What Do We Do Now?

We plant bulbs, that's what we do.

For the next few weeks, while I’m trying to get back on my feet, I’ll be spending some time on my knees. Not in prayer—planting bulbs. Planting some hope for an uncertain spring.

We’re all shocked, stunned, reeling. Yet surely we knew this could happen. I don’t know why we’re all so gobsmacked—we should have seen it coming. As Yogi Berra so sagely remarked, “It’s deja vu all over again.” We were here in 2016, mourning the what-ifs and the should-have-beens. It took us months to get back in the game. But we did. And we will again. But now is the time for bulbs.

This is when they need to go into the ground—late fall, after a few light frosts but before the hard freeze. Each bulb is solid, chunky, seemingly a dead clump of roots. But inside each bulb is incredible promise. Dig a hole, put the bulb in root side down, and cover it up. Then plant another.

I’m looking for a metaphor here. In this terrible time, when evil is gloating and hate seems triumphant, what can we turn to? What’s left for us to do? It seems like we have to bury all our hopes in cold, dry soil. Will anything ever come of them?

Last spring I took a trip to the Netherlands, and I went to a public garden called the Keukenhof. It was…words fail me. Stunning. Awesome. A sea of beauty, tulips of every shape and color literally as far as the eye could see.

But what really amazed me was a video they had in the visitor center. It showed the staff of the Keukenhof, dozens of patient, dedicated gardeners. Patient? I guess so. Every year, they get down on their knees in the chilly autumn drizzle, and plant bulbs. By hand. Put in one bulb, measure three fingers distance—about two inches—and plant another one. Day after day, week after week, down on their knees. Every fall, they plant seven million bulbs.

And the fragrant, sparkling tide of tulips in the spring is wonderful. What an achievement! What an accomplishment! You’d think they could rest on their laurels, or tulip leaves, and reap the rewards and satisfaction of all that work come to such perfect flowering.

But you know what they do when the summer wanes? They dig up all the bulbs, and get seven million new bulbs, and start all over again.

Can we do that? Do we have that kind of patience, to hope and dream and work so hard, so hard, only to dig it all up and start again? It isn’t fair. Love ought to be enough. We did this in 2016, endured the dreadful shock of the election, went through the despair, coped with the gloom, and then we rallied and fought back and won…and then we lost. Can we get down into a humble position and do the dismal, boring, repetitive work all over again? This time there will be no triumphant Women’s March, roaring out our anger and our pride. We’re all too tired. Maybe all we can do right now is plant one bulb, and then another. It will be months before they bring us any possibility of joy. But they’re there in the ground, waiting.

What will spring bring us? Who knows? That’s one of the worst parts, the uncertainty. But one thing it will bring my yard is flowers.

P.S. Bulb-planting tip: if you live in the country, plant daffodil bulbs instead of tulips. Tulips are sweet and tasty, and deer and squirrels love them. Daffodils are mildly toxic and wildlife tend to avoid them. The metaphor still works, though.

Dear Friends,

Are you despairing about the state of the world and wondering what to do about it? I hope you’ll continue to check out The Optimistic Activist.

Every now and then I post some ideas for doing something. How to get out the vote, spread the word, and support progressive candidates. Ideas for simple but effective activism. As easy, as practical, as do-able as I can make them.

Together, I think, we could really make a difference.

          “Optimism is a strategy for making a better future.”

                                      --Noam Chomsky