I am in the weeds.
Each day, I sway one way or another depending on the voices that call me. Voices of despair. Voices of hope. Voices of doom. Voices of anger. Voices laying blame. Calls to action. Confused calls asking, “How did this happen?” Calls that say, “How could you not know?” Calls to say, “I told you so.”
They each pull on different dimensions of who I am. Hero. Victim. Savior. Pawn. Writer. Father. Citizen. Worker. Dreamer. I lose myself in the jumble of roles I’m asked to play. In the various ways the world wants to name me.
My mind wants to find the name that makes me powerful and safe. I want to identify myself with the ones who “get shit done.” When we get control, we’ll make everything right (again? forever?), and that certainty about our singular name and aim justifies whatever we do, including…
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