In Transition

Breathe and push

What if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb? — Valarie Kaur

Things come to us when we most need them. At least, that is my experience.

It’s been a rough time over here the last handful of months. Despite some pundits assuring us that the economy is healthy, unemployment is down, and the administration is making great strides on behalf of the American people, on the ground, just speaking for myself, everything still feels hard. Interests rates are punishing, healthy food is expensive, and options feel limited.

Daily life also just feels like an emotional slog on multiple levels. I’m still dealing with lingering social isolation in the wake of the pandemic which I don’t, honestly, quite know how to work my way out of. I yearn for in-person time with my dear ones, but jobs and kids and partners and overwhelm always seem to intrude. My kids are fine, ultimately. They’re in the throws of the emotional intensity of high school and young adulthood, though, and I struggle to maintain emotional boundaries and not be dragged along. I’m also still working on a book (on top of everything else), which might be the hardest I’ve ever worked creatively and emotionally. This project, she is a beast.

I recognize things have felt increasingly dark and constricted because in the face of other people’s creative work, instead of feeling inspired and thoughtful, I feel resentful, petty, and mean. Well, look at you with all your… words and… cohesive thoughts. How lovely for you! And then I ruminate on the things they have that I feel like I don’t have— financial resources, support, time, connections, and probably a perfect ass. (I did say petty.)

This kind of martyred, comparative litany is a sure sign I’m in a dark place. And I wish I could say that as soon as it begins swirling around in my brain I know I need to take steps to dig myself out of that hole. The truth is I can spend weeks, even months in that loop without really hearing myself properly. It’s only when I allow myself to say the thing out loud to a trusted friend that it echoes back to me from just enough of a distance that the words reverberate and I think, Oh, Asha. You need to get yourself somewhere else.

Just as that realization finally began to intrude on my spinning, I came across a link to a podcast interview with Valarie Kaur from 2020, right before the release of her memoir See No Stranger: A Memoir and Manifesto of Revolutionary Love. Valarie, for those of you who don’t know, is a Sikh activist and author. Her activism began after a man she called Uncle, Sikh elder Balbir Singh Sodhi, was murdered outside of his convenience store just days after 9/11 because someone assumed he was a terrorist. Valarie’s grief birthed a documentary film. It was critically well-regarded, but flew under the radar for many.

Then, on New Year’s Eve 2016, following the election of Donald Trump to the presidency, Kaur spoke at an ecumenical gathering in Washington. Her brief address, in which she compared the political moment to the labor of birth, went viral. In it, she asked the assembly the powerful question, “What if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb?”

All of sudden, the situation was flipped on its head. Instead of being mired in despondency, she invited everyone to see themselves as part of a great transition.
”What if the story of America is one long labor?” she challenged. Then, she insisted, we must do what the midwives tell us to do when we labor: Breathe and Push.

It feels timely to revisit her message at this particular point in our national politics. Many feel heady about the possibilities now that Kamala Harris has become the Democratic nominee. I share in some of that optimism. But I’m also reminded of the disillusionment that many felt after the election of Barack Obama, who campaigned (the first time) on grand slogans about hope. Many people, particularly White people, saw his election as a sign that our great labor for equality was over. We were now living in a liberal, post-racial America.

How many times has that assumption been proven wrong in the ensuing 16 years?

Whether or not Kamala Harris is elected to the presidency in November we’re still in this long labor together. Exhaustion is inevitable and natural (any woman who has labored to birth a child can tell you that), but we’re also not getting off this train, any of us. So, we have to take care of ourselves and each other. And we have to remember our job, as Valarie reminds us: Breathe and Push.

Personally, I have to remember that writing this book is also a birthing, with all the accompanying exhaustion, panic, and doubt. Will it ever end? Am I strong enough, or will I die before it’s all over?

No, I won’t, anymore than I did when both my kids were born. But I do have to take care of myself. In the podcast interview, Valarie spoke about what she needs to do the work in front of her: “What I need is my ancestors at my back, my midwives at my side, and enough quiet to hear the wise woman inside of me.” Yes, yes, yes.

It can feel impossible for me to find that quiet these days. The world, and the inside of my own head, are so clamorous. But I can’t show up in the world the way I want to or do my work without it. So, I’m going to take a vacation from this space for a couple of weeks starting today. Sunday I’m going to the lake with my kids for a week. The sum total of my agenda is reading books, doing jigsaw puzzles, paddleboarding, and s’mores. Despite my hesitant excitement about the upcoming Democratic Convention I’m going to endeavor to stay off my phone and all other screens.

When I get back, it will be the start of the semester at the university where I work, so I’ll need to hit the ground running in my day job. I’m not going to also require myself to show up here that week, instead letting myself ease back in. Hopefully, bringing some of that essential silence with me.

Will I work on the book at all? I don’t know. When I slow down long enough to let the silence creep in it tends to flood my brain insistently, so maybe. Maybe not, though, and that’s fine, too.

I hope you all have a good couple of weeks. Take care of yourselves. Breathe deeply on purpose. The pushing will inevitably come next, and we’ll dig in and do it together.

What are you laboring on right now?