I’m in a large room surrounded by people I recognize on occasion but don’t actually know. It’s nice, I suppose. I have personal space. Time to reflect. The potential for growth. Free reign to write.

Still the churning in my gut won’t stop. Knowing that everything has changed won’t stop. No matter where I am. No matter.

“The world is too much with us” they say … but this isn’t really the truth I know. I know a truth where we keep to ourselves. Hide our love. Turn away from possibility. Turn away from anything that has the potential to hurt us — and there is plenty of that now. More than plenty.

Passing glances, gazing at floors, spending time in malls because no one knows us there and distance has become what we seek most. Need most.

These days I’ve seen women fleeing from a country they’ve loved and nurtured and believed in — often through their entire lives. And we all know why — because the alternative is a wicked loss of women’s rights that will last a minimum of four years.

On the male side, yesterday a man went ballistic because he wasn’t allowed to spend forty-five minutes chatting up a stunned young girl. I haven’t seen a single person who doesn’t seem antsy.

Is this our world now? Standing just outside the door until the preschool bell rings and we gasp to see our children safe and sound? Keeping my head down because a local man keeps his eye on my every move? Living with women because we think we’ll be safer? Know we’ll be safer?

Is this our world now?

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Note: The World is Too Much With Us Now by William Wordsworth, 1807, has been slightly edited to fit present times.

There are, in life,
so many moments that feed us —
learning who we are, our gifts and our pleasures,
a sudden call at the door.
I think today — this place — this time — this unknown tomorrow
is a glaring mish-mash that haunts my brain
and surely won’t let go until
tomorrow,
next week,
forever,
if then.

And even if we acquiesce and work to re-learn joy,
will we believe again? Accept again? Exhale again?

Life isn’t made for comfort — we’ve all learned that —
and still my soul
watches and waits and sighs and grasps and hopes and tries
(again)
to believe.

Last week I learned that my uncle had died quite suddenly of a heart attack. I can’t say he was a spring chicken, but since I didn’t see him often, he was always young in my mind.

He was one with a passel of boys and a sister, born and raised in the Garden District, and later landing in Pass Christian, Mississippi.

He had a good life, and I plan to remember him that way.

Not all of us walk both sides of life. My uncle was a gentle loner who leapt into action when there were friends nearby, served as an avid tour guide whenever we drove down for a visit, and was delighted to show us the ins and outs of the garden district whenever we were in town. He was a good man, learned and happy to tell all he knew. I liked him very much.

When we heard the news, I took it hard. In fact, much harder then you’d think for a girl who spent time with her uncle on perhaps a hand full of occasions during his life. He was, however, much like my own father — they were brothers who took on whatever tasks seemed right for each day.

I was always charmed to know a man who not only worked both sides of the fence, but happily lived a life that melded simplicity, oodles of knowledge, good stories, and a true interest in everyone who crossed his path. He was gracious without a second thought.

I think I would have enjoyed growing up at ease with either side of the coin — something I’ve never been able to say about myself.

I sometimes wonder … do the best parts of our selves jump into action only when we stumble upon tragedy? How often do we take opportunities to reach out, to listen, to laugh?

How often do these moments change us?

Can we hold on to the change? Can we become the change?

I’m still pondering.

Pam Goode