“You should rewrite this as a novel.”

That’s what my father-in-law said when he read a very early draft of my memoir in 2009. I dismissed that idea out of hand, because fiction – that realm of Toni Morrison and Thomas Hardy – that was too heady for me. Crafting a whole world, with layers of themes and ideas, that feels like something for the Gods. Non-fiction, which is closer to journalism, closer to craft, anchored by facts and memories, has always felt so much more accessible and less scary for me.

“These times are riven with anxiety and uncertainty . . . Our trust in the future has lost its innocence. We know now that anything can happen, from one minute to the next.”

John O’Donohue, the poet, philosopher and scholar who died in 2008, wrote those sentences in 2003, in Beauty: The Invisible Embrace. But reading it now, in the Spring of 2021, feels eerie.

Goldenrod, Dandelion, Forest Green, Midnight Blue, Violet, Orchid, Salmon, Burnt Umber. The names of Crayola Crayons popped the curious synapses in my brain. What was Umber? Why would you burn it? I loved the way the 64 crayons stood proudly upright in their four smaller cardboard boxes inside the larger yellow and green one, demonstrating their creative potential. All of the colors fascinated me – even the ugly ones – but my favorite was Magenta. It wasn’t just the color, it was the dignity of its name. Ma-genta, Ma-genta. It was magisterial, vibrant, alive.

A few weeks ago I was sitting in the foggy morning light in my pale blue bedroom, meditating, when a declaration bubbled into my head. ‘I’m going to wear red lipstick every day when the pandemic is over.’

‘Yes,’ I thought, even though one is not supposed to think thoughts while meditating. YES. 

What better way to declare avid participation in the new world than red lipstick? When it’s safe to go out without masks, I’ll wear red lipstick. When we can be in crowds, exuberantly absorbing music and sports and food and culture with our friends, I’ll wear red lipstick. When it’s finally safe to travel again, I’ll stroll the streets in Umbria and Rajasthan, wearing red lipstick. 

Well here we are – it’s 2021. To borrow from the guys at Pod Save America, I feel nauseously optimistic. There are so many daunting challenges to solve, and I believe we can face them.

In 2018, Tarana Burke said, “I believe we are entering a period of answers. . . . We’re trying to build something that has never existed. It is going to take every single one of us doing all the things we can at capacity in order to make that happen.”

All of us, doing all the things, at capacity. That’s quite a call to action!

This fall I wrote an essay about economic security, about my Dad, about the pandemic. It’s a bit long for a blog post, so here are a few excerpts:

My father’s father lost his father in the influenza epidemic in 1920. At age ten, Grandpa became the man of a family saddled with farm debt. He had to help support his sister and his mother, who had lost seven children as babies before she lost her husband too. And then, just when Grandpa was starting his adult life, he faced the Great Depression…