We all look for hope and although we may define hope in different ways, we know
it’s there.
Many of us watched at least some of the four days of the Democratic Convention this
week, and while we may not agree on the best speakers, the politics of the Democratic
party, the wayIsrael and Gaza was discussed, even whether the Dixie Chicks can still
sing, most of us felt that the way this country was depicted (So many women!!! So
much diversity!!!! So much energy and optimism that life could be better!!!!)
represented a country we want, a country we know.
We were in a hotel in Rockport, Massachusetts for those four days. Rockport is not a
liberal town. Wealthy artists, wealthy New Englanders, holding on to what they
believe they earned, and they deserve. Gloucester, the old fishing village next door, is
a different sort of place.
More working class, definite Democrats. We asked many people what they thought –
waiters, shop owners, other hotel guests. We heard only enthusiasm, and relief.
What will happen in the next few months is still up in the air.
Polling numbers are close. That’s hard to understand.
Hope is an important part of human nature.
When you travel, especially in poor countries, in small villages far away from big cities,
hope often takes the form of eating together. The first time, so many years ago, that I
wandered, I went to Egypt. Innocent, naïve, knowing so little about life, about the
world, about danger or what could happen to a young American on her own, I was
very moved by the many people I met who offered me a very good meal. They invited
me into their homes, over and over again. Because I was on my own and hungry.
Because they had a home and food. A very basic life lesson that Obama talked about
in his speech – his white grandmother’s life took place at the kitchen table in a small
town called Peru, Kansas.
She made meals and opened the door.
I’ve had this experience pretty much everywhere, and have tried hard to live
this way myself.
We are different. And we are the same.
We’re lucky enough to have a house in upstate New York. Ironically, it’s a much less
homogenous place than our Upper West Side building. And even though there’s been
an influx of Brooklynites discovering the Hudson River Valley since the pandemic,
still our neighbors on County Route 20 represent a broader portrait: firemen,
nurses, ceramicists, house cleaners, teachers. We try, in small ways, to invite one
another to dinner, to listen, and to understand. Maybe now is a chance for us all.
PS I’ve been listening to more and more music. Sometimes, beautiful prayers.
Sometimes a Dan Zanes song I love. (Judith sent it and I keep reposting.)
Here are two for you:
https://www.facebook.com/smithsonianfolkwaysrecordings/videos/445667589996778/
Doom scrolling has been replaced by hope scroiling.