Here we are again strapped into seats 26A and 26C about 35,000 feet above Fargo, North Dakota vectoring in a more or less straight line towards touchdown in Toronto.  Only after zig-zagging across the huge expanse of the Pacific Ocean does a four and a half hour flight feel like a short hop, but there it is, one of the many things that has changed after three plus months detached from our former reality.

For those of you who may recall our prior airport adventures, I am happy to report that we had no dramas this morning.  Of course, I made absolutely certain Melissa all but signed a written waiver not to complain about our 7:00 am flight, a time we mutually agreed upon after searching endlessly for the cheapest way to get from Seattle to Paris.  I woke her up at 4:45 am, fifteen minutes before the taxi would arrive.  Eyes closed, hands in a death grip with the comforter, she asked, “do I have five more minutes?”  It was more a pitiful murmur than a question.  

We had spent about two weeks in Seattle, an astonishingly fleeting, interim existence that felt like sleepwalking through a familiar dream.  I remember the first morning waking to a beautiful spring day without the faintest idea of whether it was 6:00 am or noon, and stopping dead in my tracks on the way to the bathroom confused by all the clothes and shoes in my closest.  Where did all this come from?  I counted at least fourteen pairs of shoes including five different pairs of sandal/flip flop/slipper things.  I tried to wear all of them at least once while I was home.  I failed.

Later that day, we called Melissa’s mom to catch up.  In the middle of a conversation that had been all oohs and ahs over the spectacular natural beauty of New Zealand, Carol suddenly pivoted to her serious mother voice, the one she uses to make dire predictions about our future if we fail to follow her advice, and declared in a tone that brooked no dissent, “tell Don if I see him in another picture wearing those plaid shorts again, I think I’m going to die.”  They are not plaid.  They are monochrome.  The next day, Melissa and I walked to Nordstrom and bought new clothes for our trip to France.  I’ve got a big closet.

By far and away, the most delightful thing about being home (even more so than the glorious spring weather) was seeing Nick and visiting with friends.  A particular heartfelt shout out to Laura and Emory who not only hosted and fed us along with a few friends one night, but allowed us to linger in laughter with them for over five hours.  If there was ever a time when such gracious hosts were entitled to, as I learned by watching Queer Eye, gently usher their guests out the door by serving coffee, that night was one of those times. 

The next several days flew by in a blur.  I remember cooking a few dinners, laughing with Nick, who, by the way, did an impressive job of handling the house, catching up with Meg and Josh and Jack and my mom, wishing my brother Mike a happy birthday, and obsessing, along with most of America, over Season 8, Episode 3 of Game of Thrones.  Melissa, not a huge GOT fan – not a big fantasy fan in general — actually watched all of Season 7 with me (my third time) as well as the three episodes in Season 8.  She only fell asleep once in Season 7.  Yet another facet of this otherwise “literary” woman emerges.  Thank you Australia.  Khaleesi Melissa is in the house!  If you do not understand that last sentence, it just means you are normal.  

On the plane today, I read a terrific essay by Christopher Beha in Harper’s.  Here’s the quote that caught my eye and got me thinking about our brief layover in Seattle. 

“When I try to envision a better future, I find myself hoping for a society in which we all spend a little less time thinking and talking about politics.  I know I’m not alone in this hope.  Never before has the political, in the narrowest, electoral sense of the word, so saturated every corner of our lives.” 

It occurred to me after reading this quote a second time that during our short stay in Seattle we had spent virtually no time talking to our friends and family about politics.  During our lovely five plus hours with Laura and Emory and friends, “he who should not be named” did not intrude once on our delightful conversations.  By the way, I know the Harry Potter line is “he who must not be named.” I intentionally changed the “must” to “should.” We can use Donald Trump’s name without fear; we just should not allow it to interrupt our sanity as much as it does.  And that, with all due respect to the rather more intelligent and thoughtful insights of Christopher Beha, is his main point in the quoted article.  

I’ve mentioned before how I have wrestled with my ardent desires to remain permanently on sabbatical as opposed to returning to the United States, and, in particular, to the rude rhetoric building once again as we head into the election.  Beha provided me with a perspective on this sabbatical. It’s not that we should all run away or disengage from what has now been dubbed “the resistance.”  As Ellie Wiesel stated simply, but profoundly, “We must all takes sides.  Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.  Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”  Rather, as Beha explains, periodic disengagement from our obsession with politics (small “p”) makes needed room for reengagement with knowledge, beauty, laughter and each other.  Again, Beha,

“Knowledge and beauty; pleasure and delight; the contemplation of truth, irrespective of its instrumental uses; the intimate encounter with another human consciousness offered by the best works of art – these are among the things that make life worth living.”

Perhaps Beha’s most powerful insight, however, is how our collective obsession with Donald Trump and his tweets, his masterful, but dangerous manipulation of the press, moves us ever closer to a totalitarian society.  The “defining feature of totalitarian societies” as Beha notes, is that “they are places in which all modes of life are subsumed under the political, in which each citizen’s most important relationship must be his or her relationship to the state.”  Sound familiar?  So, how much time did you spend watching CNN or Fox last week?

Our brief stint in Seattle was as rejuvenating as our three and a half months overseas precisely because we returned to the joys of friends and family, the beauty of spring, and even the cathartic experience of doing some needed yard work (not one of Nick’s many talents).  As Beha helped me understand, “[t]he ultimate aim of scaling back our political attention is not apathy but the creation of autonomous space for social, spiritual, and aesthetic experiences.”  I am not apathetic about voting Donald Trump out of office along with those craven republicans who have empowered him verbally or through their silence.  I am, however, refreshingly aware of how a time out, a break from obsession with the nonsense we call Trump, especially his incessant “chit chat” via twitter, is, as Beha rightfully states, a form of resistance.

If my political views have touched a nerve with any of you good people who make time to read about our adventures, please take a moment to appreciate how much I love you, seriously and sincerely.  I don’t intend or hope to change your political opinions.  In fact, I encourage them.  Democracy is built on thoughtful dialogue.  Can we agree, however, to advocate for our respective positions respectfully and civilly and, as much as possible, with a sense of humor?  If Beha is correct, and I believe he is, allowing our political disagreements to fuel the fire of obsession leads inevitably to totalitarianism.  I feel confident that we all prefer a democracy.  So, if it’s okay with you, let’s keep the political chit chat to a minimum.