Hope In the Dark

Every Saturday morning, I get up and walk my dog to the farmer's market.

This is one of those simple, basic things that used to be a "someday" for me. First, it was "someday, when I live closer to Prospect Park." Then it was "someday, if you can afford to live in this apartment without a roommate who keeps putting my tomatoes in the fucking fridge." Then it was "someday, if I ever move somewhere that allows pets."

Someday sometimes comes eventually, and the thing you once longed for in your bones becomes a routine. I wake up, shower, and leash a bouncing, excited 94-pound Great Pyrenees for the hour-long stroll that takes us to Grand Army Plaza and back, and I let him pick out bouquets of flowers with his giant snout and receive compliments from beautiful women. When we get home, he usually passes out for hours after breakfast while I go about my morning. It's simple, it's wholesome, and it provides us both with a dopamine rush that lasts the entire day. 

This morning's walk was punctuated by the smell of smoke and the stinging in my lungs that indicates it's gonna get worse. It hasn't rained in New York in weeks, and at some point last night, a brush fire broke out in Prospect Park and it took them hours to get it sorted. So Saturday has been a day where the smoke has gathered, grown thicker, grown wider, does whatever mysterious thing that smoke does that makes life so much worse long after the fire is gone, and we came home and I put the fresh eucalyptus branches and rosemary sprigs in a pot with some lemon and put it to simmer to clear out our lungs. The air purifiers, on high. The usual weekend comfort candles I burn, left unlit. 

It is hard for it not to feel like this is a too on-the-nose harbinger of things to come, as the administration-to-be licks its lips and prepares to wipe the internet of anything that once resembled a climate policy. I will mostly spare you my post-election thoughts here, because we are all so weary, and because you already know that I'm the same person now that I always have been and always will be. 

I woke up the morning after the election, I looked at my phone, and then I did the only thing I know how to do: I got out of bed and went on with the day. My dog, you see, needs to be walked. And as we walked, we ran into a homeless guy who needed breakfast, and that was a problem we could solve, so we did that. And later in the week, a friend of a friend was having a hard time with bills, and that was a problem I could solve, so I did. And this morning, there was smoke in my lungs and my chest hurt, and that was a problem I could solve, so I did.

There are a lot of big problems I can't, or don't know how, or aren't my place to, solve. But there are a lot of small problems right in front of me that I can, and that's what my job is. One foot in front of the other every morning. The 5+ miles a day my dog needs to walk in order to live his best life. The three healthy meals a day I need in order to not crumble into middle-aged-lady dust. (Always with the protein!) The myriad tasks that go into running a business. The amount I need to read every day in order for my brain to relax. The little bits of planning that take to run a life, keep us fed, keep in touch with my loved ones, keep contributing to the community around me. 

There are new little bits of planning, too, starting to emerge. The extra air purifier I bought this morning. The packets of herb and vegetable seeds I can grow on the windowsill if the food system starts to get fucked.  The extra package of toilet paper I bought this morning because if I needed in in 2020, I'll probably need it in 2025. The feeling of "how do I stay ahead of this, knowing what I know now?" that will almost surely get it wrong. Doctors appointments, updated vaccines, cleaning out the spice cabinet and replacing what I need now before there are supply chain or recall issues on basic things. 

Since I got a dog, the average number of steps I take a day has increased to around 14,000, and I've gotten used to compartmentalizing my anxieties about the world into meandering thoughts had during dog walks. I've lost seven pounds, my seasonal depression is more manageable that it's ever been (so far), and my body suffers from fewer aches and pains. 

And the dog himself? He has the best personality of almost any dog I've ever met. He's happy almost all the time, he loves attention and strangers and other dogs, he eats well, he's incredibly snuggly, and he makes people smile. He's been a balm I didn't know that I needed, even if he sometimes puts his paws on my shoulders and burps in my face like a human man. 

My point here, folks, is that this is Soup and Despair, and while we have plenty of despair, we're always going to also have the soup. There are bright spots in the dark times. We are going to put one foot in front of the other, and we're gonna go walk our fucking dog, even if the fucking park is on fire. 

Here's a recipe for chickpea cutlets that I find incredibly versatile and part of a great comfort meal. (Anyone who's ever dabbled in vegan cooking is probably familiar with this recipe, and I'd like to thank Isa Chandra for bringing the garlic parmesan wings back to Modern Love's menu this week in my time of need so that I could panic-order them no less than 3 times.)

And if you haven't read it, and you're looking for words grounded in realism but tinged with light, Rebecca Solnit's seminal work "Hope in the Dark" is a great place to start.

And finally, here is a picture of my dog. His name is Mozzarella.