Life in the Forest During the Trump Virus
Updated: Jan 15
CAUTION: WRITTEN ON A DOWN DAY. SORRY.
Counselors tell you to find your happy place.
Imagine yourself sitting in a hot tub in the middle of the forest. It's winter and the air is cold. But you're warm and relaxed, taking in the glory of the snow-flocked conifers. It's as if you're living in a beautiful Christmas card.
Except it's not. It's no doubt better than being isolated in a New York City apartment with a contentious husband or wife, along with four remote-schooling children, three unemployed cousins, two nasty in-laws and a partridge defecating from a pear tree. But the lack of social interaction with anyone other than your mate, whom you truly love, still tortures your mind. And the silence of the forest provides no escape from the cries of the dying and the screams of the angry mob raging inside your head.
Depression comes easily, and sitting alone in a hot tub in the forest in the dark isn't necessarily a good prescription to cure it. There's no gaslighting it. These are deeply troubling times. I count my blessings; but the pain continues, just as certainly as the thought that you don't have cancer won't ease the pain of a broken leg.
"This, too, shall pass." I thought for a moment that I might find some comfort in that. Sorry, not this time. When I looked up who to credit for the thought, it turned out it's a Persian adage. Persian, as in Iran. If we're lucky, Trump won't nuke them as a final act of his hatred for the world he's created for himself and for us.
All that's left is faith. Maybe that's the way God wants it.