Photo by Simon Matzinger on Unsplash
Every day since Saturday’s election in my nation a poem has pushed and pushed without seeing the light of day. I tried comparing my occasional and spontaneous flow of tears to the last leaf wafting from a November tree. Didn’t cut it. The word “release” stalked me so I played with all its etymological offerings. Nope. The vacillation between relief and release, elation and sorrow have confused and exhausted me.
Gradually I’ve realized that although I am happy and relieved, the release of four years of negativity and violence and hate will take time.. upon reading this line from Tana French I tabled the poem. She nails my experience:
“She looks like a long cruel tension
is leaching out of her, notch by notch,
leaving her whole body slack
to the point of helplessness”
Tana French The Searcher