Another morning, another failure. Again I have neglected to do what I had resolved: to be present through my daily routines. Present while making tea, present while Bisou ate grass and sniffed the ground, present while I brushed her teeth and cleaned the cat litter, present during my twenty eternal minutes on the meditation mat.
Instead, I was deep in my neuronal thickets, thinking. And, as Thich Nhat Hanh used to say, “I think; therefore, I am not here.” So while the tea steeped and Bisou sniffed and my perfect-temperature-and-water-pressure American shower cleansed me of all impurities, I was busy viewing the newsreel that plays non-stop inside my head in this disaster-rich season.
I was watching those deeply wrinkled, toothless Ukrainian grandmothers—probably born the same year as I—scrabbling through the rubble, looking for the bodies of Ukrainian children slaughtered by Russians. I was seeing the small coffins of American children slaughtered by Americans. (King Herod would be in his element these days.) I was thinking about politicians, and baby formula, and that vanguard of the apocalypse: late-summer flowers blooming in May. (Also, what’s happened to the hermit thrushes? They should have arrived in Vermont in April.)
And I was replaying the endless pleas for help, money, and action that hammered at my conscience to do something, right now, before things get any worse. But where to even start?
By the time I had finished with the walking and the tooth brushing and the showering I was in a state of paralysis. Given the enormity of the challenges, sending money to the charities listed as trustworthy by the New York Times, voting for politicians who favor gun control, and keeping the house a couple of degrees warmer in summer and a couple of degrees colder in winter seemed ridiculously inadequate. Of course if we all did these things the situation would improve a lot. But it’s clear that we’re not all going to do these things, and I began to feel that familiar tightening of the chest that heralds an anxiety attack.
In Candide, Voltaire’s ferocious critique of Enlightenment optimism, the hero and his friends travel the world. They witness and endure persecution, shipwrecks, earthquakes, rape, smallpox, starvation, cannibalism, torture, and other horrors. At the end, settled in Turkey after having abandoned the naïve belief that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds, Candide and his pals meet an old farmer sitting contentedly under an orange tree. Candide asks his opinion about the recent political murders and executions in Constantinople, but the farmer answers that he thinks about the city only as a place to sell the produce of the little farm that he works with the help of his children.
“Work,” the old man tells Candide, “eliminates three great evils: boredom, vice, and want.”
“Let us then work without thinking. It’s the only way to make life bearable,” one of the friends declares.
And Candide concludes, “we must cultivate our garden.”
Was Voltaire correct? Is it o.k. to turn our eyes away from the obsessive contemplation of the world’s troubles and simply…grow a garden? Can this be right? Hadn’t I better march in the streets, get rid of my electric appliances, and give all my money to the poor? But if I do that I will become a drain on others, who will then have to buy my groceries and do my laundry, so that is not an option. On the other hand, if I concentrate on cultivating my garden—and my life—making it as rich and fruitful and welcoming as possible, is that the path to wisdom and, more importantly, the path to a better world? Or does it lead to a selfish, constricted, ungenerous existence?
In the end, here is my choice: to fret and despair, and make everyone around me miserable in the process. Or to focus less on the big stuff, turn off the TV and the newsreel in my head, and concentrate on what is right before me, cultivating my garden as best I can, hoping that the peace I gain will make itself felt to others, and be my contribution to the world.
I love this! Remember back in the day when the world news was reported in it’s entirety in 15 minutes at night? We were not expected to solve the world’s problems, just those that we learned about from our local newspaper and from our friends and churches. I cannot garden since I have a black thumb but I can crochet blankets for the babies at our local hospital. Thank you for the reminder.
Keep crocheting, Sandy, and turn off the news. Thanks for reading!
We have an annual charity target – a decent fraction of our income, but not enough to make us dependent on others in the long run. It is enough, and doing that year in, year out is the way we have chosen to share our bounty. The charities we support can count on us when the internet is driving donors crazy, and one well-publicized story can net some lucky person/family millions, while others, just as worthy but less well shoved into our consciousness, still starve.
I do contribute to appeals, and support things like Wikipedia, the Internet Archive, and Snopes, but I can’t afford the emotional bandwidth to decide daily which sad-eyed currently-popular featured project is more deserving than the rest.
It FEELS wrong, but there are thousands of such appeals every day, and even CONSIDERING them would be exhausting. And those are just the ones which attract the people who rarely contribute to anything, so if I hear about it online, it’s already taken care of.
Best to prop up the infrastructure steadily and without drama: there’s always plenty of need.
Wise words, Alicia.
Vast is your garden, Lali, thoughtful and loving your care.
Weeding and watering, weeding and watering….
I know the feeling. The “good Samaritan” guide is the best. The world is indeed going “to Hell in a hand-basket” and so what I do is contribute to what alleviates immediate human suffering–Doctors Without Borders, Amnesty International, for example. This is perhaps what Frost implies with the phrase “a stay against confusion.”
Yes, immediate human suffering. If only there weren’t so much of it….