Saturday I went to the women's march in Portland. Sunday night I settled in to read a chapter or two of a book I'd started and finished it at 5 a.m. Got up at 9:30 rested and satisfied.
Those two acts are related.
I got drunk Saturday night -- not on purpose, but because I hadn't eaten much all day and had wine when I got home. It felt like a good celebration for accomplishing something I felt I ought to do with all the mixed feelings it engendered.
There was disquiet: I wanted to share in the emotional excitement that many of my fellow protestors had, an "old home week" sense that "Yay! We're pulling together to fight again!" I do not begrudge people obtaining the positive emotions they need to stay active.
But it felt almost indecent to me, given the stakes.
I didn't see that happiness in any of the faces of the women of color I saw. With some exceptions, they all looked grim, determined and tired. That disparity jarred me. They have so much, much, much more to lose than I do.
I took a vacation from political work (which involved many acts and songs borrowed from the civil rights movement) after the anti-gay activists were defeated in Oregon. Very few women of color felt they had that option; they have been busy protesting police violence and other nearly-as-lethal forms of discrimination without such a break.
So I also felt guilt mixed with a determination not to let other women down: an echo of the sense I didn't do enough during the election, including dealing with the racism among fellow white women; and a reaction to the "where the hell have you all been" and "I hope to hell you all show up again" feeling I got from some other protestors. (I know some white women have been involved all along. I haven't been).
There was exhaustion: I juggling those emotions on very little food in the cold, and more wearingly I spent a full day surrounded by other people. (Had I been carrying a sign, one side should have read "So bad even the introverts are here.")
Finishing Ms. Cherryh's book early Monday morning left my brain with a very settled, satisfied feeling. Everything was in order, the plot points and all its characters were accounted for, and the bad guys had gotten their comeuppance -- all in a way that allowed for future novels. It was *complete.* A good novel is a very satisfying thing. My brain felt like it had had a delightful meal complete with dessert.
Very little is settled or satisfying in my life right now. Political action can bring a certain satisfaction, but it also carries vulnerability with an backwash of futility and despair. I have to manage that, deal with it so I can continue to act.
Writing feels almost exactly the same way. I'm writing better than ever, when I allow myself the focus and the time. But there's also a sense of futility: I'm aging faster than I'm completing anything and who knows if I'll ever publish? (And how can I if I don't finish and submit?)
Political action feels like an endless long-term project in which I can easily make mistakes I can't fix, AND I can never see how much headway I'm making.
Reading and cooking give me a sense of completion that is short-term and stabilizing.
Crafts and hobbies bridge the two: most are longer-term projects that result in a concrete end product I can hold and enjoy, or at least a finish line such as a concert (ready or not). In the choir I sing with, we aim for 80 percent or better as individuals. At that level we can carry each other to a beautiful and moving performance. A too-narrow focus on perfection can actually detract from performance.
In my writing craft, much of my struggle with lack of completion is the sense that what I currently have isn't good enough. If I want a sense of stability and accomplishment around my writing I need to give up the sense that it needs to be perfect before I send it into the world.
And I need to maintain a balance in my life in other areas so I can continue to act politically, consistently and over the long haul.
I need to fix the holes in MY work so I can do THE work.
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