I was a little anxious as a kid. A lot of things scared me: werewolves with red eyes, creepy crawly things, barking dogs and hissing cats, and bullies. As I grew a little older, my worries transformed into larger and, on occasion, justified concerns. For instance, I never believed that crouching under a wooden desk would protect me from a nuclear missile.
Some people are born to plunge headlong into this and that adventure without thinking about the consequences. Some people are born practically paralyzed with fear. I was somewhere in the middle, willing to do certain things but only after a lot of consideration.
At the same time, I also felt protected. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a very strong family unit. I never had any doubt that my father, my mother, and even my siblings would come to my defense in a nanosecond. The one thing that safety net never prepared me for was its absence.
I’ve been on this planet for decades now, and I’ve never felt so vulnerable as I do these days.
Part of it is age. While I’m a healthy senior woman at an ideal weight, I am senior. I’m less strong than I used to be, less agile with less stamina, more discomfort. I’ve had three joints replaced and I’m in line to have two or three more done in the next five years. I exercise every day and walk miles with my shoulders, back, and head held high. My friends and even my physician like to tease me about being bionic. Trust me, bionic beings aren’t stiff in the mornings.
The second factor in my increasing sense of vulnerability stems from my social situation. I have friends, lots of virtual acquaintances, and some kind neighbors, but I live alone. Sometimes I can find people to help me, but often I can’t. I’m used to being on my own, less a preference than a necessary habit. And as the years go by, I worry I’ll be less skilled at it.
Honestly, though, those first two factors are nothing compared with my distress over the state of affairs in the world and particularly here in the U.S. I feel as defenseless as I did when I ducked under my school desk, except the danger feels closer. Every time I think society is progressing, I’m smacked in the face by the truth. Our profoundly inequitable political system continues to provide loopholes and stymy the majority. Our broken medical system makes receiving and paying for treatment disturbingly difficult. Increasing numbers of people are turning to conspiracy theories and “alternative facts” to reinforce closely held beliefs. We’re living in the 21st century version of the Wild West, complete with unbridled emotions, galloping disinformation, and plenty of guns. Respect for life seems to stop at birth.
American exceptionalism used to mean a land of unparalleled advantages and endless possibility. Now it seems to be linked to mass shootings (we’re number one!) and squandered resources. Maybe that’s where evolution has decided to take us. Throw in a pandemic or two, a cyber attack, an energy meltdown, and a series of weather events spurred by a warming planet and what do you have? A series of entertaining books and movies set in post apocalypse times, when the hardy survivors take to the highways and byways to survive, thrive, rebuild, and connect.
Meanwhile, I’m just looking for a safe place to live.
Spring is all about the new—new growth, new life, new freedom from coats, gloves, and bare branches. It serves as a metaphor for hope. While it may be challenging to spark joy in the darkest months of the year, halfway through March, I start to feel uplifted. Foolish perhaps but also necessary.