The Fourth Flag of Resistance, August 8, 2019 - January 27, 2020

I keep thinking things can’t get any worse.

And then they do.

First there was Ukraine, and impeachment. Does anyone even remember the impeachment?

And then came the coronavirus. Covid-19.

Everything changed. My adult sons fled Boston for safer sheltering with family in rural Michigan, and with us in rural Vermont. They, and my husband, are fortunate to have jobs that can be done, more or less, remotely. My house buzzes with Zoom calls and meetings in every room. While they work, I struggle to make art. In the face of the crisis, I have serious creative block and little ability to focus. I try to be patient with myself and lean into my creative void, knowing sooner or later the ideas will come again, but it is very frustrating.

But we are safe, and healthy, at least so far. I count my many, many blessings, and treasure this unexpected, extended time with my children, something I thought I’d never have again.

Meanwhile, around the country, around the world, people are falling ill and dying in staggering, countless, unfathomable numbers. I weep helpless tears of fear and rage at the virus, the deaths and suffering, my shockingly unprepared and unsympathetic President, how everything I once took for granted has been shaken.

And then, just when I think it can’t possibly get any worse, it does. Yet another needless, senseless murder of a black man by police, and my entire country shakes with rage and fear and despair. We are careening toward Hell in a driverless race car.