“There’s sex,” I chime cheerfully from the passenger seat.  Bob’s icy stare barely cracks.  We’re winding up the dirt road, headed home for lunch with the girls.  “And chocolate!”  He doesn’t respond.  “And coffee!  And we still have Barbers’ vodka…..just down the road!!!!  And there’s all those puppy noses.  Really.  How can the world be bad when there are puppy noses in it?  And— Oh my GOD!!!! Look at how those beech trees are just glowing in the forest!”  He slows the car down to follow my gaze.  We both look into the wet woods, the trunks of the trees a million shades of brown, black and gray, coated here and there with lichens and mosses.  The fallen leaves have turned the ground a deep russet, and the golden beeches are luminous, posivitively popping in defiance of the dreary weather.  I’m breathless.  He watches briefly, then drives on.  

His mood started this morning when he came down to sit beside the fire and check the headlines.  “Another shooting,” he called out to me as I pulled on my rain gear and got ready to take the dogs out. “A synagogue in Pennsylvania this time…And Bolsonaro just got elected president of Brazil.  Say goodbye to the rain forests.”  

Reading the morning headlines is his ritual.  Not mine.  Sometimes I wonder if my choice to be less informed of national and world events makes me a less responsible citizen.  Growing up, we didn’t have television, and my only access to news was via the radio.  In college, I briefly considered a career in the foreign service, and realized that I couldn’t pass my entrance exams without a much better handle on current events and geopolitics.  I sat down one night to begin what I expected would be my new nightly ritual of watching CNN.  

Within ten minutes I was reduced to uncontrollable tears.  I flipped the tv off and kissed my foreign service fantasies farewell.  The tears continued for the remainder of the week.  I faced a choice.  I could be a fully informed citizen, or an engaged member of society.   And while many people can be both, I could not.   If I chose being fully informed, I’d have to develop callouses and cynicism to guard my heart.  But the more layers I’d have to grow to protect my heart, the harder it would be to share it with the world.  

Bob knows this about me.  He accepts my fragility and filters the outside world for me, directing my attention to world events only when necessary.  He’s accepted the callouses and cynicism for both of us.  

But today, it’s too much for him to bear.  We’ve spent the morning cleaning the cafe after having repairs done while we were on vacation.  A layer of dust settled over everything.  We’d moved the products and furniture out before we left, but still the job of cleaning and restoring our little community hub in time for Saturday seemed daunting.  Our family had been battling colds and flu all week, and it just didn’t seem like it was worth pushing to re-open for business.  

Bob took the front of the house.  I took the kitchen.  I looked at the hood vent, the cooktops, my counters and knives, all gray with dust, in spite of the plastic shielding we’d hung.  I looked out the window and saw the rain pounding down yet again.  I thought about those dreadful headlines.  

Before me was another choice:  Hope, or despair.  I chose hope.  I began cleaning, each swipe of cloth a prayer for what I believed in most:  that our riches come from the land, from our relationships, from the water and the sunlight; that every swipe and scrub and scour pushes away greed and fear, the roots of violence and destruction, and helps to make the sources of true wealth clear for all to see.  

I worked  my way in a circle around the kitchen, from ceiling to floor, repeatedly blessing my workspace with a damp cloth and soapy water, touching each object, reminding myself again and again that I choose hope.  My heart warmed.  My muscles stretched and relaxed.  I smiled, thinking about Saturday.

From the banging and swearing that came from the front of the house, I could tell my husband had made a different choice.  It’s hard to focus on daily business when it seems like the world is doomed to crash and burn. With every stroke of his broom, he seemed to find one more chip in the paint and one more crack in the wall.

If it is his job to filter the world for me, it is mine to breathe hope and joy back into his soul.  And our ride home for lunch reflects my attempts to do just this.  Before I jump to the prospects of sex and chocolate,  I remind him of what our psychic friend Corbie often says: “think of time as a web, rather than a line.”

“How does that help?”

“There are so many different realities.  Maybe in one of them we’re getting it right.”

“So then we should let all this go?”

“No.  But maybe we need to learn from the struggle while believing there could be more out there.  Detach a little.  Treat it like a game.  Don’t get swallowed up.  If you do, you won’t be able to keep fighting.”

But he was swallowed.  That’s what led me to bring out the big guns.  Yet not even sex and chocolate could re-ignite his zest for life this afternoon.

The girls come back down with us after lunch.  Ula goes to work at the farm, and Saoirse takes up the task of restoring the espresso bar.  A few minutes later, Justin walks through the door.  “I’m here!”  He proclaims to the echoing room.  “Put me to work!”

He and Bob set about bringing back the tables and chairs, carrying the blankets up from the basement, all the while chatting. Sometimes they study displays.  Sometimes they discuss repairs.  Sometimes they crack jokes.  Bob’s smile returns.

An hour later, Joe, Kate’s husband, comes by.  “How can I help?”  He calls out.  We pile out the door and do more moving, pulling, lifting.  By the end of the day, Kate is with us, and Mom and Ula are there, too.  Kate and Joe’s dogs, Zen and Charlie, an American bulldog and a beagle mutt, have joined the circle, flaunting their puppy noses for everyone to admire.  I see Bob make eyes at them, his smile once again broad and warm.  

He leaves for play practice with Ula while Saoirse and I head for home.  As we’re driving, my heart thumps with gratitude.  It started out as just another bad day, turned lovely by rich relationships.  And puppy noses.  Even without sex or vodka, there’s a lot to enjoy here.  The oaks are turning on the hillsides now, and I love the gray hues of all the maples in front of the deep green conifers.  I’m soaking in all the beauty and considering going home and enjoying some chocolate when Saoirse speaks.  

“I’m just sick to death of what’s happening in the world,” she tells me.  “I’m sick to death of shootings.  I’m sick of all the hate.  And now look what’s happening in Brazil.”  The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

She’s a little young to consider the joys of sex.  So I start with chocolate.