by Whatever side we’re on, we’re all holding our breaths as we wait for next Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday…
Hundreds of Trump supporters stuck on freezing cold Omaha airfield after rally; 7 taken to hospitals—NBC News
Global coronavirus report: US adds nearly 500,000 cases in a week; Europe faces more lockdowns—The Guardian
Barack Obama Slams Jared Kushner’s Suggestion That Some Black Americans Need to ‘Want’ to Be Successful—People
October 28, 2020
The waiting game 2
by Ruth Neuwald Falcon, Seattle, Washington
Every morning when I get up, there’s an email waiting for me from Free the Oceans. Play Today’s Trivia, it invites me, and help us free the ocean of plastic. Each time someone answers the daily question, they “fund the removal of a piece of plastic from the ocean and coastlines,” through ad revenue generated on their site.
I confess that I don’t always click, even though it is free and easy. But a couple of days ago, I was intrigued by the question about 6 Sea-riously Spooky Fish Species. There’s the red-lipped batfish and the coffinfish. Both of them have feet and skulk around the ocean floor. There’s the ghost shark and the blob fish and the hagfish. You wouldn’t want to meet any of them on a dark night. But the one that shouted to me, “I am a fish for your times!” is the fangtooth fish. At first glance, it seems really scary. Aggressive. But when I looked again, I thought, no. This fish is scared.
Like we are. A feeling of dread permeates the atmosphere. We go around trying to act normal, as if we aren’t aware that whichever way it goes, there is real danger of violence. Are we in the (relative) calm before the storm?
“Make sure you stock up on groceries before the 3rd,” a friend told me yesterday. “Plan to stay home for at least a few days after.” It might be longer than days, says a different friend.
I am overloaded.
I am burned out.
I am terrified.
It’s just brutal.
Those people are out there. They’ve always been there; they’re just emboldened now.
I’m scared to death.
Those are the exact words of various friends. I’m sure we’ve all said them or heard them spoken.
We have less than a week to go. “You know,” one of those friends said, “it won’t be over then.” I know, I said. But still, I keep counting down, grateful for each passing day. It’s like waiting for the result of a medical test. You don’t want to learn you have cancer. But it’s worse to wait. At least once you know, you can deal with what is.
Ruth Neuwald Falcon 
Dear Ruth…what an interesting piece you have written today–scary fish and all! I liked your sentence: “But still, I keep counting down, grateful for each passing day.” I am doing my best to focus on gratitude, too, and that seems to keep me from falling off the edge in fear! It is great that those of us connected to you can keep in touch. Thank you for that!
LikeLiked by 1 person
My Mom used to say “this, too, shall pass.” My dearest friend would say,” everything in life is transitory”. Though both are gone now they remain in my heart and their words echo through my sleep deprived, worried brain.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks for putting our feelings into words, Ruth. You’ve nailed it! For months I’ve been hoping Nov 3rd would finally arrive, but now that it’s almost here there is a part of me that dreads it because of what could happen if Trump is successful in keeping the actual vote supressed or uncounted, and he wins – or if the vote is really close and he refuses to concede,
LikeLiked by 1 person