flood

It's been raining here, a lot.  The river in town is out of its banks, again.  At dinner we talk about how much it's flooded in the last few years.  Iris asks, "is this because of climate change?" and we answer honestly. 

As the years go by they have more and more questions.  They listen to adults talk about the news, they leaf through National Geographic again and again.  And I watch them as we try to shape honest, and somehow hopeful answers, but I can see:  It's hard to grasp that the weather is being changed by our actions, not for the better, and this is a terrifying problem they will inherit.  It's hard to grasp that white people still kill unarmed black people.  That violence against women is widespread and real.  It's hard to grasp that animals suffer in confinement pens so that we can eat more meat than our fair share.  It's hard to grasp that there are people in the world eating nothing, while we shop at Walmart and fill our carts with everything... 

And it's hard to grasp that your dad still has cancer.  Sometimes I worry that there is no way out from under all this heaviness.  That they'll be squashed by this inevitable flood of knowledge that slowly robs them of childhood.

But then I remember.  Joy lives here too.  Even in adulthood.  Even with floods and cancer and Donald Trump.   In fact sometimes I think that joy lives here because of floods and cancer and Donald Trump.  We seek it out, we welcome it in. We notice it, we hold it, we keep it present.  And they grow up surrounded by hardship and worry, laughter and joy.  And I like to believe it will make them durable.  Resilient.  Sturdy.  Hopeful.  Wise.

I'm not sure what more we could ask for.