Senses of Showing Up
When the world gets bleak, we can get bright.
It’s a sentence that showed up for me the last week of January, a sort of mantra of sorts I’ve been repeating to myself whenever I find myself holding my breath, waiting for what new horror might be coming next: When the world gets bleak, we can get bright.
I highly recommend thinking it and whispering it and speaking it and maybe even flat-out shouting it to yourself whenever it might be helpful, whenever you find yourself in need of a bit of bolstering.
Plenty of beloved humans I know across the country are working diligently to be bright spots in their close-knit and broader communities, many of them right now while facing unprecedented uncertainty in their own personal and professional lives, so perhaps it would be even more accurate to say: When the world gets bleak, we can get brighter.
In the face of such rampant, unchecked bigotry and manufactured cruelty, it can be easy to feel powerless, to give in to despair. It’s a mad, mad world, truly. Always has been, but I know here in the “United” States what’s happening in our capitol and trickling down to government orgs and adjacent agencies and the humans employed by and reliant on them [hi, that’s all of us to various extents] feels…different. It feels more organized, more intentional, altogether more relentless. Fascism in this country, it seems, is altogether done being subtle.
The current administration is striving to be one of the most intentionally incompetent and comprehensively cruel in our nation’s history, which, when you really dive into U.S. history [especially where questionable and altogether racist and violent presidential priorities are concerned] is no small feat.
So, what can we do? We can show up. Every day, in a million different ways.
We can show up to let our targeted trans and beloved queer friends know that they’re welcome in our communities, in our homes, in our inboxes, and in our phones. We can show up to stand against any unhinged “mandates” that would make them unsafe.
We can show up to support mutual aid groups across the country.
We can show up to resist the status quo, to resist business as usual, to resist fascist, racist, proudly white supremacists systems wherever we encounter them.
We can reach out to check in on friends, family, neighbors, strangers we only met last week. We can remind those we know and love and interact with that they’re not alone, that we’re in this together. We can give long hugs and love our people fiercely.
We can read good books and support the orgs (especially small, independent presses!) who are doing the good work of uplifting voices out to positively change the world.
Speaking of, I highly recommend shopping/gifting Haymarket’s “Books for Black Liberation” collection—and not just because they’re offering 40% off those curated titles [+ free shipping when you spend $25] through February.
We can send notes (texts, emails, voice memos, voicemails, actual letters) to share good work—poems and songs and art and articles and books and stories of all shapes and types that can lift and inform and inspire us all to collective, sustainable, progressive action.
We can laugh together and learn together and write together and make art together and create deep pockets of abiding community together.
We can forever lean into celebrating all that is beautiful and necessary about an eclectic, compassionate, diverse communities. We can forever lean into celebrating and fighting for all that is beautiful and necessary about an eclectic, compassionate, diverse country.
We can talk to the moon, every chance we get. We can remember our place in the grand universe of being and feel infinite amounts of humility.
We can walk outside and feel the cold air, feel the warm rain, stare up at the night sky and at sun-streaked forest canopies; we can walk into cold water and into warm water and onto long trails and maybe when we get home we can spare a moment to advocate for fellow humans being held captive and treated unjustly within our country’s for-profit [see also: forever run on slave labor] prison system.
We can find causes that set our hearts on fire [like the imminent threat of drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, or the way Idaho allows hunters to decimate wolf populations year-round, or the dwindling populations of Southern Resident Killer Whales in the Salish Sea—three causes I personally care immensely about], and we can learn how we can show up to help, trusting and knowing that where and when we do, it ripples outward in game-changing waves.
We can remember our voices and the way we use them always matters and always will—especially as the Powers That Be (Corrupt and Morally Bankrupt) seek to silence them.
We can remember (and keep reminding one another whenever we might forget): We can each be the lights we need in our world—in our big cities, in our small mountain towns, in our neighborhoods, in our assorted circles of friends.
As so many artists and activists have said before me: “We keep each other safe.”
Until next time, friends. In the meantime may we all take heart, take good care, and may we never stop showing up for each other.
May we repeat as often as we need:
When the world gets bleak, we can get bright.
*As always, recommended reading + writing prompts below.
RECOMMENDED READING FOR THE MONTH AHEAD
Books:
You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World, edited by Ada Limón
The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin
High Tide in Tucson by Barbara Kingsolver [a collection of essays published in 1995; I think her “Jabberwocky” essay from this collection should be taught in every high school in the country; so, too, should James Baldwin, of course].
Poetry:
“alternate names for black boys” by Danez Smith
“A Litany for Survival” by Audre Lorde
“Nina’s Blues” by Cornelius Eady
“slaveships” by Lucille Clifton
“BLK History Month” by Nikki Giovanni
REFLECTIVE WRITING PROMPTS FOR THE MONTH AHEAD
Community spotlight. Write a short story (real or imagined) inspired by someone in your community.
Write your way forward. Imagine the next month, two months, six months on the page. What do you need to feel safe in your community? Where might you be able to ask for help?
Show up. Write about what “showing up” means to you in the here and now. Think back to times in your life you’ve shown up for yourself, for your friends, for your communities. What did it look (and feel) like?
Priorities. What causes are setting your heart on fire right now? Spend ten minutes making a list and see what shows up for you on the page.
Follow-up prompt: Where might you be able to plug in to help?
As always, I recommend sitting with each of these prompts for at least ten minutes at a time. Set a timer and try to keep writing without stopping or self-editing or even trying to steer yourself a certain direction. I’m a firm and longtime believer that when it comes to prompts like these, wherever you end up on the page is precisely where you’re meant to be.
Do you know someone who would benefit from receiving regular writing prompts to their inbox, who might delight in reading some intentional rambles about words and water and the power in finding our respective and collective (voices +) senses of place?
I’d love it if you’d share this post and Kerrtopia with them.
Kerrtopia is a free offering, though I've turned on paid subscriptions for this newsletter if you have the means to support it now or anytime in the future. It's not necessary to pay to read, but it is of course very much appreciated. I’ll likely be adding some special content for paid subscribers down the line. Thanks for reading, and for your ongoing support. I’m grateful you’ve found me here; I’m grateful we’re here together. You can also find me on Bluesky [not owned by fascist billionaires] and I’m still on Instagram for now.
Needed this 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍
Thank you for this beautiful perspective. 🩵