We Interrupt this Regularly-Scheduled Protest

I can count the number of political moments I've had in the past five days in as many fingers, where "political" = recalling that Team Trump is in charge and we have some problems.  For example, I opened my Daily Action text alerts, and recognized the names of people I was asked to stand up for and against.  I watched the YouTube rerun of the opening Saturday Night Live skit from last weekend, in which President Alec Baldwin hosts a surprise town hall in Union, Kentucky, and reveals how deep-seated Trump love can be.  And I had the following exchange with my boyfriend:  

Me:  All I brought with me is my pink pussy hat. 

Taylor:  What's that?

This is not like the new Bekah.  The new Bekah, born of fire just over five months ago, is constantly on the go--organizing meetings and events, putting people in touch with each other, speaking with the proxies and answering machines of her legislators, writing emails, writing blog posts.

This isn't even like the old Bekah.  The old Bekah at least checked the news.  Pre-Obama, the old Bekah at least maintained a healthy background level of indignation, and attended occasional rallies.

The thing is, we are trying to fix up my house to sell.  We have three weeks to do it.  The house is in Montana, more than 1,000 miles away from where we live.  So we came here, and are staying in the house.  The house lacks dishes, furniture, proper lighting, and the Internet.  We are camping indoors in a city of 70,000 people.

It's the perfect recipe for de-activism.  I am hyper-engaged with my own life, isolated from my normal activist channels and community, and distracted by urban trappings such as a nearby climbing gym, and a craft brewery every ten blocks. 

This is how my world looked just a few weeks ago (Oakhurst Women's March, January 21).  That's me in the center, magenta raincoat, chanting at the top of my lungs.  Photo courtesy of Bill Klemens.

This is generally how my world looks now.

Truth be told, I am appreciating the break.  When I accidentally swipe right on my phone and am pelted with scary headlines from around the AP, I can just swipe left again and move on to other things.  Like applying spackle, or making a run to Lowe's.  Donald Trump does not currently fill up my head, or even a small portion of it.  Psychologically speaking, he went from a penthouse suite to a broom closet.

Of course, Donald Trump continues to occupy our nation's penthouse suite, regardless of how much internal air time I give him.  I take my break knowing that shit is still hitting the fan everyday, and that my work is piling up.  Just like my son with his ream of make-up school assignments, I will have to scramble in the weeks after my return to string the missing beads.

Meanwhile, carry on, resistors.  I will see you on the other side of the construction zone.