My fierce mama heart bleeds today. If Biden won in Massachusetts, the next election does not feel so hopeful to me. I think about the photo I posted yesterday of Birch, and I ache to be able to preserve the innocence of that moment. I rue the day that is coming when I have to explain the implications of climate change and how my generation and the preceding ones have failed his generation in that way. The day when I have to explain that the lock down drills at school are not about what to do if a bear comes along, but rather what to do if a crazed maniac comes into his school with an automatic weapon. (Note, I am not anti-gun entirely, but rather anti-NRA and anti-psychologically unstable people having automatic weapons.)
I am thinking about a moment in the interview I had with Mira Malcolm the other day about the cycles of life and death in the female pelvis. She asked me a question about if I see a relationship between our cultural perception of the female pelvis and what is happening globally (paraphrasing, not entirely sure I have the question right). I started getting all choked up in my response. I have a longstanding theory that if every male politician witnessed a woman giving birth naturally, there would be no more violence or war. If we all could bear witness to what it takes for us to give life, then how could we send that life to the heart of violence? How could we throw a plastic bottle into the ocean? Maybe if we really understood and paid homage to what it takes to bring life forth, we would have more respect and reverence for all life?