Bonus dispatch: “around my bed / America was falling”

How we might forgive ourselves

Dear friends,

Steph here- if we haven’t met yet, I’ll introduce myself more fully in the next letter. I’m writing outside of our normal biweekly rhythm because, well, a lot has happened. Yesterday I saw a Tweet that joked, “I doubled-minored in January 6,” and that feels about right, appearing alongside another Tweet (whose source I cannot find) that said something like, “I would really like to not have to live through another major historical event, yet here we are.”

The past few days have been both exhausting and unsurprising. A lot of commentary is pointing out the way that the events at the capitol are revealing our nation’s true nature, something that we knew and were forewarned about four (and more) years ago. Many people say we should not be surprised. 

This time, I feel myself wanting to turn away from the phrase “I’m exhausted.” It feels worn out, no longer sufficient to capture what it actually feels like to be witnessing the particular destruction and upheaval of this moment. It’s not just tiredness, but guilt; I am caught between action and inaction, privilege and fear, taking in the news and taking time away. 

In the early days of the pandemic, everyone was exhausted, urged to take care of themselves. Sometimes, exhaustion feels like a luxury. It feels like a shortcut when what I really mean is “I have worries that cannot be resolved,” which is different because my being tired today does nothing to alleviate the existence of a potential worse tomorrow. I am not in a steady state of “exhausted”; instead, I continually anticipate the ways the exhaustion might stretch on forever.

How, then, do we escape? What would it look like to forgive ourselves? I’ve been thinking a lot about Ilya Kaminsky’s “We Lived Happily During the War.” Here it is, in its entirety. (I also encourage you to listen to his beautiful reading of the poem!)

We Lived Happily During the War

BY ILYA KAMINSKY

And when they bombed other people’s houses, we

protested

but not enough, we opposed them but not

enough. I was

in my bed, around my bed America

was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.

I took a chair outside and watched the sun.

In the sixth month

of a disastrous reign in the house of money

in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,

our great country of money, we (forgive us)

lived happily during the war.

This is how each day feels: “I was / in my bed, around my bed America / was falling.” The guilt of not doing enough pervades rest. But living happily, in this poem, isn’t relegated to abstraction so that guilt dominates. Living happily is real: “I took a chair outside and watched the sun.” Perhaps by being real, it is permissible. But the speaker is not yet forgiven; why else would they ask, “forgive us”?

For this week, if you feel so moved, write a poem (or craft a story, or create something) in which the speaker is forgiven. If that doesn’t feel right, perhaps write something in which the speaker asks for forgiveness. (Bonus points for doing this without using any variation of the word “forgive.”) I also invite you to share how you’re doing in the comments; feeling and processing don’t always need to take the form of poetry.

On-theme, I’ll start by asking you all, dear readers, to forgive me for this somber and definitely-not-on-a-biweekly-cadence letter. Strange times call for strange newsletter rhythms. Hope to hear from you soon.

Much love,

Steph

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