Braving the Rain

And doing the next right thing

Annapolis, Maryland. 1975-ish. Just after a rain.

I was maybe four years old, riding my bike around our dirt driveway in the woods. My training wheels got stuck in the mud and I found myself on a stationary bike, my back wheel spinning an inch above the muck without moving me forward. I felt it begin to rain again, so I pedaled faster. The more I pedaled, the more I was stuck, the harder the rain fell.

It wasn’t until I got off and ran inside for help that I saw the truth (to my mother’s dismay, I’m sure): the “rain” I was racing to escape was a self-inflicted brown mud shower that my insistent, assured pedaling sprayed up my back and over my head.

This memory¹ came to mind in the past week, as we watch a new and democratically elected administration bring a deluge of confusion, disruption and fear. We have work to do to get ourselves out of this mess.

In “What do we do now?” fellow Substacker

Elizabeth Beggins

echoed my thoughts of late —

Somehow it will have to be enough to go on caring for each other,

carrying each other, through it all.

This is what we do now.

When I drive my son to his program², we inevitably share the road with some version of a loud, hyper-masculine truck, belching smoke. Bumper sticker or not, I assume he is happy to have a “bro” in the White House. He bullies his way around the rest of us. I try not to breathe in his exhaust or take on his exhausting negative energy. The other commuters and I drive with extra care and consideration, let each other in— aiming to keep all of us safe as we go about our individual and equally valuable lives.

I try to have compassion even for monster truck guy, knowing that there are unseen causes and conditions that set him barreling down this road. Maybe he’s going to visit a sick friend in the hospital, maybe he just lost his job, maybe he is still mad about the price of eggs.

My middle fingers may discreetly lift off the steering wheel ever so slightly as he roars around me, but I (usually) remember to send a silent note of good will. May you reach your destination safely. May your mood improve before you kill someone.

I sometimes allow myself a serene, seemingly oblivious smile when my little hybrid coasts up beside his idling anger at the next light, hoping he might have a glimmer of awareness that, without endangering anyone or raising my blood pressure, I’ve made it here, too, in good time.

I’ve been reading more poetry lately, Mary Oliver and others who help me see the world in new ways (and remind me to pay attention). This one came to me from

Beth Kempton

during her “Winter Writing Sanctuary.”

Pain always teaches me

to make new things.

Less for what the things become

than for how the making

re-makes me

brave and grateful.

-- Excerpt from “Bury the Seed” by Brooke McNamara

Right after the election, I heard this advice from

Dan Harris

—and since the inauguration, I’ve decided to run with it—Action Absorbs Anxiety.

For me, taking action looks like this: I’ve started writing down (in a purposely small notebook to keep it simple) one action I take each day on behalf of the communities and people I care about. Some days, it’s signing a petition or writing a letter; other days it’s supporting an artist or writer, checking in with friends who are impacted or targeted, or simply offering extra kindnesses to family or neighbors.

Maybe I do these things anyway, but recording them specifically makes a difference, in the same way a gratitude journal does, I think. My tiny contributions won’t fix all (or maybe even any) of the problems I see, but when so many fires are sprouting up in all directions, and so much is out of my control, doing one small thing today—simply, the next right thing—reminds me of my agency and of the world I want to live in.

Long as I remember, the rain been comin' down
Clouds of mystery pourin' confusion on the ground
Good men through the ages tryin' to find the sun
And I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain?

--“Who’ll Stop the Rain?” by John Fogerty, Creedence Clearwater Revival

Here are a few Substacks I follow that help me choose the right actions for me:

• Chop Wood, Carry Water
  by
  Jessica Craven

• The Weekly List
  by
  Amy Siskind

• Playing with Fire
  by
  Shannon Watts

• CEBV Weekly
  by
  Melinda Merkel Iyer
  [for AZ state action]

• Letters from an American
  by
  Heather Cox Richardson

• Civil Discourse with Joyce Vance

• Constant Commoner
  by
  Ramona Grigg
  , who offers a great list of others, here.

---

A few other updates:

• I’ve heard that sometimes Substack sends my subscribers emails that I have no control over. If that’s bugging you, you can sign into your account settings and opt out of notifications or other things from there.

• You might remember that I teased a new “Finding Aid” piece in my December post. I got a little distracted by this months-long January. A February offering, perhaps?

• I’m also still working on this Index page for my autism-related writing—Another casualty of January, but more here soon…

• I’ve updated my personal “Support” page with a donation button for my son’s day program, a link to my husband’s art, a tip jar, and a Bookshop affiliate page. 🤗

• Join me on Substack Notes, or come find me on BlueSky (@robinklavoie.bsky.social) — I’ve just signed up over there, hoping to ditch or downgrade Meta social media soon. On socials, I have fun with posts like this :)

---

Thanks, as always, for being here. May all of our moods improve.

1. This memory is from a time in my life when my dad worked at the NSA and my mom raised us in the Episcopal Church. They took security clearances and sermons of mercy seriously. Still do.

2. My son’s program (like so many of the services we depend on for him) relies on Medicaid funding, by the way, dollars which will be at risk in the coming days as fiscal conservatives favor tax cuts over health and social services spending.