Art can make you feel better, even now

One of my favorite poems + an essay about coping with election anxiety

Hi, friend. How are you? Things are a little rough, no? I feel it too.

In times like these, I turn to words. I’ve got a few for you today.

First up is a poem I come back to when life feels hard. I wonder what art you turn to for solace—let me know in the comments.

And today I’m sharing an essay I wrote about dealing with election stress that was supposed to be published in a magazine in October but got canceled. Still glad I wrote it, that I get to share it with you. Thanks, as always, for reading.

Take it easy, OK? Drink a glass of water. Call a friend. Hit reply and tell me how you are. Look at the blue, blue sky and remember there are many good things amid the scary ones.

A Poem I Like to Read When Things Feel Bad

I first heard this poem on The Writer’s Almanac (remember that?). I was working as a copy editor, proofreading standardized tests. It was as fun and inspiring as it sounds.

I printed out this poem and stuck it above my desk. I looked at it every few days for another year or so, till I quit. Maybe it’ll bring you some solace too?

I’d love to hear what poems comfort you in tough times—leave your suggestions in the comments 💜

---

The Essay That Got Canceled

In early October, the essay below was supposed to be published in a magazine I regularly contribute to. But at the last minute, it was pulled.

The editor-in-chief wanted to run it, but people above him were worried about how it might impact already-plummeting ad sales.

I have mixed feelings about this. I’m disappointed that it wasn’t published. I understand why the choice was made not to publish it, and that it’s hard to make “good” choices in a broken world.

I also know we live in a time that’s made for outrage, but I’m not sure being outraged at a small magazine trying to stay afloat is the right move. I have the sense there are other, more useful places to put my rage. See below for more on that.

---

Run For Your Life

by Julia F. Green

I hate running. I’ve hated running since I was a chubby eight-year-old sucking wind during the P.E. class mile, which I finished dead last.

I hate runners too. I mean they can run for god’s sake. The sight of them, bounding along like deer, showing off their athleticism and discipline, makes me wish I had the chops to do the same. Unfortunately, I’m five foot two with a tricky hip and legs as long as a Corgi’s. Runner is not on my resume.

My exercise job title is swimmer—I’m one of those underwater weirdos who loves the monotony and quiet of the lap lane, which I plan to haunt for the rest of my life. I’ll be that old lady in a flowered swim cap with a crooked backstroke, bobbing and weaving across my lane like a drunk.

*

But a year ago, shit got weird. It was late fall. Daylight savings time had ended. Darkness came early, and with it, an unshakable sense of dread. Something was brewing on the horizon. A new year. An election year.

The name I had never wanted to hear again was suddenly being uttered with alarming frequency. That sneering orange face, aka Moldy Fanta, was back, spewing vitriolic word salad and gaining momentum. The nightmare I thought had ended was threatening a gruesome sequel.

My body’s reaction was bizarre: I started strength training.

I hate weightlifting. Like running, it’s boring, painful, and everybody’s better at it than me. But the urge felt primordial. Lift heavy things. Make muscles. Get strong. Subconscious preparation for future battle.

I acquired dumbbells and selected a YouTube channel. I was shocked to discover that simply doing whatever the strong, pretty lady told me to do was very soothing. It wasn’t unlike the pool—the noise of the world fell away as the repetition of simple movements cleared my mind.

I mean, it was hard—there was discomfort in nearly every rep and much soreness after. But the next-day ache made me feel alive, and in a matter of weeks I noticed progress. The squats and planks I’d hated had become easier. My hip pain went away, exactly as a physical therapist said it would if I strengthened certain muscles. The whole endeavor was marked by a satisfying cause and effect most of adulthood lacks.

*

The new year began. Everywhere Moldy Fanta. My body said: Run!

I got shoes, went to the woods, put one foot in front of the other. That brutal feeling from P.E. came right back, every muscle in my body crying out, lungs on the verge of explosion.

But I had a secret weapon: I wasn’t eight anymore. I’m a grown-ass middle-aged woman with wisdom and determination. I don’t care anymore how fast I go or what anybody thinks of how fast I go. I keep my eyes on my chosen path and move forward at the pace that’s right for me.

I breathed deeply, kept going until I couldn’t. The strong, pretty YouTube lady says stop and breathe, don’t stop and leave. After a few minutes of walking, I resumed running. Two months later, I was running for 30 minutes with no walk breaks. Now I do it three times a week.

Running is still hard, but not as hard as living through a pandemic or watching white supremacists rally in the streets of Charlottesville. It’s not as painful as watching wildfires and hurricanes take lives and destroy homes or losing my bodily autonomy. It’s not as brutal as watching a mob invade the Capitol, whose steps I sat on December 31, 1999, watching fireworks as the new millennium arrived, toasting a bright future with my high school friends, our Nalgenes filled with vodka. Compared to living in post-2016 America, running is pretty fucking easy.

I am still the slowest—an 11:30 mile is a feat for me and my Corgi legs—but running has given me a posture of possibility. Where I once thought never, there is now maybe.

The summer plot twists in this election cycle put some enticing possibilities on the table that I frankly never dreamed possible. What lies ahead might be an orgy of democracy restored or a mob of Moldy Fantas. In some number of days, the answer will be revealed.

Whatever happens, I’ll keep running. Whether in celebration or despair, I’ll keep moving through the trees, dancing between roots and rocks, trying to keep my balance as I put one foot in front of the other.