Snowdrift

The snow started Saturday evening and continued all day Sunday. We spent most of the day shoveling—our pathway first, then the sidewalk in front of our house, then a few of our neighbors' sidewalks too. Our houses are close together. There's not much ground to cover. I texted my elderly neighbor and asked if she wanted me to take care of the path and stairs leading to her porch. She said yes, thank you. When I went to do it, I found another neighbor had already cleared it.

As I shoveled, I thought about our differences in this country. The stories we tell. There are people in the surrounding counties who are afraid to come into the city. I have family who are afraid to come here. I wonder if they know there are good neighbors here, too.

In the afternoon a young man with a snowblower came through and cleared the sidewalks for the entire block.

This morning I walked Frisket, both of us bundled against the cold. The sun was finally out. Few cars were on the road, mostly just snow plows. The few people out were walking dogs like me, or shoveling their cars out of a foot of snow. Or carrying sleds to the big hill by the ballpark.

We walked in the street rather than trudging through the sidewalks. I looked down. Frisket had lost a boot. I went back to find it—a small black speck in the snow. A man with his son got there first and tossed it to me so I didn't have to climb over the snowdrift.

We walked to the bridge overlooking the creek. Frisket doesn't like bridges but she always wants me to lift her up so she can see over the wall. She likes the view as much as I do. We looked out over the creek, icy and white. Blue sky above. I stood there a moment thinking about how beautiful the world is. Fierce, and terrible, and beautiful.

On the way home we stopped and watched some dads sledding with their kids.

I spent my lunch break calling my senators and going through my closet. I pulled coats and sweaters for our neighborhood ice watch group. Donations for people who can't go shopping for fear of being abducted by men with masks.

I think about how some people spend an awful lot of money to make us believe that the poorest and most disenfranchised among us are the reason everything is broken right now.

This afternoon I need to work on my shop. Go through photos of the things I made, upload them, write product descriptions. It feels unfair to engage in capitalism when all of this is happening.

I don't know if I'll make art about any of this. I feel a call to, but it also feels like my voice isn't necessary—there are already so many people saying what I'm feeling, better than I can say it.

And then I wonder if that's the wrong way to look at it. Maybe my voice matters anyway. In the way that protests are about showing up. Another body to add to the numbers. I prefer taking concrete action. I like helping people where I can, doing something instead of just posting about it. I don't want to make anyone feel worse. We already feel terrible.

I don't have an answer. Just this: I shoveled snow. I called my senators. I'm donating what I can. I'm working on my business. I'm trying to hold all of it at once.