This post is not about clearing out a basement or sifting through a closet. Rather it is about clearing rubbish out of my thinking — about beginning to exercise the Lost Art of Making Sense.
Since November 9, 2016 dawned cementing the news that a racist, a mocker of the disabled, a robber of workmen, an adulterer, a mocker of science, a homophobe, an ignorant bloviator, in short Donald Trump, had been elevated to the presidency by an electorate who was willing to ignore all those qualities and run the country off a cliff…
Many commentators have made it quite clear that I am supposed to immerse myself in guilt for having failed to quell the fears, to heal the pain, to solve the problems of my fellow men (intentionally: “men”) who chose to release their festering pus on election day and loose infectious hatred upon themselves and everyone else.
This doesn’t jive.
I am responsible for feeding, clothing, and sheltering myself and those weaker than I am. I am responsible for turning my other cheek and for not burning down the homes and villages of people who steal from me and lie about me. I am responsible for loving the Lord my God and my neighbor as myself — and for not killing them, for not sleeping with their husbands (or wives), for not stealing from them or lying about them, and finally, even for not wishing I had what they have….
But I am not responsible for understanding, or accepting their choice anymore than I have ever expected them to understand how much I detest their choice, or arrive at mine. Those who expect and demand my magnanimity don’t ever mention that they might try to understand my point of view either.
The decluttering here is to shed the life-long, knee-jerk inclination to bang my head against a brick wall trying to make myself understood and to replace it with a fierce determination — perhaps even stronger than theirs — to walk toward my own dignity — a dignity which in no way lessens their safety or security either. Come with me if you will.
From those who won’t, I detach. With love.