Dear Ali,
Howās Texas? In California itās very windy, and (of course) sunny. š Your plant projects inspire me. Iām thinking of buying a lemon tree.
Your most recent letter about going outside got me thinking about another kind of āout there, in hereā dichotomy. Letās see if I can make sense of it.
Four years ago, Donald Trump was inaugurated. I donāt remember that day very well. Pictures tell me there was a red tie, and a blue dress. Later analysis disputes the size of the crowd. It was probably cold. I think it was cold in New York, where I was.
My memories are blurry because January 20, 2017 was also the day that my grandfather died. I found out from a phone call, at a prefab desk in graduate student housing. My bed spread was orange that year. I think there was ice on my windowpane. Papa Tomās passing was expected; he had been very sick. That didnāt make anything easier.Ā
My grandpa had crystalline blue eyes and a wallet full of crumpled-up money. He loved animals; sometimes, for birthdays, heād receive a big bag of cracked corn to feed the ducks at his pond. He took my brother and me on four-wheeler rides, and made gooey blueberry pancakes. He was the one who told me I should apply to Harvard, one Christmas Eve, right before the application deadline. āWhy not?ā he said. He was exceptionally generous. He was wry and brave. On the day of his funeral, there was an ice storm. But everyone took the slick roads anyway. The room was packed.
Today, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris will be inaugurated. A monumental day! I will spend most of it thinking about a man from Cascade Locks, Oregon who read the newspaper on the floor, next to the fireplace.
Life is like this, isnāt it? Life has been very much like this recently. Happenings occur: a riot, a pandemic, a weather event, an election. Occasionally, our private lives intersect with these events. Maybe we know someone who was impacted. Maybe we ourselves are. (For example, last spring, when you lived in New York City, the epicenter of the pandemic, and several of us caught the coronavirus. Suddenly, our private memoriesāgrocery orders and wiping down the bottoms of shoes with cleaner, a bad cough, a lonelinessābecome wrapped up in national story.)
But oftentimes, history feels removed from our private lives. It happens far away, to others. We are distressed or encouraged by its progression. But meanwhile, weāre falling in love, or tending friendships, or starting fights. Weāre having birthdays. Weāre caring for someone whoās sick, or attempting to solve a pain of our own. Weāre getting a promotion, or getting fired, trying to eat better or pass a chemistry class. Trying to decide what we want and what we need, trying to preserve and make sense of our own trajectory. All this never runs in any newspaper: and yet, isnāt it everything?Ā Ā
As I always answer in this newsletter: yes. And no! A life wholly consumed by, well, oneās own life, easily becomes claustrophobic. Paying attention to whatās going āout thereā feels like a way to open up to the concerns of others: those for whom history happens to be close, as they lay in a hospital room gasping for air, or flee on a boat with other refugees, or prepare to lay a hand on a Bible and take a solemn oath.
At the same time, a life defined solely by history, by far-away successes or failures and forces largely beyond control, feels depleted. We live in a time and in a place. We live among the chapters of textbooks. We live within the defining moments and issues of our time: a transition of power, climate change, economic inequality. We live in culture, and in community. Indeed, we cannot live apart from these things. We live āout there.ā And yet, we also live in here: a quiet moment this morning all to myself. A January day, this one warm. The taste of blueberry pancakes on my tongue.
Love,
Kate
My book pick
The book: Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life
Why I loved it: This collection of essays is about the accompaniment of books, particularly collections of other writersā letters, and how reading creates a kind of intimate community. Yiyun Li writes painstakingly clearly, especially about her own depression and (trigger warning) her suicide attempts. Be prepared: these essays are philosophical, and sophisticated, and take some time to wrap your head around. (At least they did for me.) So get ready to go slow! Itās worth it.
My ranking: āļøāļøāļøāļø