Stay Alarmed, Keep Dancing

A few nights ago, in the middle of deep slumber, we were awakened by the loud, piercing shriek of an alarm. Hearts pounding, we bolted upright in the bed, frantically looking around and reaching for our cell phones and flashlights, trying to ascertain the source and the cause. It was the smoke and carbon monoxide detector, and as there was no smoke in the apartment, we had to acknowledge the possibility that it was alerting us to dangerous levels of carbon monoxide. Windows were open, and we did not appear to be near death, but the alarm continued its mysterious, intermittent blaring until my husband took the thing down and deactivated it.

Sleep of course eluded me in the hours that followed. I began to think about the alarms we are subjected to daily, the barrage of bad news, electronic beeps and AI intrusion, the madness of unfiltered social media, narratives shoved along by the use of fear, and my own perennial proximity to panic. Awake in the night, my inner alarm receded gradually into the familiar sense of dismay about what is happening. But dismay is not much better than panic. I just wanted to get back to sleep and begin tomorrow rested. 

I am having hip replacement surgery in a few weeks, and a friend has lent me a walker, crutches, and other mobility aids that are lined up against the wall in front of me now like soldiers awaiting duty. It reminds me daily of my vulnerability, but also my fortifying connections to friends. And I am apprehensive about the surgery but grateful that my problem is fixable hardware and this is a relatively routine procedure. I will be sidetracked for a while to recover, but I’ll shift to indoor projects and writing and planning and fervently adhering to my creed of never giving up. 

Among the at-home projects will be tending to my oral history website, The Living Stories Collective. I recently visited Chris Ervin, the archivist of the Santa Barbara Historical Museum, for some advice about that. It was weirdly hot outside, and I wandered through an exhibit called “Finding Saint Barbara” about Santa Barbara’s patron saint, then walked into the cool, peaceful oasis of the Gledhill Library. (The picture above is one of the depictions of Saint Barbara I saw in the gallery; she looks worried, if not alarmed.) 

In his patient, respectful way, Ervin helped me to revisit my website and better understand what it needs to be more functional and accessible. I believe in the value of these oral histories, and I appreciate the fact that there are people like him who care about this stuff, who curate and preserve and tend to the fragments and understand that we are all part of a greater story. As Faulkner said, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

Gloria Steinem, in her final interview, which aired a few days after her death, mentioned the importance of story. “Please tell your own story,” she says, looking straight into the camera at her unseen future viewers. “This is the most important thing we can do for each other: to know each other through stories.” And she urges us all to do what we love, which surely also means to fight for what we love. 

Wendell Berry, another of my heroes, died in the same week as Steinem. I have drawn upon his gentle wisdom and poetry for many years, particularly in exploring my relationship to nature and to place, but also for guidance in how to navigate these bewildering times. His words resonate and reassure me:

It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work, and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.

I am a baffled mind and an impeded stream, literally singing. The Santa Ynez Valley Resistance Singers had a gig in Buellton’s community garden today. We will move on to more protest-oriented events, but there is much joy and solidarity in our gatherings. 

And there’s that word — joy ― again. We are allowed. It is sustenance. It is more powerful than panic, and even if it tips toward hysteria, a little light-headedness and laughter is liberating. I am alarmed, as we all should be, but not defeated, not even close. 

My husband and I go for a neighborhood walk each evening in the cool of twilight. The friendly dog-walkers stop to chat, Venus shines like a lantern in an indigo sky, the streets smell of earth and summer’s end, and rain, a mix of real and wished-for.  

And I don’t know what I am doing, but I trust my daughter’s advice: Keep flailing until it becomes a dance. 

So, let us know each other. Let us speak our stories and fight our fights and sing our songs and flail around until we dance. Let us stay alarmed and ready.