Is It Okay Simply to Enjoy Myself?
by Lawrence Bush
Ever since we retired — I all at once, she in stages — my wife Susan has been declaring her new readiness to be arrested as part of her political activism against global climate change. She believes it to be a responsibility of the retired to step up our care-giving to the world — though she does find it hard to set aside the sheer pleasures of not working, of living where we live, and of enjoying one another’s company, for long enough to up the ante significantly on her activism.
My goals in retiring have been very different: basically, to let go of all "how-am-I-doing?" self-evaluative anxiety, and to have all the time in the world for writing, music, visual art, and sensual pleasure. My "activism" has been limited to a public art project (which has erected pro-immigration, pro-environment, pro-generosity banners on nine properties so far); delivering food to poor households with my wife during this pandemic (one afternoon per week); giving some money to worthy causes; and the usual lifestyle choices (local food, solar panels, high-mileage car, etcetera).
I can offer many, many excuses for not being more of an activist. On Sundays I simply say to myself, The world is coming to an end, or at least, The things in the world I care about are coming to an end, so why bother? On Mondays I say to myself, There is no center of progressive activism that is on an arc towards success, or that understands how to speak to working-class America, so why bother? On Tuesdays I say to myself, The only thing that actually makes a difference in this country is media, and I've done my bit and now I'm too old and I have no contacts, so why bother? On Wednesdays I say to myself, I don't even know what I believe any more, and I've been wrong about so much, so why bother? On Thursdays I say to myself, Everything involved in activism — knocking on doors, shouting old slogans, making phone calls, burning cop cars — is the last thing I want to do with my time, so why bother? On Fridays I say to myself, To hell with the human race, we are so fundamentally flawed and murderous, so why bother? And on Saturdays I say to myself, I'm entitled to a day off.
Meanwhile, I'm having a great, great time (writing, music, visual art, sensual pleasure). Notwithstanding having been raised a red-diaper baby. Notwithstanding the sacrifices of so many throughout history, a history I know full well. Notwithstanding the many, many quotes about passivity in the face of evil being somehow even worse than evil itself. I've been in the process of retiring from all that. Instead I want to keep writing songs and get good at recording them on GarageBand. I want to (maybe) finish my novel. I want to cultivate my flower beds. I want to get a puppy. I want to take hikes with friends. I want to read a lot of books. I want to learn how to do needlepoint.
I've never liked to view artists as somehow different from other people, somehow special and exempt from the full responsibilities of being ethical human beings. So I'm not claiming any exemptions based on the fact that I make art.
Still, the truth is that this pandemic has done little to change my life, except to provide me with yet more excuses for being politically uninvolved, as in: It's all so terrible now, with so many fucking injustices proliferating, what in the world am I going to be able to do to make even the slightest difference? (Yeah, sure, I'll vote against Trump, of course . . .)
Well, there you have it, my confession — and I would like to hear yours. Please send me a report (lawrencebush@earthlink.net) about your own experience of politics and aging, retirement, the pandemic, God, humanism, hope, cynicism, whatever — be honest — and I will post them here. Or simply add your comment below.