Seek Beauty, Find Beauty

If they can’t terrorize us in 24/7 in our minds, they have already lost the war

It’s that point in the year when days are defined by pant length. Chilly mornings and evenings bookend warm, if not downright hot afternoons. And since I’ve been trying to get a long walk in every day—both for my health *and* to find a place where I can poach WiFi (I don’t have internet at home)—what to wear has become an increasingly important question. Shorts or pants? I don’t want to be loping along the sidewalk, my messenger bag slung over my shoulder, uncomfortably overheated in a pair of sweaty bluejeans. I’d rather be on the chilly side, carry along a layer or two in case my downtown jaunt turns lengthier than planned. Which it often does.

I sit at my desk and read while I eat a bowl of slow-soaked oats with fresh blueberries and a dollop of honey, crushed pecans, hazelnuts, and a pinch of cinnamon. I sip a strong cup of aeropress coffee from the Ferrari mug I permanently borrowed from a long ago Airbnb. This simple combination of morning acts kicks off my daily routine. When I stick to it, I crush the day. But if I stray, my ability to focus on most anything is severely compromised.

This morning, the trees outside my window look leaner than usual against the overcast sky. Tall stalks reach from the landscaped earth into throngs of singing birds. The ones I know—cardinals, wrens, an occasional tufted titmouse. Robins, chickadees, nuthatches, and this morning a loquacious dove whose wistful call offers the perfect soundtrack to my mood.

Off to the left—a tall cedar. Its clusters of short needles blush bolts of dark green shadows. To the right, a white oak’s thick trunk stands higher than my view affords, keeping its branches out of sight. And another tree, centered from my vantage point, is a smaller sort, skinny and wide. One whose name I always forget and have to look up—which I do. It’s the the eastern redbud. Its boughs this morning are suddenly adorned with pink blooms. This flash of new life feels promising.

Each day I am calmed by this ever-changing picture. It never gets old. It hushes my scurrying mind and dulls the ceaseless traffic on adjacent Smith Level Road.

My window view on a clear day

A mother and child come into view, walking slowly together, hand in hand. When they are perfectly framed by my window, the sky’s drizzle shifts to a hasty torrent. Rather than turn back, the two hurriedly dispatch their ready umbrellas. The mom’s is large and cherry red, the child’s small and navy. The two become stark dots, and I think of forgotten beachballs shimmering in a fragile breeze.

My attention shifts to the roof where a steady drumming harmonizes with the incessant tone of my ancient, humming fridge. It’s like the white noise machine I’ve been using lately to fall asleep. The clamor increases to a blanketing roar. A reverberating barrage that’s both loud and quiet at the same time. It generates the sort of silence that sends me deeper into my head. It amplifies unknowns.

I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of things these days. There’s nothing but heaviness in the news, all of which is happening too fast to keep up with. As Trump and Musk upheave folks’ lives and disappear identities, I’m struck by waves of impractical futility—I numbly track the winners of my brackets, consider a fresh professional pathway, I plan a month-long foray on the Appalachian Trail, and have, of late, started delving more into learning astrology, reading tarot, and carving miniature spoons. My harbingers of joy feel near-sighted and self-indulgent, but they also offer necessary relief in an era when terrifying and freaked unknowns are unrelenting.

A miniature spoon I made this week

These pervasive unknowns remind me of the early days of the coronavirus pandemic. Back when it wasn’t yet a local problem, and then suddenly it was. When Italian apartment residents played violins for each other across quarantined balconies. When the NBA and March Madness got cancelled. Today’s unknowns bring me back to that night I sat at a Spokane bar, drinking alone, when a close-captioned newsflash proclaimed that Tom and Rita Hanks had tested positive. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that it took a celebrity getting sick for me to finally believe Covid-19 was real.

