I'm supposed to have ink to put on paper. I write. I reason. I'm supposed to have words and thoughts. And I do -- a plethora of them. But each time I write them as the sun rises this Tuesday morning, I edit them off the page. It's cleaner that way.
I went to bed in the wee morning hours and arose in the wee morning hours. When I arrived at the office -- a lengthy 27-step commute from the loft that stands behind my law practice on Main Street -- I turned on the lights, adjusted the thermostat, tidied up, and settled in with my cup of coffee in the same brown stoneware mug as I do each and every morning.
I also walked out my front door onto Main Street to see whether it was still there. I do not do that each and every morning. I checked to see whether my neighbor's large security mailbox was still shattered in pieces on the sidewalk. Whether glass from a smashed windshield was still strewn on the pavement. Whether my building was intact.
Yesterday morning was different. A new fleet of baby birds was learning to fly in the garden, and Trapper John and I found a runt not faring so well. Our hearts hurt for him. We were torn whether to leave him be or "help" him in whatever ways we thought might comfort the little guy. We brought water nearby and did some things a wildlife expert once advised. Another fledgling -- healthy and capable of flight -- remained close to the ailing creature and refused to leave him. We checked on him throughout the day. His prognosis looked bleak.
By day's end, Trapper and I were surrounded by masked individuals in dark attire. Some wore body armor and carried guns. Some wore message T-shirts and carried signs. Some were locals. Some were members of out-of-state extremist groups. Some were kind. Some shouted obscenities and said things about other's mothers. Mobs ran. The smell of tear gas filled the street. An angry young man looked Trapper in the eye and coldly asked whether he was ready to be enslaved. All this, while standing on our own front stoop.
We found a humanity not faring so well. Our hearts hurt. We were torn whether to leave it be or "help" in whatever ways we thought might bring comfort. We remained close to one another and refused to leave. We checked on our neighbors throughout the day.
Our prognosis is yet to be determined.
And regardless of my thoughts, someone would find fault in them, and not only fault, but fight. Not just a disagreement, but a justification to do harm. With the pandemic and protests and whatever-comes-next, I'm torn between sweeping off my porch and opening for another day, and moving to 100 acres in a remote area with a moat and a drawbridge that only comes down on Tuesdays.
But today, the sun is up. I am up. The birds are singing.
Those who want to sing will find a song.
NAN Our Town on 06/04/2020