Waiting for the End of the World

I am waiting every day. I check when I wake up to see if it happened overnight. A catastrophic explosion, a nuclear attack, an asteroid hitting the Earth. The collapse of our infastructure. People shooting each other in the street for no reason. No internet, no electricity, no health care. Plunging birth rates. A pandemic more deadly than the last and no lessons learned. And then, against my better judgement, hope somehow slips through. More and more solar and wind power contributing to the electric grid, in our state, in our country, in the world. Occasional outbursts of bravery by judges, individual citizens, and elected officials. Increased demand for an electric car that seats 8 passengers. A baby smiling and learning to talk. (Do not tell him of your fears.) Maybe today is not the day the world will come crashing down.

Happy Birthday to me

I'm 70 years old, and I don't feel much different from when I was 30 or 40. My father said he hadn't changed since he was about 12. The world feels different though. It feels sad and scary. I have spent a lot of time trying to help other people, through work and volunteering and donations. It doesn't feel like I have achieved much at all, although I hope there is someone out there who disagrees. Like the starfish story, did I make a difference to that one? I feel like there must be a solution, something big I could do that would help. But, of course, that's wishful thinking. Can I lead a group of grandmothers (and fathers) to insert ourselves between the two sides of a war? Well, no one would care, they would just shoot us all. And wars are not really like that now, where would we position ourselves on the front lines? We would need a huge number of people, how likely is that? I spend some time listening to live interviews on Substack. I have heroes there. I see that most people, although they may be concerned, live busy and mostly happy lives. They do not feel the need to rise up yet over some distant people dying or abstract principles being trampled on. They will wait until there is no food. For many, there is already no housing, but they feel powerless and hopeless. The time to act is now, and yet, my life is relatively safe and happy. My grandson is the joy of my life and my children are a source of pride as well. I am fortunate that my children want me in their lives. I am so lucky to care for this baby boy 2 days a week and it helps my daughter and her husband as well. I like to think it is good for him, too, although the day care center seems to be doing a great job. One of the things I should be doing is cleaning out old stuff and simplifying my life, for myself and for them. And yet, it does not feel significant. I want to do something big and meaningful. I sign petitions, I go to protests, I donate and volunteer, but there must be more. Getting myself killed or even arrested would upset my family and be pointless. One thing I could do is write something. On Substack? Letters to the editor seem a bit archaic, I don't read them. Could I write a novel, or even a story, that inspires people?