Today’s unknowns spark memories of when the world as we knew it was coming to an end. When I bought nearly a thousand dollars worth of canned goods, then promptly considered purchasing a handgun to protect me from the looters who would surely come breaking down my doors when their stashes ran out. Back when it was possible I’d never see my family again. Or my friends. When I discovered Zoom. When I started wishing I’d done this or that, seen this place or that place, because it was too late. I’d led a full life already, and now I needed to prepare for a dystopian reality. I had read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and could easily imagine the ugliness that was in store for us all.

Today’s unknowns, however, somehow feel even bleaker. I often catch myself mutely accepting this austere and tumultuous reality as the new normal. For this I am sorry. Because I know better. I don’t want to admit my susceptibility to a fascist regime’s psychological scheme, but I am as malleable as the next schmo. But as a middle class, cis white guy, unless I were to, oh I don’t know, spray paint “FUCK YOU ELON” on a fleet of cyber trucks at a Tesla dealership, for example, and thus draw noteworthy attention to myself, I may otherwise be of the last demographic to personally suffer from Trump’s oppressive policies.

It’s easy to eschew tragedy when it’s still someone else’s, but I don’t want to be this myopic. I want to do what I can to stand up for what’s right. And an integral component of resisting fascism is to not let the culprits trap us in a constant state of terror.

Recently I came across a list of things that authoritarian regimes in history have counted on in order to establish and maintain power. All are worth noting and you can find them on D.L. Mayfield’s Substack, but I will share one here that I’ve been thinking a lot about: If they can’t terrorize you 24/7 in your mind, they have already lost the war. Trump and Musk are counting on our collective and perpetual state of fear. But we have a choice.

We are likely in for a whole lot more bullshit than we, as a nation, have already endured. But I find a sense of solace, of peace, in the possibility of making sure I continue to pay attention to, and share, the little moments of beauty and love and tenderness I encounter. They are everywhere, and always will be. Whether or not I see them depends on how committed I am to to finding light in an abyss.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m not saying this act alone is how we’ll defeat the bastards. Not even close. Because if I am being honest, I think civil violence is a likely outcome of this lunacy. I think the worst days are likely yet to come—days that are the inevitable result of a long-endured and suddenly-sparked powder keg. But in the meantime, relentlessly living—finding and naming the mundane charms of our rapidly rusting world—is definitely part of how we build our capacity to resist. This keeps our bodies and voices and resolve strong. Hopeful.

Seek beauty, find beauty. We get back what we give.

When I, to consciously shun Trump’s plan, choose not to be ceaselessly terrorized by him and his lackeys, and instead commit to identifying the joys of my day-to-day routine, I become an energetic force for good. So, alongside any necessary direct action, I write essays, I make art, I foster authentic human connections, I listen to good music, I stick to my daily yoga practice, I watch movies that make me cry, or laugh, I cook stir fry with seasonal vegetables, I watch my sugar intake. And, perhaps above all else, I do my damndest to stay keenly attuned to my true self. This is my strategy of readiness for whatever happens to come next. It feels right to put my faith here.

Some of the good music I’m listening to

My attention veers back outside, my windows now dripping with sideways rain. Something on the ground demands the child’s attention. He hands his umbrella to his mom, forcing her to let go of his small hand. She then positions the blue cover above him, protecting his little body as he stoops down for a closer look. With a finger he nudges the curiosity, which, I assume, is a worm washed free from loose soil. But it also may be a leaf, or a penny, or something only he can see. It isn’t long before the mom’s mouth clacks and she motions, come on, with her head. The boy’s attention redirects and stands back up to claim his umbrella’s handle.

Together they check their narrow mailbox which is situated low enough for the boy to look in on tiptoes. When he does, he gives his mom a humble shrug. Then, with a stone splitting thunder crack, an ocean falls from the heavens. As the thick shower drenches, the mom frantically locks up the empty receptacle, does a token check for cars, then together they turn and bound, at the child’s pace, leaping sticks and puddles towards their apartment. They laugh hysterically as their faces blur in the waterfall and their wide strides splash through a river of dark runoff. I watch them until they disappear out of sight.