The Ostrich and the Owl

“What! You don’t listen to the news in the morning?” my judgy friend exclaimed, looking horrified. This was around the time of the Iraq war and, after decades of waking up to NPR’s Morning Edition, I had decided to turn off the radio after the alarm went off. I had come to believe that we humans had evolved to deal with problems in our immediate family, village, or tribe. But we did not evolve, upon first awakening, or even after several cups of coffee, to cope with the tragedies and disasters happening over the entire planet. So I opted to postpone my daily dose of news until the evening, when I could listen while cooking dinner and drinking a glass of wine.

But those were comparatively tame days, and as the century progressed, I adopted more stringent measures. Even a glass of wine while boiling pasta for dinner was no protection against the noxious effects of listening to my once-beloved All Things Considered, with its endless recitation of ecological and political doom. Since print offers  greater control of what comes into the mind than audible media does, for the next several years I got my news mostly from the online edition of the The New York Times. If an article was too graphic or upsetting, I could always scroll down to the conclusion. But during the months leading up to this year’s election, I could barely stand to read the tsunami of dispiriting information on my screen. Soon I confined myself to simply scanning the headlines.

Then one fine fall morning a few weeks ago, with the sky a deep blue and the trees blazing away as is their habit in Vermont, the kind of weather that normally puts a spring in my step, I found myself feeling strangely debilitated. Had I eaten something bad? Was I coming down with a cold? Why this overpowering urge to go to bed, close my eyes, and lapse into unconsciousness? I could find no reason for my distress, although I did note in passing that I had just finished looking at the NYT headlines.

I forgot all about the incident and got on with my day. But the next morning, the sun still bright and the barometric pressure rising, I scanned the headlines, and promptly developed symptoms again.

Now what?  How is a sane yet sensitive citizen supposed to handle the effects of daily exposure to the news? What to do, how to be in this unprecedented mental climate? (Even as I type the word “climate” visions of floods and fires swim into my consciousness.) Should we turn our back on the news and, as my judgy friend would put it, stick our heads in the sand? Or is it our duty to ourselves and our country, not to mention the human race, to gaze unblinkingly like an owl at every piece of news that comes our way?

At the moment, I am favoring a modified ostrich approach. Note modified—I’m talking nuances here, not absolutes. I favor staying sufficiently informed to allow for proper decisions at the voting booth and at charitable giving time. But I oppose the compulsive, scab-picking addiction to reading/listening/watching the kind of news that makes one want to give up on humanity. Because what good does that do? How does it profit democracy if people of good will but limited influence become paralyzed by depression and disgust?

The line between owl and ostrich can be tricky to discern—but life is full of fine lines. We each have our individual thresholds of tolerance. What throws me into a fit of rage might barely ruffle your feathers. But I know that, when merely reading the headlines makes me feel like I’m coming down with the flu, it’s time for me to back off, and maybe read a fashion article (although those too can be enraging), or articles about the quaint goings on in Nature, such as those nectar-sipping Ethiopian wolves (who unfortunately are—what else—critically endangered.)

Then, having shielded myself from the more soul-destroying bits of news, I try to go out and do something non-heroic but kind, like making sure the water in the birdbath isn’t frozen, abstaining from buying a new pair of boots, or practicing “deep listening” as someone I barely know describes at length her Christmas plans.

It’s the best I can do.