Bead 1: Inaugural Vigil

On Inauguration Day, the last place I wanted to be was in front of a television.  Radio didn't sound good either.  Although I'm a pretty enthusiastic NPR listener, I didn't like the idea of things being delivered into my ears uninvited.  For example, I really didn't want to hear anything about the inauguration--unless it was to hear that it had been called off, or that he had been booed off the stage or swept away by a freak tidal wave that magically pinpointed only the lecherous, wealth-hording xenophobes in the crowd.  As it was my suspicion that none of these interventions would actually happen, I felt it was safest to keep the radio turned off.  And so it was a silent drive into town that morning for Bead 1, the vigil I attended during the inauguration.

The day didn't immediately bode well for the vigil.  I awoke to steady rain and a voicemail message from my son's school district that classes were delayed for two hours due to "wintry road conditions," which to my eyes appeared to consist only of puddles.  It could have been a deal-breaker, as I wouldn't be able to both attend the vigil and see Zac safely off to school.  But Zac must have felt the larger call to action, because he bravely offered to walk himself to the top of the hill to catch the bus after my departure.  I accepted, and after dispensing a dozen or so reminders about his lunch, his umbrella, his phone, his coat, emergencies, and contingency plans, I hugged him goodbye and set out.

Half an hour later, as our country stood by for our proverbial peaceful transition of power, I stood by with about 20 others at the crossroads of our town's two highways.  We stood shoulder to shoulder facing the road, silent, heads mostly bowed under umbrellas--although I had a clear umbrella and found it inspiring to look at the sky and a willow tree across the street from time to time.  The purpose of the vigil was to provide a space for people concerned about the future of our nation to come together and silently reflect, meditate, and pray.  By doing this in a visible location, we embraced a second purpose: to spark conversations in the various passing vehicles about what we might be up to, and why, and perhaps encourage people to do some reflecting of their own.  

Photo courtesy of Carrie Jenkins

Photo courtesy of Carrie Jenkins

With the changing of the guard in 2017, we are downshifting into yesteryear, to a time when overt racism and misogyny in the Powers That Be were acceptable.  At the same time, we are lurching into entirely new terrain, in which self-proclaimed champions of the U.S. Constitution do not balk at the inevitable constitutional violations of our new president, in which purported followers of Christ put a lying, hate-mongering rapist in the Oval Office.  As John Oliver put it not long ago, "This is Not Normal."  So without waving signs or yelling, without chanting or singing or getting in people's faces, we wanted to be a not-normal presence at the intersection of Highways 49 and 41, a silent reminder to commuters and tourists, to our neighbors and friends, that we are entering not-normal times.  (I should clarify that none of the stuff in this paragraph came from the organizers of the vigil. I'm free-styling here, but it feels good.)

As we stood in silence, I struggled with clearing my mind.  I am not a good meditator.  There is always so much to think about; for example, did Zac make the school bus?  What else do I need to do to get ready for the Women's March tomorrow?  What's for dinner?  I was a little disappointed in myself for having such cluttered and mundane thoughts during this, my inaugural Act of Resistance.  

After a while, I dispensed with trying to meditate and did something that comes easier for me.  I prayed.  I am not religious, and have not been for some time.  I really don't believe in any sort of conventional God.  But when I tune my inner frequency to my idea of Something Listening, which could be a number of different entities ranging from the collective unconscious, my inner Higher Power, quantum particles, and distant stars, I do feel something.  I prayed to this Something under my clear umbrella, eyes closed.  I asked for peace for all the people affected by the transition today, particularly for those who were despairing or frightened.  I asked for guidance in the fight I was preparing to undertake.  I gave thanks for the comfortable bubble I am privileged to occupy, and asked to be made somewhat uncomfortable.  I asked for a sense of unity with my fellow earthlings--both like-minded and disparate.

We stood in place for 45 minutes, during which time the inauguration happened.  It rained.  My feet got cold.  From a truck idling at the intersection came an exuberant "America's great again!" right around the time when Trump would have been taking the Oath.  It seemed so boyish and innocent; it made me laugh.  Others delivered staccato honks and thumbs-up as they passed.  A homeless man came and stood with us, chatting quietly with the woman on my left.  When we disbanded afterward, he encouraged us not to vote for a relative of his who plans to run for County Supervisor, but is evidently not a man of the people.  He said "God bless" to us as he walked away. 

My first official action, Bead 1, was a quiet, somber affair.  But for me, it was the perfect way to gather strength for the coming year, and years.  I left feeling ready.