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Nicole Burney
467 followers -
I write poetry and fiction. I read to sate myself. Books are food. And I am one hell of a glutton.
I write poetry and fiction. I read to sate myself. Books are food. And I am one hell of a glutton.

467 followers
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I phoned both my senators this morning, demanding they do everything in their power to oppose Jeff Sessions's confirmation as Attorney General. My voice shook, and my mouth suddenly went bone dry. This kind of thing is uncomfortable for me. But then again, much of 2016 has been nothing but an exercise in unpleasant experiences.

I don't know how many cycles of grief one goes through. I have cried. I was depressed. I panicked over jagged streams of "what if". I felt betrayed and hurt, though I can't exactly pinpoint the origin of those emotions - not yet, anyway.

Even my anger has morphed into a creature I do not recognize. We are strange bedfellows. Sometimes it is the only engine to get me out of bed, while other times, its machinations are so subtle I barely notice. All I know for certain, is that it has killed some part of me. I can no longer claim optimism, even the stormy weather kind. That is gone. I no longer trust things will turn out fine on their own.

Which brings me back to my earlier statement. I called my senators because I can't just run off to D.C. and protest the confirmation hearing. It's a small action, but it's something. And I figure, these singular bursts will accumulate into something bigger, because I'm not the only person making phone calls. I'm not the only person shutting off cable news, or confronting some phobic canker in my own family or town. If I hear tell of worthy cause, I spread the word. If I read an article of deep import, I share it. If my fourteen year-old niece needs a filter from the noise, I'm there. If I had a dime to spare, I'd give it away. But since I don't, I encourage those who can.

I am ashamed it took me so long to realize that this is what "hope" is. It is not a gentle and fuzzy beast. It bucks and howls, and burns to the touch. You must feed it constantly and remain vigilant, otherwise, the lights dim, and it goes limp and forgotten. Hope is forever a "work-in-progress", and the work itself is grunt work; the kind that grits teeth and gets you dirty. But that's okay. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I'm all the better for it.
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