrase “President-Elect Trump,” the dread became despair acute enough to make me vomit.  A brisk 3.5-mile walk through the Madbury woods along old stage roads and a Bellamy River diminished by low rainfall (global warming?) distracted me with both the good company of other seniors and the 80^o heat, uncommon in early November New England (definitely global warming).  Our hike leader Kathy had apparently made it clear no one was to speak of the Election, and that was a good thing.

Sweat and exhaustion thus took the place of despair for a while on Wednesday, and the reassuring sympathy of my favorite radio hosts on Boston Public Radio helped, too.  I started typing this while awaiting Vice President Harris’s concession speech, and cried at her strength and bravery as she consoled and encouraged her supporters like the compassionate leader she has been and would, alas, have continued to be.

Then I went off to my yoga class another much-needed distraction:  salutary physicality and moving meditation. 

Now what?  There’s consolation from the late-night comedians:  Desi Lydic, Seth Myers, Stephen Colbert, and especially Jimmy Kimmel, himself moved to tears as he spoke of what the country has lost.

What’s the strategy now?  Harris says roll up our sleeves.  Right.  I’m starting to plan some publicity for my book, Will to Live, apparently now soon to be available with its initial formatting cockups corrected.  And today brought a lovely lunch with good friend Stephanie in Pepperrell Cove ME.

Tomorrow I go to see a new play in Boston, Pru Payne. And going forward there’s a reunion with my brother-in-law and nephew in St. Augustine, and, come December, the joy of taking my kazoo-playing young neighbor to his first Nutcracker, with a special tour of the backstage magic by my Boston Ballet friend and prima ballerina emerita Elizabeth Olds.

So. Distractions a-plenty in my certainly privileged life.  I’ll be spending a lot more time out on the deck , keeping an eye on the stars (yes, dear Kamala: they ARE brightest when it’s darkest).  And, on the recommendation of Steven Hill, author and co-founder of FairVote, I’ll see what I can to do advance the National Popular Vote Interstate Compact, designed to ensure that the candidate who receives the most popular votes nationwide is elected president (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Popular_Vote_Interstate_Compact).

The work continues.  We pull up our socks and carry on.  OMG