Our wings are clipped but not broken

As I plan a move to Spain, I know I am privileged to have the option to make another country my home. My heart is split in two: joy for my new chapter and fear for those I leave behind.

During the long night of November 5, when I could no longer watch the returns of the U.S. presidential election, I turned off my bedside lamp and the room fell into darkness. Usually, that’s a welcome invitation to close my eyes and drift off to sleep. That night, the darkness felt ominous. When it was dawn, I reached for my phone, and saw that Donald Trump had won. The darkness in our country had won. And my body felt it. My head pounded in a fog of disbelief and my throat was sore, the ache of the unheard voice. Outside, the sky was gray and a light rain fell. Many Americans were waking up to a country in which they did not feel seen, heard, respected or protected. I knew that my decision to move to Spain—made months before election day—was the right one for me but it also felt like I was fleeing a burning house without trying to save the rest of my family.

I am trying to reconcile the decision to move to Europe with my lifelong political engagement and activism, which are rooted in the values represented by the Democratic party and the candidate I supported for president, Kamala Harris. And I realized it does not have to be an either-or situation. It can be both-and.

I have been an American abroad before. Between 1989 and 2011, I lived in Europe, for eighteen years in Sweden and then four years in Malta. And during those years I was active in the organization American Citizens Abroad. I always voted in U.S. elections. And social media and our digital world makes it easy to stay engaged in the causes in which you believe, no matter where you live.

Still, I struggle. I know leaving the U.S. at this time can be triggering to people who do not have that choice, especially those who are most vulnerable to the worst of the policies Donald Trump has threatened to unleash, such as immigrants and their families facing mass deportation and women suffering dire health consequences with the continued loss of reproductive rights, state by state. I also fear for our fragile planet in a climate-change denying administration intent on reversing environmental progress in favor of the fossil fuel industry and other special interests.

I will always care about my country and I will continue to advocate for the leaders and the change I wish to see, whether I do that work from the U.S. or in my new chosen home of Barcelona.

And yes, I recognize my choice is a privilege. It is a privilege to possess a Swedish passport, because of my former marriage, which entitles me to live anywhere in the European Union. It is a privilege to have the financial means to support myself anywhere in the world because of my livelihood as a freelance writer and editor. It is a privilege to be born white into America’s middle class and not have had to endure prejudice based on the color of my skin.

All of these aspects of my freedom of choice sit heavily with me today because it is not the case for so many others. I don’t know what else to do except continue to care, to act and to use my voice, in every way I can.

And there’s another thing I can do. I can write a letter from my voice of love, asking for guidance. For over a year, I have been indebted to

Elizabeth Gilbert

and

Letters From Love with Elizabeth Gilbert

in which she has taught hundreds of thousands of people to write themselves letters from unconditional love. Of this practice she has done for over 25 years, she writes, “I believe there is a voice of love that is constantly available to all of us—and that it dwells within. I believe that love is our default setting.” It seems more than ever we need to turn to that default setting.

And so last week, two days after the election, on what would have been my mother’s 88th birthday (my role model in activism, as I wrote about last week), I pulled out my love letters journal and for a few minutes jotted down what love had to tell me. This time, the voice was the “we” of Love and my mother. That didn’t surprise me one bit.

Dear Love, What would you have me know today?

Darling one, your ache is our ache. Your pain is our pain. Your bruised and tender heart is being held with reverence in our hands, like the baby bird it is. Stay there for now, safe in your nest, and we will go out into the world and bring sustenance back to the nest. Sustenance in the form of community, connection, resolve and above all, love, and together we will weave together a garland of hope to lay in your nest. We will feed you delicately, one tiny spoonful at a time, until you have the strength to fly again. Don't despair, dear one. The world seems hard to you now. Harsh, cold, cruel, uncaring. People in our country, many people, have elected a leader who is the antithesis of love. You feel betrayed angry, fearful and despondent and we understand, little starling, we hold it all.

You don't know if there's enough goodness in the world—enough sustenance—to feed the best that is within us. Baby bird, you tremble and shake and cry out but we hold you with the greatest tenderness, reminding you that Love is stronger than the brittle bough of hate. Our branches of love hold your nest, little chickadee and we rock you and keep you safe within. We won't let you fly into the flames of hate and despair.

When you are ready to leave the nest and the safety of your refuge, we will be there, lifting you up into the great blue sky and once again you will soar, so you can do your good work in this world. We promise, dear one. Your wings are clipped but not broken.

Love,

Love and Mom

I want to write about all the joys of this upcoming move to Spain:

The joy of joining my daughter Marielle and her partner who have made their home in Barcelona, for Marielle and I to continue the ongoing journey of discovery we both found walking the Camino and shared with all of you.

The joy of living a quick flight from Paris, where my younger daughter Sara and her fiancé live. There’s a wedding to plan! For over a decade, I’ve lived across an ocean from my daughters and I am so grateful to be able to close the distance.

The joy of living close to the Mediterranean Sea—as I did those years in Malta—while being able to take advantage of the diverse cultural offerings of Barcelona.

The joy of a woman in her 60s who feels the giddiness of a new beginning, and all the ways she might bloom and thrive in her new surroundings.

But there is time enough for that. This past week has been sobering in so many ways, for this country and for so many people for whom I care deeply. This past week the darkness has been with me, even in Florida’s defiant sunshine.

And so I do the only thing I know how to do, which has continually saved me in times both joyful and sad—which is to write through and out of the darkness. I find inspiration in the great Nobel prize-winning author Toni Morrison urging us:

“Make up a story... For our sake and yours forget your name in the street; tell us what the world has been to you in the dark places and in the light. Don't tell us what to believe, what to fear. Show us belief's wide skirt and the stitch that unravels fear's caul.”

My mentor and creative writing teacher

Jeannine Ouellette

of

Writing in the Dark with Jeannine Ouellette

summoned Toni Morrison this past week, too, citing these words:

“There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”

Another source of inspiration this past week has been the talented musician Jacob Collier and his song “Little Blue” which I love to watch him sing while conducting this stunning choir performance of fans. The lyrics in part tell us:

Don't be afraid of the dark
In your heart
You're gonna find a way
To carry the weight of the world
On your shoulders
You're gonna find a way home

It’s a song I listen to when I want to feel all the feels and restore my faith in humanity, sorely tested this past week. It is also a song that reminds me that my home will always be within me, no matter where in the world I live.

(For the story behind the song, listen to Jacob’s beautiful interview here, about creating a song that would intentionally speak to people in what ever way they needed to hear it. He says: “The only darkness I am afraid of is the dark in my own heart.”)

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What lights your way in the darkness when times are hard? What practices, rituals and sources of inspiration do you turn to? Let’s lift each other up with all the ways we manage, against all odds, to maintain our faith in each another and in our flawed and beautiful human experiment on this earth.