On Sunday, July 21st, I caught the 5:35 am Vashon ferry that took me westward to the mainland and after two hours, to the Coho ferry across Puget Sound to Canada. The only reservation I’d been able to make was for 9:30 pm that evening. I’d been advised, however, that if I got to the Coho dock by 8 am, I just might snag an extra spot on the first ferry of the day, and not the last.

I lucked out. “Take the little red one,” said the ferry guy of my Prius, and squeezed us in sideways, very last car. And then, the enormous doors clanged shut just about a foot or so behind.

And with that, the doors also closed on the relentless, mind-bending misery of the Trump Election Nightmare.

As the Coho powered towards Vancouver Island, I found myself drawing deep sighs of relief as the U.S. grew small and disappeared in grey fog behind us.

I was exhausted from our politics and the struggle to find my grounding by reading the thoughts and projections of writers and thinkers I admire: Heather Cox Richardson, Joyce Vance, Janina Lamb, Thom Hartmann, Constant Commoner, other Substackers in full firing-squad mode. I’d also become so furious with the NYT’s dishonest manipulation of Biden vs Trump that I’d cancelled my subscription.

I was even more depleted from lying awake at night, running my brain down to empty with a Rubik’s Cube of solutions for saving our country from dissolving into chaos. And I was, like those I admire, fighting hard for Biden. I had a list of things all saved up to post here and elsewhere. Words, words, words. Questions to ask Trump: “So, if your followers had actually hung Mike Pence, what would you have done about the body?” “If that bullet had killed you, would you have been a sucker and a loser?”

So Sunday morning, I escaped. I was heading for a week of camping with seven beloved female relatives.

And Sunday night, Biden made his historic announcement.

Thus, while the explosive energy of relief and promise took over the Democratic Party back home, life for me consisted of eating comfort foods with my dear peoples and throwing myself into cool, silky lake water and swimming myself into the barest beginning of a better state of mind.

Plus, nothing like a Korean-beauty-facial-treatment-Corgi-mask to chase away the gloom:

Our final campground was on the south coast of Vancouver Island, near Port Renfrew. From my tent, far in the distance, I could see a thin sliver of Washington state.

Intermittent cell service gave me glimpses of the first few days of cautious optimism across the water. And then, like a cracking of a dark and heavy shell that has depressed the American spirit for years, it seemed as though some light was possibly beginning to break through.

I came home and could not write a word. As days went by, all I could do is read and watch and be amazed. Boomer that I am, I was reliving the Sixties and how the excitement and new spirit took hold so long ago.

Two plus weeks and Kamala’s on fire and Tim Walz is a lovable fire-cracker. What a shift! And there are already so many good words out there. I’m sort of dumb. My words are not needed. Now, at any rate.

I have other words stored up to share. But they don’t seem to have a place to be at the moment.

And it appears as if Trump is in meltdown, so any words for whatever lies ahead are not invented yet. Reflublicanism?

Meanwhile, how incredible to open the doors to Joy!

May there be room for innocence and wonder at what might be.