One of the best things about our old 1860 farmhouse in New Hampshire is the side porch. ​“The greenhouse,” we call it. And in the winter, it is toasty warm during the day and holds all the plants we brought in from the yard for safekeeping against the New England winter. So I am surrounded by begonias of all kinds, lantana, amaryllis and others of unknown names. I am not a plant maven, but I know what I like when I see one.

This morning I sat in the greenhouse with my hot mug of freshly pressed Italian coffee and closed my eyes. It’s been a rough few weeks, ones where I was often afraid to read the news on my small screen, which I have done for years, before getting out of bed. Stories from the BBC, The New York Times, The Guardian … and now Substack after Substack essays that are doing little to reassure me. The constant question: What atrocity happened overnight and do I really want to know?

I might have been meditating, I might have been praying; sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. I was desperate to get the present out of my mind in favor of a slightly better past or a hoped-for better future. We have never been perfect, but it seems to me that’s not even on the radar anymore. We are in trouble, and the feeling of despair is palpable. 

Another sip. I will write my senators again, for the second time this week. I will give money to organizations and politicians I believe are doing the right thing. I will take the dog for a walk soon, despite the single digit temperatures. Maybe I’ll give her extra cookies today. I will make a nice dinner for me and my husband, even though we’ve been at each other’s throats lately. Tomorrow is his birthday. Maybe that will cheer us up a bit. But probably not, because, aging.

The last sip. My face is warm now and the sun is strong. As the dog comes in and sits under my chair, waiting for a head rub, I feel something brewing. Something less than hope, but more than resignation.