On vacation, in my own home. Calling it a retreat, because that sounds more spiritually meaningful (although shopping online for a vacuum cleaner and cleaning up the deck and rearranging bedroom furniture and filing papers might not seem particularly spiritual). This morning, savoring a cup of loose leaf fair trade organic green tea from China and a small piece of banana bread with chocolate chips that I baked myself, I hear my reverie interrupted by a sneering inner voice: Suburban white lady. The world is on fire and you are sipping fancy tea. People in nearby Brockton – no, even here in Stoughton – don’t have enough food for their children, and you are sipping fancy tea and staring out the window at the leaves and squirrels. Millions of people in this country and beyond are in high anxiety this week over the fate of our democracy and their very lives, and you are savoring a cup of fair trade tea and a small piece of banana bread.
This is a familiar voice. It pretty much hangs out just above my right ear, watching for an opportunity to remind me that I should feel shame about the circumstances of my life. This morning I am experimenting with filtering the tone of voice. Suburban white lady, said gently with a compassionate smile, feels like a statement of reality without the slap of shame. Yes that’s me, good morning. Is there something that you suggest I do today?