When I left my office last Monday evening, a mini-demonstration in support of Trump/Pence was proceeding up Sixth Avenue. A little band of whooping supporters dressed in stripes and stars rollicked down the sidewalk in rampageous high spirits. ‘Oh no,’ I thought irritably. ‘I’m going to have to deal with a sideshow all the way to Penn Station!?’
I didn’t have to; that was the one and only political display I witnessed that evening — but my reaction seems quaint to me now, and blissfully naive. Trump isn’t something I’ll have to deal with for 20 blocks, but for 4 long years!
When the unthinkable occurred last Tuesday, like most liberals and Democrats (and maybe many Republicans too), I was profoundly stunned. I walked around in zombie numbness for several days, knowing that eventually the novocaine of shock was going to wear off, and that sucker was going to hurt like hell.
And now it does. It’s a grief like any other, I guess, with its stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and (ultimately) acceptance. With faint interest, I note that my mood is much like that after my parents died — at first there’s almost an excitement; it’s engrossing to be the recipient of such decisive news. You reel a bit, sure, but you might even mistakenly believe you’re doing well. Then reality sinks in, and you glimpse the long, difficult road before you — to come to terms with a very big fact that will alter so much about your life and your mental landscape — and in the case of this election, so much about our country as well (I fear).
So here we are, taking our first steps down that road. I won’t offer advice or comfort; I have none; I only know that we must walk this place.
Linnetontheleaf 
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