Building a bridge from "me" to "us"

Let them see us try

Tillicum Crossing Bridge at sunset in Portland, Oregon

I got a full-body blast of hope at my local No Kings protest.

My plan to attend with a neighbor fell through so I ended up going alone. No sign, no funny getup, just me going up and down the blocks quietly observing and taking it all in.

Thousands of people of all ages came out on a weekend morning to chant, sing, wave, honk and (in some cases silently) say they cared. The energy was medicinal.

I keep thinking about hope. I turn it over in my mind as I would a warm stone in my hand.

I tend to dwell in my head so perseverating on hope might be a form of self-soothing. Nevertheless, I persist! I’m trying to model grounded, realistic hope for my kids and to do that I must safeguard my own flickering hope.

What is hope made of? Where can we find it right now?

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On the morning after the 2016 election, I was on an early flight to Florida for the final stop on my PARENT HACKS book tour. Distraught by the election results, I cried throughout the entire ride. My rational self judged the reaction as extreme (and for sure embarrassing). I didn’t understand it, but I also couldn’t control it. I eventually made it to my Tampa hotel room, collapsed on the bed in a stupor and fell asleep, fully clothed.

The next morning, while trying to revive myself with lukewarm lobby coffee, I impulsively created a secret Facebook group to gather local friends so we could grapple with how to respond. I knew next to nothing about politics, but I also knew we could better handle whatever was ahead if we faced it together.

I invited 40-odd friends to join my Facebook group. They invited their friends, who invited their friends. By the end of the week, my unsearchable, invisible-to-the-public, “secret” group contained over 7000 people.

For the next two years I moderated that group, which led to collaborating with other groups across Portland which led to co-leading what would become a major local grassroots effort to turn out Democratic votes for the 2018 midterm elections.

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I share this story now because that pivot toward organizing didn’t start as an exercise in activism, but as a reach for community. A bridge from me to us.

I saw this same “bridge” at the No Kings protest. For a few hours, thousands of people said yes to each other. Thousands of me’s came together and became us.

When I think about it that way, I see bridges from me to us everywhere I look: in neighborly chats on the sidewalk, friendly glances in line at the cafe, even in the warm exchanges in newsletter comments.

Anywhere there’s a bridge from me to us there’s hope.

Maybe it starts that simply?

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I think one of the most important things we can do right now is to pull hope out of the clouds and put it back into our everyday lives.

Let our kids see us build bridges from me to us wherever we can. If we don’t know where to begin, let them see us try, over and over.

Let them see us attempt the awkward conversation.

Let them see us invite people to a potluck we’re not sure they’ll attend.

Let them see us drag ourselves to a march on a Saturday morning. If we can’t attend, let them see us honk and wave as we drive by.

Let them see us risk saying earnest things like HOPE IS THE BRIDGE FROM ME TO US.

Let them see us try.

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📝 NOTES OF NOTE

• If you’re wondering what to do next, here are some suggestions from the No Kings website.

• On Being podcast creator

  Krista Tippett
  has curated a reflective exercise called Hope Portal on her podcast + Substack. Through seven weeks of recorded conversations and journal prompts, she aims to help us find and put into practice a “muscular” hope. Her poetic vocabulary of hope speaks to the deepest part of us, I think. Read Welcome to the Hope Portal on
  The Pause
  .

• Here’s a free printable journal to fill in as you listen to each Hope Portal episode. Download Hope, Imagination and Remaking the World: A Journal for Pondering and Practicing

• Rosie Spinks
  argues that durable hope lives in your body. As a gardener, I feel this in my bones. Read A Singular Source of Joy at What Do We Do Now That We're Here?

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🗄️ IN THE ARCHIVES

• More thoughts on grounded activism

• Read this post👇🏽 so we’re all on the same page about political conversations in this newsletter (tl;dr: we can totally do this, and I’m a fair but firm moderator):

"Can we just *not* talk about politics?"

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Thanks for reading Parent of Adults, my weekly-ish invitation to compare notes on life beyond the empty nest. I’m Asha Dornfest, a Portland, Oregon-based author & parent of two young adults.

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