I walked to work this morning for the twelfth straight day in a row as a cold rain enveloped the city – concrete, cherry trees, commuters, marble, daffodils, asphalt, buses, budding maples, bureaucrats, and all.
The rain weighed down my already heavy heart, sagging under the weight of defeat, the knowledge that a year’s worth of wholehearted effort seemed to make not one iota of difference to what was now the law of the land. I could tell you the policy differences between the bills, things that could have happened that were avoided because the Senate legislation became law instead of the House proposal. But those little victories were buried under a mountain of bad policies, and, even worse, the fear and hate and complete breakdown of anything like dialogue in a town I love, the country I love.
I don’t know if I can explain to you how profoundly that saddens me.
But I’m sure you can relate to the accounting of the personal cost that comes after something like this. I hope it doesn’t come across as a martyrdom complex; I don’t mean it to, and I understand some have given up far more than I have for this fight. I do think of the long days that drug into nights and into the morning, the weekends lost. And the people I have missed. Even in the last week. One of my best friends from college has been staying in my apartment for the last seven days, and it feels like I’ve spent a grand total of seven hours with her.
And for what, I wonder?
The daffodils and cherries that looked so hopeful and vibrant for the last few mornings are drooping today, folded over themselves, introverted by the rain. Delicate petals lie marred on the roads and sidewalks. Spring colours are muted to gray, gray, gray.
But I am glad. I’m glad this happened in late March, not January, because even when spring is shrouded, it’s all forgotten the moment the clouds break. The cleared air is filled with light, the colours become otherworldly, the landscape is vivified in a way that almost defies explanation.
And such it is with the seasons of life.
3 comments:
Hey you . . . I've thought of you often while reading countless articles about this whole debacle up there on the Hill. I know it must be disheartening - even moreso for someone like you who is in the thick of things up there. But cheer up - this ain't over yet. November is just around the corner, and 2012 is not far behind. And we the people are pissed.
Thank you for all that you do up there. You probably don't hear that enough, but thank you. Our side lost this one, but we're a resilient nation out here. We'll survive, and because of you and people like you, we'll probably manage to at least roll back some of this monstrosity that has been foisted on us.
You're right, though, that the bigger casualty is even the pretense of actual debate and discussion. That's a tougher nut to crack, but one can hope that if we get some new blood in there, some of that might begin change, bit by bit. We shall see . . .
~Mike
It's times like these that we find comfort that we're not made for this world. Thank. God.
Keep your chin up.
And hey, thanks for all you did... and continue to do...to perpetrate the idea of liberty that we all believe it. :-) It's such a comfort. It really is.
Love you!
Your work is not for naught. The respectful opposition has informed many of us and continues to fan the flames of change. REAL change. I'm disheartened with you. But...I still believe. I'm saying a prayer for you.
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