Moving on

Because sometimes rolling like a stone is an act of artistry. To lumber past the links that annoy, the photos that trigger, the words that trip your brain into an eruption of punctuation that clamors to be turned into words. Browsing the internet-- watching friends, reading for work, researching your toddler's suspicious rash-- each tap of my fingers requires conscious, constant restraint. How do I choose when to engage?

Yesterday, a woman declaring her thrill at meeting an anti-vaxxer in a moms group that bans vaccine discussions. I stepped in, asked that her post be removed. Today, a woman writing about her experience at a strip club: she was young and didn't know where to look, unsure what to do in the presence of her male co-workers and a mid-forties mother of two. I want to ask- what relevance does the other woman's age or maternal status have to your discomfort? Are older mothers less embarrassed, less likely to be sexually assaulted? I move on. The outlet isn't one I'm interested in, though our writing group where she shared her work is. 

I don't always choose wisely. I engage more than I should, snarl more than is smart, and could afford to be kinder, online and offline. Perhaps it's the sharp sounds of my fingers on the keys, the way they strike in clacks and taps and thwacks. Would a soft-touch keypad make me kinder? In lieu of browsing Amazon or Google Scholar, I look away for a minute.

Outside the world is green and blue and sun and wind. Frost on grass flashes light like gemstones. A brown leaf taps to the rhythm of the wind, soft under the twigs of a shrub poised to bloom, come spring. The breeze is soft. There are no leaves to be ruffled. And for the span of a few minutes, it makes me less confused. There is nothing to clatter about here. No clamor to still, no outrage to quell. It's just a backyard going about the work of growth and death and the spaces between. I linger, my chaos of words and deadlines quelled in watching this patch of the planet at work.

Moving on is an act of conscious grace. Each minute a choice-- of when to move on, when to linger and engage.