Grief and the Liberty Bell

I'm not sure I've ever been so overcome by emotion at the sight of an inanimate object.

I am in Philadelphia for a workcation (I was asked to fly out for meetings Wednesday, but opted to take the rest of the week off and explore the city since I needed a break and had never been).

So far, it's been a great time and I have so many thoughts and feelings swirling around in my head, which makes for fulfilling silences on this, my first solo vacation.

Tuesday was the day I set aside to check out the historical area of town, including Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell.

There are a lot of markers and signs in the area, describing the American Revolution and the earliest days of the United States. All pretty basic stuff for someone who grew up in the U.S. with an interest in history.

Then I came upon this excerpt from a poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper that was part of a display on slavery in the U.S.:

"I ask no monument proud and high to arrest the gaze of the passers-by; all that my yearning spirit craves, is bury me not in a land of slaves."

 And I was reminded, yet again, of how far short of our supposed ideals we have fallen and continue to fall. Of the truths about our founding that weren't taught when I was in school. Of the ongoing—and worsening—attack on human rights and civil liberties by our government and by our neighbors.

Then, around the next wall, hung the Liberty Bell and when I saw it, tears sprang immediately into my eyes.

Tears for those whose lives were stolen and lost without ever tasting freedom.

Tears for those whose hearts were so twisted they could believe such dehumanization was not only necessary but right.

Tears for those battling oppression and suppression to this very day.

Tears for those caught up in our brutal and unjust legal system.

Tears for those targeted for harassment, arrest, deportation, destruction or erasure by fearful, small, ignorant and/or evil men and women.

Tears for those who feel powerless in the face of what feels like overwhelming and implacable power in the hands of those men and women.

And also tears for something not so much lost as something that never truly existed. Something that lives only in our propaganda and our popular histories.

This is not "the land of the free."

This is not a nation founded in liberty and justice for *all* and it is certainly not a nation now committed to those values.

This is not a place of grand religious tolerance.

This is not a country dedicated to justice.

And I think about how much of that feeling I've been crushed by over the past several years:

I was a churchgoing Christian, a true believer in the actual tenets of the faith I theoretically shared with so many, proven now to have been a complete sham to a tragic number of them who've put Constantine before Christ, who prefer empires of men to the kingdom of God.

I was a reasonably healthy young man, making plans for the future and indulging hopes therein, proven now to have been wishful thinking after my diagnosis of advanced colon cancer at 36.

I was a husband, committed to growing with and for my spouse, not realizing I’d been totally duped, as our entire relationship was built on deceit and came crashing inevitably down.

I was an enthusiastic employee who enjoyed my job, looking forward to continuing to getting to solve problems and serve customers with people I liked, all of which was ripped away when an ambitious and backstabbing coworker swooped in during our acquisition and took over my role.

I was a proud American, increasingly—as I aged—aware of its flaws, but drawn always to its foundational principles and overarching values, proven now to have all been worth exactly nothing.

And I'm not sure what to do with all this grief.

I've heard the platitude that grief is love with nowhere to go, and I think that's probably part of it. All these relationships in which I'd invested a great deal and about which I cared so deeply have been destroyed, and devastatingly so, and all the love and dreams I had for them has nowhere to go.

But it's not just undirected love that I feel. It's pain. It's the sense of betrayal. It's the indignance at having been taken for a fool over and over. It's the frustration with all the lies. It's the loneliness of being untethered. It's the rage at the injustices. It's the weariness at how it never ends and how unnecessary it all is. It's the uncertainty of why some of us *want* things this way. It's the fear that they've won, at least for the short term.

Grief is big. And I feel smaller by the day. But I am not alone and, for now, at least, that is enough.