This Scary Week I’m Writing About Camellias. Here’s Why
I started off this scary week planning to write a post under the title, “Good News — That Man Doesn’t Interest Me Any More.”
That man had gone down in defeat in November, he was out of my life for good, or would be soon, and now, finally, I could safely turn my attention to normal life — to vacuuming up the months-old dust balls under the bed or assessing the new guy’s picks for the next administration.
I could live my life again.
Earlier this week, I noticed to my surprise that I no longer needed to follow the ins and outs of the daily news cycle as I had over the past four years: Two newspapers over breakfast. A cable news station running most of the day. TV pundits over dinner.
For months I had waited and waited for this axe to fall, for that man to be out of office and out of my life for good.
And now the axe had fallen, and I found myself switching off cable news and turning on NPR. Listening to things like “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me” and “The Moth Radio Hour.”
I had lost interest in that man. He was fading from my consciousness. It was wonderful
But, one of the things (just one) that man wants and cannot do without is the outraged attention of people like me. People who actually believe in things like the American experiment, human kindness, truth, law, and order. He feeds on outrage. He does everything he can to provoke it.
Everything. Including siccing his goons on the building down the street and on the men and women inside doing their duty on Wednesday.
That man got my attention again this scary week. He had me back in his grip. I was outraged. But I didn’t want to give him and his sycophants the satisfaction of thinking he had owned me one more time. I didn’t want to add another 650 words to the billions he had sucked up over the past four years.
I had to ditch my “Good News — That Man Doesn’t Interest Me Any More” post, of course. But what to write about in its place? If not this scary week’s events, then what?
I could not think of a thing. I was speechless.
This rarely happens to me. There’s always something hanging around in my brain, waiting to be written about. Sometimes it’s some biggish thing, like my daughter’s wedding dress. Or, it could be something more pop culture, like fathers, sons and the Super Bowl.
But there I was yesterday, at a loss for something to say to you. Yes, my outrage was triggered by that man and his sedition, but I wanted to keep my outrage to myself. I didn’t want to let him get under my skin.
That’s when I noticed that the camellias outside our living room window were blooming. Again. There they were, doing what camellias do. Turning dirt and rain and sunlight into symmetry. Into complexity. Into what registers on the human eye as beauty.
Those camellia bushes have been blooming for Jon and me every winter since we moved into our house forty years ago. Their steadfastness in showing up for this scary week reminded me that, yes, a real life awaits me and all of us. That man will exit the house he’s living in. And ultimately good people and their 232-year-old document will prevail.
The process will be lengthy and probably grueling, but it will happen. I believe that.
And so, indulge me, dear readers. Deep down, this is a post about camellias, isn’t it?
This post appeared originally on my website at BarbaraFalconerNewhall.com. You’ll find lots of stories there — of a woman struggling to balance family, career and conscience.
