Water does not resist. Water flows.

When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress.

Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you.

But water always goes where it wants to go,

and nothing in the end can stand against it.

Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone.

Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water.

If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.

-Margaret Atwood ( from The Penelopiad)

I spent election night in the ER with my dad, his legs dark purple and so swollen they’d split like overripe heirloom tomatoes. We watched returns come in on the little TV in the corner while my dad was hooked up to an IV that was supposed to drain the fluid from his legs and lungs. For a little while we were hopeful on both counts: Georgia was trending blue and we expected a quick fix in the ER. Hours later, my dad was admitted for a longer stay and the election maps were turning alarmingly red. Back at my parents’ house I slept fitfully in my makeshift bed on the floor of my stepmother’s office, waking to check my phone over and over. Were the election results any different? Had the hospital called?  

The magnitude of what is happening in my country and the possible implications for nearly everything and everyone I care about makes what is happening in my personal life seem very small. I don’t mean that to underplay its importance, in fact, just the opposite. To be in the midst of this personal crisis at the same time as we are facing a collective one highlights the weightiness of both. The big things and the little things are crushing me.

I’ve been living out of a suitcase hundreds of miles from home for more than a month now. I came when it became obvious my dad could no longer live in his home with its endless stairs and inaccessibility. My days consist of touring assisted living facilities, trying to understand my parents’ finances, helping to pack up their lives to move into the small place we finally found, and clearing out everything else so they can sell their house and, thus, marginally afford the expensive prospect of aging in this country. I wake up every morning completely overwhelmed and stay that way until the end of the day when I drive myself down to the ocean and let the cold, salty water wash over me. This little thing each day has been my medicine. The water reminding me to be let go, to flow, to find my way around and through.

When I woke up on the day after election day, my dad still in the hospital, the overwhelm was worse than ever; a crushing weight of rocks. I took Lulu out for her pee and the birds were singing despite it all. My dog was sniffing the grass as if it was just another day. I decided in that moment that I can’t be overwhelmed anymore. There is just too much to do. 

I started by going for a run, something I nearly never do, but which I felt like I needed to do that morning because I needed fresh air and exercise and the hour I had before I needed to get back to the hospital wasn’t enough time to get to the ocean. Running was the quickest way I could think of to accomplish what my body was craving.  I ran to a nature trail not far from my parents’ house where I stumbled upon a dozen people spread across the trail searching the ground, bending down, picking things up.

“What are you looking for?” I asked a middle-aged man in an orange vest.

“We’re picking up dog poop,” the man told me.

I learned that this path is a major wildlife belt and dog poop is bad for the other animals. It spreads diseases and disrupts the ecosystem by adding excess nutrients like nitrogen and phosphorus. Signs are everywhere asking people to pick up after their dogs and there are lots of free bags on offer. But people don’t always do it and so these volunteers are cleaning up after the rest of us. Doing this small thing to make this one corner of the world a little safer for the wild creatures.

Earlier that morning, reeling from the election news I checked in with my friends, many of whom had dedicated their entire lives these last few months to preventing what has occurred. I asked my friend Mary Rose, a tireless climate activist, if she thought the planet could survive four more years of Trump. She said we must focus on what can be saved and not give up. 

Like picking up dog poop.

Big things and little things. 

Getting through the next phase of my dad’s illness and through the next four years of our country’s is going to require attending to the little things I can do to keep my body and heart strong and to infuse my family and community with love, and it’s going to require doing the big and uncomfortable things, the hard things, things I can’t even imagine yet. My dad is going to die sooner than I wish. My country has elected a monster. I will remember that I am made of water and find my way around.