It was fairly clear on Sunday night when I rolled the recycling bin to the curb. It had been another unseasonably warm day, which seems to be the description of every day in Flagstaff since December. Looking up, I could see the Orion constellation tilting toward our house and I stood, bin tipped, to admire the formation and the bright star, Betelgeuse. The street was quiet except for the bin’s wheels grinding on cinders as I edged it closer to the curb.
As I walked up the driveway and back to the house, I kept my eye on Orion until the constellation was obscured by ponderosa pines. My feet quickened as I approached the front door to my house. There is always something that frightens me about the expanse of the universe, a dark night, and my own feelings of insignificance.
I have felt many moments of insignificance this past year without standing in my driveway. I’ve been humbled by others’ suffering, general feelings of helplessness to affect any changes in the world around me, and even my own mortality. I admire my friends who work so hard to call and write letters to elected officials, protest at City Hall, gather friends for action, and generally advocate for change. Their clear-eyed drive makes me wonder about the ways that I show that I care about the world as well.
What I’ve been focused on is keeping myself whole through the daily churn, especially because I work with students. As college freshmen, they already feel those first twinges of hopelessness, wondering if they will even have jobs thanks to AI, or if they will be able to afford a house, or to have their own families.
There’s an image I’ve hung in the office copy room from the poet, Brian Andreas, called “Help Wanted.” It’s one of his Story People, happily stepping up to an “X” mark on the floor. “One day, I decide to help wherever I could, and it was almost like magic because I was exactly what the world needed everywhere I went.” While I make copies for students in my classes, often stressed about timing and my own technological challenges with the copier, this image reminds me to take a deep breath and remember that there are more important things to stress out about than making sure that 90 pages are collated correctly. The biggest question I ask myself every day is how to bring the best version of myself to class so that students will see that even though the world is challenging, we can still show up and do some good thinking together.
The attitude that Andreas illustrates in our copier room sign involves me showing up and bringing as much joy as I can to every space I inhabit. Smiling in public, holding doors, saying “please,” and “thank you,” listening to music loudly before class, joking with students, laughing with colleagues. Sometimes, I feel guilty being joyful about being able to wake up and do something I love. Other times, it feels like a useless exercise, like I’m not doing anything meaningful for the world around me. And there have been times when I’ve questioned what “meaningful” is anymore.
A friend recently asked if I would go back to nonprofit work, and I was curious about his question. Meaning in my previous life as a fundraising professional was working with others to increase funding for all of the good work happening for causes I believed in. My true cause and the meaning in my life though has always been education. It started for me reading as many books as I could and has since morphed into collaborative learning spaces known as classrooms. The shift from nonprofit work to teaching made sense to me even though it took me some time, and a lot of mistakes, to learn effectively with others and to admit that I am not always the expert.
And yet, I wonder: am I doing enough? What is enough? Should I be doing something different?
Maybe you are asking yourself these questions too.
I don’t think there ever is a time when we stop learning, growing, and changing. In that sense, who we are is never enough because we are still in the process of becoming who we are daily. At the same time, I understand that there is a limit to what I’m able to do in the same 24 hours we all have. I keep asking myself how I’m spending my time, how effective I am, and I’ve concluded that even though I can’t fix the country, or even the potholes on Milton Avenue, the way I live my life joyfully during a time of great upheaval is its own act of defiance, of resistance.
I’ve started cataloging small ways that I’m acting that looks different from visible protesting. I still read the news every day and make sure I have an understanding of what’s going on. But what is getting me through a challenging time is seeing my friends more and sharing our experiences. Depth is important, as well as not pretending that everything is fine. Instead of spending my time on social media, I’ve returned to working on paper crafts and having fun collaging with a friend. I marvel that I can create images with a few scraps of paper and some glue. Exercise keeps me going. After all, I can’t fight off the Zombie apocalypse if my cardio game is weak. I sit on the sofa with my husband instead of on the chair across the room so that we can read together. All of these activities bring me joy in a way that I can pass on to others.
It is worth finding joy and moments of laughter when we can. This is what I can do right now. And for everyone I encounter and for every laugh shared, I’m going to remember that everywhere we show up is where we’re needed the most.
