Don't Heal the World

Don’t heal the world
Heal yourself, and then you heal the world.

I woke up thinking those words. I pushed back at them as I made French toast for my son and walked my whiskery dog. They’re dorky words, the kind you embroider into a pillow or carve onto a piece of wood to sell at a spiritual-center fundraiser.

But the words kept coming back to me.

Tap tap.

Don’t heal the world. Heal yourself, and then you heal the world.

It’s been a painful week. It’s not about politics. I agree with some of Trump’s policies and disagree with most others, he’s not my guy but he won, that’s politics. Why so many of the kindhearted are reeling is not because their candidate lost, though that does set a person back; it’s because Trump won on a platform of hate, ignorance, disrespect, ownership of women’s bodies, and separating people from their stories so they become inconvenient chess pieces to be moved somewhere else, out of sight, out of America.

It's jarring to go to sleep bullied and wake up to find out that the child who was proudly, joyfully cruel to you and those you love is now the principal. You were confident there was a system in place that wouldn't allow that—surely not anyone can run the school, there must be requirements designed to prevent such a thing, rules of basic human decency.

So if you are thoughtful, or in a group that our president-elect vowed on the campaign trail to separate from your story, you are in deep pain. I’ve seen many of you transform this intelligent fear into a beautiful fire, protesting, organizing, speaking out, declaring solidarity with the oppressed, burning through this dark slop of hatred and ignorance that has risen to the surface. I celebrate you.

I also feel overwhelmed by all the work there is to do.

Heal yourself, and you heal the world.

Sigh.

Fine. I know what those words mean. I’ve been bucking it—there’s freedom and focus in anger, it makes everything out there rather than under our skin—but not all of this country's current problems originated with someone else. I carry some of them inside me. The work I need to do starts with me.

There’s a book that I need to write. An uncomfortable one, one that shocks all my tender places. I need to dig into that rather than choose the easy road and write another mystery. Also, I have a tendency toward the judgmental. I must stop that, even though I have to remind myself a thousand times a day. Maybe tomorrow it’ll be 999 times. Wait, there’s more. Sometimes, I repeat political or social or newsy things without either having heard them firsthand or verifying via at least two objective sources that they are true. No more.

Here’s a big one for me: I have to address my racism. In graduate school, I was lucky to take a class with Dr. Tamrat Tademe, an African-born professor. Tamrat was passionate, brilliant, darted around the classroom. He mentioned one day he’s also racist. He said there’s no other way to be in this country, that even he—who got pulled over regularly for driving while black—would lock his doors when he’d drive through black neighborhoods. He said it is a daily fight, and a necessary, important fight, to push back against the racist images, words, and actions that our culture continually tries to normalize.

His words set me on my ass. They also pushed me to examine what cultural racism I’ve absorbed. Turns out I have a hefty dose of what I’m going to call Minnesota racism, where I aim to be nice to everyone but also to stay comfortable, i.e. do the things I know with the people I know, people who look and think a lot like me. I have a duty as a citizen of a diverse community to seek out different stories.

(Incidentally, I’ve seen “expose yourself to people who think differently than you” twisted lately to mean, “let people barf mean/untrue words on you.” Willful ignorance is not a perspective worthy of attention. The willfully ignorant around you are the horns and burps designed to distract you from your purpose. Love them, but don’t engage their ignorance.)

But yeah. It’s time for me to get uncomfortable so I can begin to clean out the institutionalized racism I’ve absorbed. I plan to start by researching and—if I believe in her platform (what I’ve seen so far looks excellent)—getting involved in the Minneapolis mayoral campaign of Nekima Levy-Pounds, a local attorney and civil rights activist.

That’s my self-work, the stuff I’m being called to undertake: use my creativity as a flashlight and salve, be less judgmental, be more responsible in my words, tackle my racism. I think that’s what those dorky words meant, that if I want to fix this stinking pile, I have to start with my own stinking piles.

I believe that.

But damn, there is also outside work to do (apologies to the Inspirational Word factory; I will abide by the message your guy shipped down here this morning, but—and maybe it was the font he chose?—I remain inspired by equal parts Leslie Knope and Furiosa).

If I can swing it, I’m heading to DC for the Million Woman March. According to their official statement, “This event is inclusive of all and specifically centers around those who need this support the most: people of color, immigrants, the LGBT community, disabled citizens, trans people, and of course women. We are child friendly.” Hell yeah. There is power in numbers. Passion feeds passion. There will be Million Woman Marches all over the country on January 21, and busses to get you there. I’d love to see some of you.

I’m also getting active in the midterm elections. I will have representation in Congress. I’ve thought about running myself. It’s a fleeting thought because I did all the drugs in the late 80s, but it’s still a thought. As of last Tuesday, I’m also tithing for progress, donating 10% of my income to Planned Parenthood, Center for Reproductive Rights, Public Radio, Human Rights Campaign, ACLU, and the National Immigrant Justice Center. Also, I’m subscribing to my local newspaper in support of credible journalism and signing petitions whose causes I believe in.

I sometimes get paralyzed by the thought that I can’t do everything and so shouldn’t do anything, or even worse (to my mind), that I am not allowed to enjoy the good when there is so much bad. So and finally, I’m giving myself permission to play, laugh, and make mistakes.

Heal yourself, and you heal the world.

Please, if you’re comfortable, share below what you’re doing to heal. Let’s bring the light.

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