Dear America,

I'm usually pretty silent on social media, especially when it comes to political issues.  Emotions run high and the feeling of confrontation leaves me wound up and jittery.  But in light of the election and subsequent events, I feel compelled to come out of my shell just enough to share a few thoughts.

A lot of people are upset, angry, afraid, or disappointed.  Others are elated.  And then there are many who just feel uncertain.  What I want to say is this: that we all either voted for the candidate we thought best suited for the job, or, maybe more likely, voted against the candidate we thought least suited for it.  There's a heavy us-and-them mentality when it comes to politics.  The good guys vs. bad guys; or the informed vs. the willfully ignorant; or the truly needy vs. the entitled.  I'm not saying that everyone thinks this way or that those who do do it consciously, but that's the sentiment I pick up on most of the time and especially in recent days.

The comforting truth is that that's not the way it is.  I don't think it's naive to say that almost everyone in this country wants the same things: we want to live happy, productive lives, and we want that for each other too.  Red or blue, left or right, we all face a lot of the same issues and we all want to find harmony for ourselves and our neighbors.  The major difference is that we have very different opinions about how to go about getting everything to work.

I'm echoing the plea that Secretary Clinton, Mr. Trump, and President Obama have all made so eloquently this week, and I'm pleading with myself most of all.  I can spew cynicism with the best of 'em, but let's try for unity now.  I keep coming back to a scene from The Help, the film based on Kathryn Stockett's novel.  Abilene, a black maid, confronts Hilly Holbrook, a leader in much of the racism on which the story is based.  For a moment, Abilene's fury gives her courage, but then anger drains from her eyes as though she suddenly sees something more than an adversary.  "Aint you tired, Miss Hilly?" She asks, "Aint you tired?"

Are we tired yet, friends?  I am.  I'm weary of the leaden-browed contention that so many of us carry.  I'm tired of feeling intimidated and vilified for disagreeing with someone.  And I'm through with believing ill of half of my country because they see things differently than I do.  If you feel that way too, in any degree, let's rest.

I'm not suggesting that we roll over and just let things happen.  By all means, keep fighting for what you believe to be right, but while you do, let's offer one another the benefit of the doubt.  Let us assume that, as incomprehensible as it may seem, each of us is doing the best we can do with the choices we have.  Let's choose to believe, until proven otherwise, that beneath our anger or frustration, unkind words or stony silence, we're all stumbling toward the same glorious goal.

Ten Minutes Ago

Last Spring, a local high school put on Rodger & Hammerstein's Cinderella.  I couldn't resist taking Addie.  My three-year-old was delighted and wanted nothing more than to meet the elegantly dressed high school actresses who played Cinderella and her fairy godmother.  After that, the soundtrack was introduced into our daily repertoire.  My husband is always singing something and the girls are always putting in requests, or demands, as the case may be.  We found that toddler-approved music goes a long way to keep the peace, especially in the car.

So it happened that, as we were starting off on a road trip, a few weeks after the play, Ben and I were belting out lyrics at the top of our lungs:

"...In the arms of my love, I'm flying, 

"over mountain and meadow and glen, 

"and I like it so well, that for all I can tell, 

"I may never come down again!  

"I may never come down to earth again!"

But every time we reached those last two lines, we were interrupted by an adamant little voice, who insisted, "No, 'I may yes come down again!'"  There was no other way to pacify her and to restore harmony to the atmosphere within the car than to alter the lyrics to her liking.

I suddenly felt that Ben and I were riding a red balloon, buoyant with helium.  The hiss of the gas that had filled it - those dumb jokes that had first drawn us to one another, the pitter-pattering excitement of courtship, the silliness of those newly married, figuring-things-out days - was all fairly fresh.  We were still riding, somewhat, on the rush of new love.  And looking down from this imaginary reverie, I saw this determined little person, clinging for all she was worth to the balloon's ribbed ribbon.

She wasn't thinking about her mom and dad floating away, of course.  I'm pretty sure that her main concern was the idea of Cinderella and her prince floating permanently out of reach.  Then the show would be over and who would wear the tiara?  But to me, she was holding, white-knuckled, to that balloon's string, giving it a little yank, even.  She was making sure that her parents would not float beyond her reach, that, to the fullest of her abilities, she would be mirrored on every facet of our lives.

Being a mom, for me, has been all about re-realizing things.  Each time an idea re-enters my head through a new door or an open window, it stains the walls with greater tenacity, settles deeper into the cracks between the floorboards, or leaves a more lingering scent than it did before.  That morning in the car, revising the lyrics of "Ten Minutes Ago" to fit my three-year-old's criteria, was one of those moments for me.  Not for the first time, but more deeply than ever before, I realized that much of what was between Ben and me, and where we would take those things, was not only ours - not anymore.

We would - and will - continue to renew the helium that lifts us, little sips at a time, through stolen moments together; a thoughtful note here and a little act of kindness there; endless discussions about the things that make us tick; quiet dinner dates, though not without the occasional glance at our phones to check the time or for any news from the babysitter.  And maybe someday, years yonder, I'll realize that we were never riding a balloon at all, but a kite; that we have been riding on a breath of wind, and that those little hands on the line, those little heels digging divots into the ground have carried us higher, further, and more steadily than all the freedom of our unshackled wanderings could have done.

Just a thought.