WAVES

Half of the country felt sad, terrified and defeated even before the First Epstein War broke out ten days ago; and those were the good old days. We were already wiped out by the daily effort to keep the faith in goodness and democracy, not able to put a name to our confusion of feelings. Wave after wave of Trumpoid insanity broke over us, and like seals we bobbed back up to the surface, with new strategies for winning hopeless elections and ridding our cities of ICE, like furry lightbulbs of good ideas.    

     And then war in the Middle East crashed over us. Well, I said to myself: I just hope he’s thought this through, but there was apparently some confusion; he and Pete and Little Marco all seemed to be on separate sheets of music, Trump’s eerie shrill calliope carnival music, Hegseth’s soundtrack from Apocalypse Now, Marco on Cuban rhumba.

     So here we are, wave after wave of bombings, oil markets and the global economy crashing. And yes, waves keep coming, because that is the nature of waves, of the ocean breathing. But eventually, they also flatten out, come to shore, and seem to rest.

   The writer Mark Yaconelli told me years ago of holding a retreat one weekend where a hundred people from all over the world came to hear his teachings on how to work with disenfranchised and severely depressed young people. He spoke to the gathering for a few hours about tools that he used to create community and connection with young people suffering loss and isolation. At some point, he handed out a Mexican beach blanket to each person, and asked them to lie down and rest.  A physician who worked with young AIDS patients had flown in from South Africa the week before, and she came up to him, furious. She said that she had flown 10,000 miles at enormous expense to learn his techniques and did not want to be told to take a nap like a kindergartner. Mark nodded sympathetically and asked her to do the best she could. When the hour was over, the woman came back to him, weeping. She had fallen asleep. She said that she had not understood how exhausted she was.

     I don’t think we had a clue how profoundly, existentially exhausted we have become since November 5, 2024. Yes, we have risen up in sometimes somber, sometimes giddy waves of protest and solidarity, but the energetic cost has been unfathomably high.

     February 28th, Trump had a feeling, as he put it. Fueled by his mental health issues, whatever chemicals he is swilling down with his Diet Cokes, bad polls and elections, and the release of the testimony of the 12-or-13-year-old girl who was raped by both Trump and Epstein, his itchy feeling grew stronger, and in the middle of the night, from Mar-a-Lago, Trump unleased the bombs.

     Regrettably, it turns out that he, Hegseth, little Marco and that nice Stephen Miller did not have a plan for Day 2.

     But we do.

     We will do and be the exact opposite of them. They are cruel extremists of death, intent on canceling the midterms as the only way to hold onto power. We will be the living, sharing, generous democracy nuts. There is a No Kings rally on March 28, which will be massive, and global, and it will be one of the happiest days of the year. There are so many ways to help insure that there will be a free and fair midterm election. (Print this out:  https://www.nytimes.com/2026/01/31/opinion/trump-midterms-election-security.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share). We will get outside and savor the miracle, and we will help feed the poor, and we will pick up litter and plant things and journal, smile and wave to people as an act of subversion, and give a few bucks to people holding out paper cups at intersections because we are old enough to know that giving fills us.

     But I also think we need to rest.

     We are exhausted and depleted, and we need to rest because we have bodies and souls that are wiped out by the cortisol dump of daily life under this administration. We need to rest so we can show up on March 28, to rise up in peace and nonviolence to stop the First Epstein War. Never forget Einstein saying that the Fourth World War will be fought with sticks and rocks, and this why we will march. We will march for the pure joy of peace marches. Joy! They can be the people of death, but we will be the lifey people, the peace and love and generosity and quiet joy people. Joy! Isn’t that wild to imagine? My pastor used to say that joy was peace on its feet, peace was joy at rest. I will do what Mother Teresa suggested, a few small things with great love, every day; and I am going to actively rest. If I could, I would hand out blankets to each of you.  Remember that we also have gentle waves at the shore, beautiful foamy lace. Keep your eyes open to beauty. Yes, further out, the darkness of the waves show the depth of the water, and yes, we are in cold, deep, muscular water, but there are things one can do: tread water, bob, share the raft, keep the faith, and rest between waves.