These are things I like to write about: Joy found in spreading salted butter onto already buttery brioche. Joy in picking roadside flowers and sticking them, in all their messy glory, into a jar in my uncle’s garage. Joy in finding the perfect t-shirt to pass my summer in. Joy in changing one tiny thing to make the space I call my own feel meaningful and peaceful and like an adequate reflection of myself.
In college I kept the famous line from E.B. White taped to my dorm room wall: “We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry.”
I stand by the sentiment. But I’m sure White would agree that we must also do what’s right, even when it’s not particularly joyful. I don’t like to write about gun violence, or homophobia, or misguided politicians. I have hardly any words for what happened in the wee hours of the morning in Orlando this past weekend. I’m heartbroken and devastated by the loss of life. I’m flabbergasted by the easy access people in my country have to deadly assault rifles.
I woke up this morning and choked back tears when I learned that a brave senator from my home state was still awake and standing on the senate floor and demanding that something be done to hamper access to deadly weapons.
I want to get back to my grapes and my laundry and I want to sleep at night unafraid that a lunatic might destroy more innocent people.
I’ll be back to talk about the laundry tomorrow.