This was me and Asher, on Wednesday morning, November 9, 2016. Sleepless, sad, sick—he’s sick, I am heartsick.

I am utterly heartbroken, exhausted, invalidated by Donald Trump’s election. I am angry. I won’t pretend otherwise. I wanted Hillary to win. I wanted to see a woman president before I’m old. Now I doubt I ever will.

Asher keeps asking me if he can get me anything, or if he can do anything to cheer me up. I told him I just want him to keeping caring, to keep being the gentle and kind, loving and inclusive boy he is.

Trump didn’t win this election. I think Rush Limbaugh and Newt Gingrich won it for him about 25 years ago. I think the 25-year smear campaign against Hillary did its job. I think too many Americans were swayed by his anti-intellectual rhetoric. And maybe too many are afraid of a woman in power. I’m not ready to play nice and “reach across the aisle” for the sake of a smooth transition. I’ve seen no evidence that Republicans are willing—ever—to do the same.

So none of what I’m saying is earth-shatteringly insightful or even all that helpful to anyone anywhere. Plenty of intelligent writers are talking about why he won and why she lost, or who voted and who didn’t, and how much racism and misogyny played a roll. I’m not here to do that. I’m no political analyst. I’m not a political blogger.

I’m just saying out loud, on my own mic: I think Trump is going to dismantle the inclusive, diverse America that I hold dear. I think Hillary Clinton would have pushed us forward toward a more progressive America, where more and more people could benefit from our social contracts: equal rights, health care, preschool, education, college, safe environmental policy, maybe even equal pay. I’m just standing up and saying I’m terribly, terribly disappointed. And I can’t believe we’ll have to listen to that blowhard speak from the oval office.

And I will miss the Obamas.

And I will fight.

Well, I really don’t like to go this long between posts. All I can say is that our lives have been remarkably full of all kinds of wonderful and challenging pursuits, including lots of work and play. While I enjoy writing here and really need to write here, sometimes I’m just too worn out.

Ah-hem

I will catch up a bit by saying that our Michaelmas festival at our Waldorf school was amazing. This year our son’s sixth-grade class created and manned the dragon—and what a dragon it was! Our new class teacher brought with her a host of new ideas about the Michaelmas dragon, its form, its symbolism, and how we might create it, interact with it, subdue it. I’ve been attending Michaelmas festivals for eight or so years and I’ve never seen a dragon like this one. Our students, teacher, and a team of clever parents engineered it.

For one thing, the dragon didn’t come lumbering onto the field at the appointed time. It spontaneously reared up out of the body of our community, out of ourselves.

Maybe I can show you …

Each sixth grader carried a large Roman-style shield, silver gray on one side, gold on the other. They arrayed themselves around the circle, standing quietly among the other grades and spectators.

The festival carried on as usual, with the twelfth grade performing a play for the people of the land: this time the Arthur sword-in-the-stone legend. The young villagers danced. When the alarm sounded, the valiant fourth graders offered the villagers protection with their newly made shields. The drum boomed. This is normally when a fearsome beast would approach the field.

Instead, our sixth graders, dressed as Michaelic soldiers, began to march and form up into ranks. The terrifying drum continued to beat, but no one knew what to expect—no manxome foe was apparent. Saint George searched and searched the field of battle for his opponent. Where was the threat?

And then a remarkable thing happened. The sixth grade moved again in response to loudly barked commands. They formed up into a Roman battle formation called the testudo, or tortoise formation. The shields covered their bodies, hiding them behind a great silver wall.

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From its hiding place, the dragon’s head emerged and the body joined up to menace George. A technology dragon was formed of chips and wire and lights, all silver and gleaming, and spitting smoke and ferocious noises!

The dragon’s tail was wireframe with tech parts all over it.

It was a dragon representing a threat of our modern day, as we are frequently consumed by and controlled by our own technology. We are fighting, some of us, to maintain our humanity in the face of this changing world. Some are fearful of technology, some embrace it. It is both the miracle of today and a thorny problem. The important thing is to recognize it—how it is changing our communities, our families, ourselves—and confront it, and make sure that it is working for us, and not the other way around. This is how I see it, anyway.

Furthermore, I think it’s fascinating and timely. These sixth-grade children are on the brink of becoming (probably heavy) technology users. Perhaps some already are. Our son has dabbled in a very circumscribed way. As they mature, they will learn to use the Internet for research and for fun, join social networking sites, encountering friends and strangers online. They will enjoy video games and smartphones and YouTube and Skype—all of which are fun and exciting ways to connect in a global community. Navigating this will be new and strange and wonderful for all of us. And we must face it with courage and compassion.

As usual, our strong, noble seniors surrounded the beast, and together with the sweet, hopeful spirits of our second graders, brought this dragon to its knees.

What doesn’t show in my photographs is that our community was suffering mightily on this day, especially this senior class, for we very recently lost a student to suicide. It is a tragedy that none of them will forget, and this circle of brave young men and women was one shining soul short. I think no one ever anticipated that suicide and loss, and tremendous grief, would be a dragon to face on this beautiful day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=k07q8q2Aex0

(Thank you, Hinmans, for the terrific video!)

Afterward, the sixth grade class enjoyed the praise and congratulations of many. Some said it was the most interesting dragon they had seen. Many adults found it to be wonderful and thought-provoking. Our kids were somewhat unsure of this innovative design. Lucas even despaired that it was too weird, and wouldn’t it be better to have a normal dragon?

