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Words matter. Language can connect and it can repel. It can, and does, change lives. This is why I continue writing when there is so much pain and hopelessness around me: the possibility of alchemy. Of recognition, of paradigm shifts.

 

Of joy.

 

But writing that connects is no walk in the park. Some desires, thoughts, and yearnings are stubborn and resistant to the form we try to wrangle them into. It’s one of these wrestling matches I’m losing as I try to craft this blog for Thanksgiving.

 

For many months, I’ve been at my computer, trying to construct some kind of literary path through the polarization and alienation in the U.S. The viciousness and antagonism have eaten away at my core. I wanted to communicate to people who are not my usual readers, people, for example, who are Republicans, or who voted for the current president. I wanted to reach out. Please, I wanted to say, can we just stop and shift gears?

 

What I know, quite possibly the only thing I know, is that the old words, expressions, ways of dividing, classifying, categorizing, and analyzing are also polarizing. I resist this reality because I want to believe my story is the morally correct one. But I’ve done enough studying, praying, and meditating to know that digging into positions can turn morality into poison.

 

Where to go? Last night I heard a radio program about joy (https://www.npr.org/programs/ted-radio-hour/). Puppies. Confetti. November snowflakes. Fireworks. Hot air balloons. Rainbows. Ice cream cones (especially with sprinkles). These, according Ingrid Fetell Lee, are universal joys (http://www.aestheticsofjoy.com/). Science has shown that, for example, round shapes create joy consistently to people across the globe, versus angular shapes, which provoke anxiety, fear, or hatred.

 

Why is this important? Because this is the kind of knowledge we can use when making concrete choices about our lives and our relationships. About our society. About our relationship with the world around us.

 

So, Thanksgiving. Instead of doing what my fingers are dying to do, which is to type out yet another way of telling the story I believe is correct, I’m going to try something different. I’m going to ask a question:

 

What kind of world do you want to create?

 

Because like it or not, this is what we’re doing, together, as a species.

 

We think we are far apart and maybe we are. But hearing about the universality of joy was amazing news. It made me believe, if for just the hour I sat in my car and listened, that people across the globe can “agree” on something.

 

What would it take to design a world of joy?

 

This is a period of transition, of peril, of loss and potentially huge gain. What if we, with great intention, set about to co-create a culture, a world, of joyful moments? Lee says when we design a school to elicit joy for the students, versus the standard institutional drab buildings we usually give them, that the students perform better. Miss fewer school days. Behave better. Smile more.

 

How about making today about joy? It’s so important to face the past, to acknowledge the many stories that brought us to this moment, to know that pain is part of the picture. To understand that we’ve caused each other pain, loss, suffering. But maybe it’s easier to do this after we’ve shared moments of joy. Maybe we can dip our sieve into the murky pond of discord and filter out colorful, round, exuberant pieces and build something new around them.

 

I admit it’s hard to imagine hanging out with the president, admiring fireworks together while we lick our ice cream cones and giggle. But thank goodness we don’t have to be that ambitious. Most of us will see at least one person today who is “other.” Our impulse might be to shut down, to lash out, to ignore. If we know this is our pain talking, we might be able to change the channel and open to a sweet moment of joy instead.

 

I don’t know if this will help. We have lots of reasons to believe it won’t. But remember that one thing we do know. We have to start somewhere and why not today? Why not with joy?

 

With love, gratitude, and sprinkles,

 

Gail

 

 

 

Dear march organizers,

You had quite a weekend.

I took my 8-year-old son with our two signs to the Vermont march in Montpelier, Vermont. We saw so many people who believed in you, were inspired by you, and who continue to support and follow you. I’m so grateful for all of the strength, time, energy, courage, and passion you brought to this important and overdue work, not just the march but all of the speaking engagements, the lobbying, the school walkouts, everything it takes to build this surge of a movement.

You, and all who stand with you, have a choice with where to take this, post-march. You can continue your fight for stricter regulations of guns until you achieve your goal. And when you do, because I know it’s a when and not and if, you will feel incredibly proud of yourselves. You will have accomplished something many would have thought impossible: reduce mass shootings and save the lives of thousands.

Or, you can take a step toward more profound social change: an expanded, all-inclusive definition of “safety.” You can make the decision to build a new human society where everybody gets a piece of that safety.

Many who care about injustice, violence, and systemic aggression have realized that single-issue politics is a losing game. Our survival depends on living that great new term, intersectionality.

I’m hoping you decide on option two. But this is by far the harder path. To actually pull this off, we need a strong and unified movement. There are many nonprofits and advocacy groups who are already doing a lot. So are lots of local governments, community groups, and individuals. But your movement and your leaders have the momentum and strength to lead these efforts on a larger scale, to take this on as a long-term commitment, to be and live the change.

The thing is, there’s no future if we continue single-issue activism. Stricter gun control won’t bring the Great Barrier Reef back to life. Banning assault weapons won’t detoxify our drinking water. Background checks won’t provide every American with adequate and affordable health insurance. And better mental health services won’t reverse climate change that will eventually make Planet Earth uninhabitable. Some say we’re beyond the point of no return. I doubt that. Humans are tenacious, young people especially so. You’re powerful and you have the stamina to see this through.

After my son and I got home on Saturday afternoon, I turned on my computer and watched you speaking at the rallies. I began to cry. At first I thought all the needless deaths had hit me hard. But I realized it was more than that. I cried tears of joy for the first moment of hope I’d had in many years.

Reach out. The older generations will help, support, join. We want what you want but we haven’t been able to make it happen yet. We believe in you. We’ve got your back.

May you be blessed by the spirits of justice, healing, and change.

Gail Marlene Schwartz

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“They’re pretty Zen, don’t you think?” I chirp to the new writer-in-residence about the bison. I remember from the website: We ask residents to keep a safe distance from the bison; they are not usually aggressive, but they are large animals, and can cause serious injury. But I continue to feel drawn to these mysterious and beautiful creatures in spite of the warnings.

A memory: I am at a Québécois friend’s house for Christmas. Jules comes up to me and wishes me a Happy Hannukah. I squirm and feel my cheeks rush with blood. Hannukah was over weeks ago.

“I love the Jewish religion,” he continues, in flawless English. “You don’t eat pork, right?” Actually, I tell him, I don’t keep kosher, so I’m pretty much an omnivore.

“Really?” he seemed genuinely surprised. “I knew a Jewish guy from work and they had to have two sets of dishes, lots of rules.” I force a smile, put my hands in and out of my pockets. “The traditions are beautiful,” chimes in his wife enthusiastically. “The one around Easter, what’s it called again?” I swallow and look around the room for Lucie. “I think it’s Passover,” I mumble.

“Right! We got invited to the Perlman’s and there was this thing they did with the wine, making little drops on their plates, I can’t remember what that was for,” she scrunches up her face. “And the candles and that lovely plate with the sacred foods.” She looks at me earnestly. “The whole thing was beautiful.”

I’ve heard American friends admire the lyrical quality of the French language. Some have described the Québécois culture as warm, open, passionate. “Their theatre is phenomenal,” said a friend. “There’s a huge film culture and the style has this quirky imaginative quality.”

Yeah.

And yet, here I am, still, with my thing for the bison. How do we replace the type of attraction that objectifies the other with the kind of careful listening that leads to deep understanding, a key element of good translation?

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