A White Woman’s Grief (a blog post written while eating an acai bowl at an overpriced juice bar after attending a meditation circle)

I was watching the steam rise from the lavender salt water, stretching my aching thigh, taking in the way the hot air mingled with the flame coming from the vanilla candle I placed on the side of the bathtub. Then, over the sound of the ambient meditation music, I heard helicopters roaring overhead. At first I ignored them, returning my attention to my breath, to my body, but the helicopters were relentless. Confused, anxious, I stepped gingerly out of the water, drying my skin and pulling on leggings and a hooded sweater. I grabbed the next bottle of my juice cleanse and hobbled outside, my weak leg still reeling from the sprain I got while exercising. I followed the sound of the helicopters around the block to the park, then followed the crowd of shadows shrouded in black and the  blazing sirens and flashing lights of fire trucks and police cars towards the ocean. And then, where the land met the sea, I found them, chanting, crying, holding up signs, countless cars driving by honking in solidarity. Not my president. Love trumps hate. Black lives matter. I stood amongst them, taking a swig of my celery kale cold pressed juice, my skin still sweating from the steam bath, feeling the weight of my privilege, realizing that I have the choice to escape my sorrow with a hot bath and a juice cleanse. That my life is not at imminent risk on this day. That I am white. A wave of fear and empathy and horror rose inside me, and I stumbled back against a tree and burst into tears.


About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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