I did a bad thing recently. In the midst of sadness, despair and grief - over things I still have no strength to talk about - I made an angry and hurtful statement about members of American society.
The comment was unnecessary. In fact, it stepped over a line in the sand, a boundary, that I set for myself. Yet there it was, just under 280 characters in a Tweet, a response to someone who wanted four more years of businessman Donald J. Trump in the White House. My Tweet read:
“ I hope so. I have no doubt he will kill thousands more of his followers and maybe, just maybe, we might have a break from people like you. (What a terrible thing for me to say, and yet ...)”
I was numb when I hit the tweet button. And I knew the kind of backlash I was going to get. But something in me - the true me who longs to give and receive compassion - had turned off. I felt as though the center of my soul was a dark cave, forgotten by time, devoid of sunshine. When I hit tweet on that post, I had momentarily given up on humanity. And I wrote a bad, bad thing.
I accept that this was a terrible thing to write. This is not who I am. And it’s definitely not who I strive to be. But as a flawed human, I fell from the kind grace that my faith taught to me and the strength my mother taught me to embody.
The retribution was quick:
Just as I changed not one's heart and mind, none of these tweets changed me. I wholeheartedly embrace the Beatitudes of Jesus, “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth”; “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called sons of God.” But my own anger and depression, like a Lemurian spirit, took over and I wallowed in bleak misery for days until ultimately I lashed out, lobbing a verbal grenade. A blast of that nature does not go unnoticed.
There is a lesson in all of this and I’ll take it for myself. I’ve re-learned that anger begets anger and hatred begets hatred. I’ve learned that it hurts, emotionally and physically, to be wrong and that celebrating someone’s supposed comeuppance is a dagger no one needs to plunge. The fact is that people in both parties have died. Another fact is that more Dems and GOPers will die from Covid-19. An equally important fact is that when any one of us looks back on these days and realize we were on the wrong side of history, it could open emotional chasms and levels of self-examination that would rock anyone’s psyche. I could very well be on the wrong side though my heart and my training in research tell me I'm not.
It would be smart and compassionate if we could lay down rules of human discourse, with limits that we all could follow. But I’m not sure these can be followed by some, much less all. I used to think to myself that I at least had the ability not to tread on or hurt others. Yet, several days ago, on Twitter, I may have done just that. Though I should make clear that the people who commented likely went unhurt. I indulged their impulses and not much more.
Still, one poster by the Twitter handle Escobar, whom I admitted more than I wanted to on that terrible, terrible day, extended humanity in the face of my inexplicable villainy.
“I usually keep my beliefs to myself and never wanna sound like I'm preaching ... but it saddens me to see another person hurt. It really hits home! Just remember that He's in control and keep faith alive ... now more than ever.”
After I read this I cried. I responded by thanking her. Then I went to the room and cried some more. Despite the onslaught and the rampant hatred, a flower of compassion bloomed. I wasn’t expecting that. I spend the next few days thinking and praying. I am not an outwardly religious person. Faith is deeply personal and not open to debate. But I was reminded of who I had been striving to be. Fortunately in this world, we get more chances to do things right. And I suppose the right thing to do is to rise again and hold my head up,
