Day by Day

Snow on the terrace. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". March 4, 2022.

A friend posted a cartoon the other day - you may have seen it - that was a variation of the little fish being eaten by successively bigger fishes. In this one, the earth was the little fish, the next bigger one, with its mouth open ready to grab the earth, was COVID, which in turn was about to be devoured by THE WAR, and then by the biggest one of all, CLIMATE CHANGE. It would be amusing if it weren't such a perfect illustration of all of our nightmares.

Coping, I freely admit, has been harder than ever as we watch the unfolding of a brutal war on our screens, and wonder, for the first time in many many years, about the possibility of a much larger conflict, and even nuclear war. I grew up during the Cold War, when the "Iron Curtain" was a reality in Eastern Europe, when Germany, and Berlin itself, were divided and people who tried to cross borders were shot, when the idea of speaking to a Russian or meeting a Russian in real life was something of fantasy. Even arts or sports exchanges were extremely rare. When the term "glasnost" became associated with Mikhail Gorbachev in the mid-1980s, I had already lived more than 30 years with an entirely different idea of what the Soviet Union represented than a 35-year-old person must have now. At that time, we were involved in a Vermont initiative called "Bridges for Peace" that helped facilitate some of the first citizen exchanges between the US and the USSR, and while we didn't travel to the Soviet Union ourselves, I remember the preparatory meetings, and the first gathering where we welcomed a group of heavily-chaperoned Soviet citizens, heard their impressions, and had a chance to ask questions. One person remarked on his astonishment at the size of our grocery stores and the amount and variety of food available. A few years later, there were visits by Russian musicians and choirs; each time, it seemed, they had a little more freedom, and acted more relaxed, so that eventually we could simply be people together sharing meals and an art form that we all loved.

The Iron Curtain fell, the Soviet Union broke apart, but the West has changed too. We take so much about our present lives for granted; we are so complacent.

Porcelain doll with broken hand. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". March 7, 2022.

I've felt heartbroken by current events, as well as frightened, and not just for the Ukrainian people. Even if it is contained, the ramifications of this war will be felt by all of us, and who knows where it will end: are we, in fact, going back to the Cold War years? Will all the diplomatic, economic, and collaborative progress of the last forty years be lost? What about nuclear containment? What kind of weapons will be unleashed? Will nuclear facilities be protected, or will there be another horrific event like Chernobyl? Will the conflict spread to Eastern and then Western Europe? It's unthinkable. The scale of the risk is so much greater and more complex than the well-meant but naive yellow-and-blue flags and sunflowers cropping up all over social media. If you send aid, please do it through established and reputable channels where it has a chance of getting through.

It is a very sober time: a time when I feel called to silent reflection, learning, and meditating on history and on the present, as we still deal with Covid and climate change and all the other pressing problems of our personal and shared lives that seem dwarfed by each day;s news. I haven't been able to write much, but I've tried to draw. I hope you are finding ways to cope, and would be glad to have you share your thoughts.

Manon, sleeping. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". February 24, 2022.

 

Comments

[Martine]

Somber time indeed... Your drawing of Manon feels calming to look at. Thank you for that.

[Pascale Parinda]

Thinking of you, Beth. It’s a very hard time.

[Peter]

Your drawing always amazes me. Do you think Canadians react to the situation differently from Americans?

[Duchesse]

Though we have experienced the suspension of the Cold War, those of us who grew up in North America haven't lived though invasion of our country. My extended family includes a branch of Russians and Ukrainians who immigrated to Canada after WWII as displaced persons. Their reaction to this war is horror, sympathy, worry— but also a hard-bitten "what did you expect?" attitude. They have long been disabused of the notion that their original government would place paramount value on their safety and security.

I am relieved that Quebec has announced it will accept Ukrainian refugees without imposing a quota.

[am]

The night before the war started, we had a surprise overnight snowfall that left about an inch on the bare ground. When I looked out in the early morning darkness, the snow looked like ashes. The snow melted quickly. I didn't think about that again until I heard the first news of the war. I am better able to cope than I've ever been and these days are sobering. Although I haven't been able to finish the drawing I started a month ago, I've been talking with local friends and writing to far away friends mostly via email and via comments on blogs.

Thank you so much for your drawings and for your writing. Your presence.

[Vanessa Miller]

Thank you for sharing some of your experience with us Beth. I consider it an act of generosity. I have been
struck silent of late but I did want to let you know how grateful I am for your postings. How to keep hope alive
in these dark times, how to behold and hold the horror and still go toward the light? Today I read this quote from
Maxine Hong Kingston- "In a time of destruction, create something." Your practice and sharing here
is that notion in action to me. Thank you for that gift. It does make a difference.