Space for Other Thinking

And for simply being.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about finding space to think about the assault on democracy unfolding in my home country. Raging, freaking out, and collapsing are all valid reactions, but I don’t want to stop there. I want to think: take in other peoples’ ideas, generate some of my own, learn, make connections, ask questions. This is essential if I hope to be useful. And I do.

But it’s also essential that I conserve and protect space for other thoughts, too.

Authoritarians are experts at vacuuming up attention, and making everything about themselves. Part of holding on to my power is turning my mind to other things; noticing and being present in other realities.

Like the reality of a frozen lake, covered in snow, on a crisp winter morning. A cool blue sky with a blush of pink. My dog’s warm body as I got him into his harness. We were the only visible life on the lake. I clipped into my skis, gave Sigge the “ja” that means go, and took off for the east side. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Moon before it set.

The snow was hard and fast. Sigge started to run, thrilled to feel me following his pace rather than struggling to hold himself to my bizarrely slow human gait. Once he could see the track ringing the edge of the lake, he kicked it up a notch. He likes to follow a path, even if it just goes in circles.

When we turned to face the northwest, there it was, bright and round and moony, hanging huge on the horizon. I almost laughed out loud, it was so beautiful. Maybe I did. Sigge opened up his stride like a racehorse released from the stable, and soon we were flying.

As Sigge pulled me along at a full gallop, I heard a croaky caw, and looked up. It was a little pack of ravens, crossing the lake in the other direction, beaks pointed toward the almost-risen Sun. They flew closer and closer, and as they passed directly overhead, I could see the morning light on the undersides of their wings. Sigge and I were still in night’s shadow, but for them, just above us, the Sun was up.

Those birds, flapping their way toward the warming Sun. Sigge’s paws hitting the snow. The Moon sinking down. The wind in my face. These things are as worthy of my attention as anything playing out in the halls of power.

Even with all the destruction happening, there is beauty available to me every day. Turning toward it, opening to it—this is not avoidance, or denial. It’s taking in nourishment. It’s survival, at least for me.

P.S. This lake’s name is Nydala. It lives in Sweden, and so do I, some of the time. If you’d like to hear what it sounds like in the summer, check out Interlude #4 from the lastest season of my podcast, Threshold.