Few words today. It’s a sad day, tragic. Not a day of celebration but one for reflection, and protest. I know many of you share the same feelings I have, and you who are outside the United Stare share our heartache and concern.
I’m not a sore loser. My side has lost before. This is different. It is disturbing in ways that past losses were not. It’s frightening, because he is a dangerous man.
I was outraged when I learned of the secret meetings in early January 2009 where leading Republican lawmakers vowed to oppose President Obama at every step, and when a conservative talk-show host said even before Obama’s inauguration, “I hope he fails.”
Now the shoe is on the other foot. But, again, it’s different. For one thing, I do not object to the new President because of the color of his skin, rather on account of the content of his character. And, yes, I want him to fail. Individuals who preach hate and trade on fear should never remain victorious.
I agree with our outgoing President, there is more good than bad. There is also a Buddhist maxim that says great good always follows great evil. We have hope. Tomorrow, I will be more hopeful. Today I feel somber.
I’d like to think that someone like Abraham Lincoln would lower their heads, ashamed at this desecration of democracy. A fanciful notion, I admit, but it offers some solace, and we all need some of that on occasion. Sometimes it’s about whatever gets you through the night.
In the poem by Vachel Lindsay, written in 1914, Abraham Lincoln is unable to get through his endless night peacefully. He walks the streets, brooding, contemplating the same matter that led the Buddha to living peace, the matter of human suffering.
Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
By Vachel Lindsay
(In Springfield, Illinois)
It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
He lingers where his children used to play,
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,
A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl
Make him the quaint great figure that men love,
The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
He is among us:—as in times before!
And we who toss and lie awake for long
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn
Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free;
The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,
Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.
It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?