Here they are, all tuckered out after the hot performance. I really love these kids. And we are all so very proud of them. Many thanks to our class teacher for encouraging all of us to embrace innovation and change. I think she is brilliant for getting this strong-willed class to march to her drum within days of her joining our class.

Here are the morning verse and afternoon verses by Rudolf Steiner that the sixth grade had been saying in preparation for Michaelmas. I especially love the second one:

Oh Michael,
I entrust myself to your protection
I write myself with your guidance
With all my heart’s strength
That this day may be come the
Reflection of
Your destiny-ordering will.
*
I bear my worry into the setting sun:
Lay all my cares into its shining lap.
Purified in Light
Transformed in Love—
They return as helping thoughts,
as forces rejoicing in deeds of
Sacrifice.

So, what do you think? Pretty different, eh? Leave me a comment and let me know.

Also, you can read about our past Michaelmas festivals here:

School Community Michaelmas Festival

Our Beautiful Michaelmas

Michaelmas Time

School Michaelmas Festival

Michaelmas in the Waldorf Kindergarten

I am somehow both pan-religious and nonreligious, both Catholic and pagan. I don’t really know how all of that exists simultaneously in my heart and mind, but somehow it does. For a long time I thought that was an untenable state, and expected that sooner or later I would have to commit to being and believing one thing or another, and not all things and none all at once. But I’ve lived in this state for many years now, and truthfully it shows no sign of coming to some cataclysmic end. Somehow this all-encompassing, tolerant nonbelief system of mine works just fine.

Most of the time.

When terrible things happen, though, there’s no rulebook for me to turn to. All the various religious answers about death and dying, loss, and grief fall flat. The feel-better remarks and there-theres don’t work for me. All I know is that I have to feel my feelings all the way through them, for as long as I need to, until I release them (or until they release me—I’m not sure which it really is). I don’t know if that’s healthy or not healthy. It’s just how I am.

I found this poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. I understand this.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

We all have to navigate life’s injustices and sorrows in our own way. There is no script that fits all actors in this play. We have our rites and rituals, our traditions of marking difficult passages. They are useful and good for many. But they are not perfect. And no funeral or day of mourning or flag at half-mast brings an end to the grief. Grieving continues and passes through many stages. We are not resigned.

A long time ago I worked at a funeral home. I spent my workdays with grieving people and people whose job was to help grieving people. A co-worker, Barbara, who had lost her husband many years before, once said to me something I’ll never forget. “After the funeral, all the people go home. The funeral was closure for them. But the grieving goes on for the loved ones, the spouse, the parent. For them, the grief stays.”

Just as our happy moments, our loves, and our triumphs build together and become part of who we are, so do our sorrows knit themselves into our bones.

So how do we cope and what is normal? All of it. Normal is preparing for Christmas with tears falling down one’s cheeks. Normal is gathering with friends and loved ones, smiling and laughing even with a broken heart. Normal is putting one weary foot in front of the other, making breakfast, enforcing room-cleaning, and cuddling precious children to sleep even while you hear the imaginary wolves scratching at the door. All of this depth of feeling and contradiction can exist simultaneously, too. Life is mucky and confusing. It is never as neat as a greeting card.

We say our prayers—or not. We light our candles and weep and gather together. We look to our heroes, spiritual leaders, and poets. We make sandwiches and feed chickens and watch movies for relief. Our hearts break, and we gradually put them back together—with wise compassion and great waves of Love.

We are changed. And that is normal.

I am struggling to find words to express my horror at the tragic shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. Yesterday was a wash; I mostly sat here and cried, or walked in circles in my home. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t work. I am too permeable.

Last night we went to our school’s Winter Concert, a celebration of light in the darkness. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to celebrate anything or anyone. I didn’t think I could handle watching all of our beautiful children performing their songs and dances—the menorah lighting by third grade, the lower school chorus, sixth grade sword dance, seventh and eight grade choir, high school orchestra, a h.s. percussion ensemble. There in the dark of the packed auditorium, listening to these amazing, shining, hopeful children, I let my tears flow.

Truly, normal is what we need. We must continue, yet continuing feels wrong.

We are not discussing this tragedy with our children, and I am grateful these events are far away. I fear Lucas and Asher will find out soon. If and when they do, we will do the best we can to explain the unexplainable. There are many resources online about how to talk with children about tragedy, but the truth is I don’t want to do it at all.

I am reading poetry and trying to take comfort in wise words—God or light or “look for the helpers.” It’s not working. And any words of comfort I can think of are sawdust in my mouth. It’s too soon for comfort.

For Mirabella. We love you.

Today is a very full day. We are attending Lucas’s third-grade Eurythmy performance of The Firebird this afternoon. We are also attending a Martinmas potluck and lantern walk with Asher’s preschool this evening. Both of these events are happy and exciting. Both are dampened by my grief over Nana’s death yesterday.

Part of me would like for everything to feel normal. A part of me thinks it’s crazy to be normal—working on freelance projects, worrying about deadlines, arranging babysitting, and attending school functions—at a time like this. But, of course, life goes on.

And isn’t that a miracle?

In the midst of a busy and rich life, we pause to grieve. In the midst of a sad time, we snatch moments of elation and joy, pride and comfort to buoy us up. There is a symmetry there, a balance.

Both darkness and light.

I don’t know what to think or feel, but lighting a candle seemed right.