This week has been crushing. Just crushing. I’ve been looking for something to settle the outrage. It’s the stuff needed by everyone who practices moral distress for a living. The things that get you by when 5 out of six patients in the ICU are bodies begging to be let die. When you feel helpless, without recourse, exhausted. When the news is just so bad.
Breathless diatribes to friends and family members do not work. Also, they are not appreciated.
Trolling twitter is an exercise in futility and will prevent you from sleeping at night. Not recommended.
So after alienating all people IRL and on the internet, I went to the books. My college roommate gave me a Maya Angelou book of poetry for my 20th birthday and I am forever grateful. (Although that night the only thing I was was debauched, later I was grateful. What a cool roommate). Angelou was given a diet of abuse and society’s garbage and still grew into a sterling woman, poet, author, activist. I mean a true gift to the human race. I could listen to her forever, but this excerpt from a Fresh Air interview where she talks about discovering the universality of poetry and recites a Shakespearean sonnet (spur of the moment, from memory) knocks. me. back.
This is what is doing it for me today.