I am on a small island off Martha’s Vineyard, so basic that we have to pack our toilet paper, ketchup and clothespins. Renting here has been a family tradition that has become sporadic in the last ten years because of work, weddings, illnesses but this week we are here, walking with the last of the Monarch butterflies and soaking up the scent of sunbaked rose hips. Hard to explain how surreal it can be to disconnect, go to bed with sand in my toes and watch the clouds pass overhead as a purposeful activity.

I am fortunate, to say the least.

But it sneaks up, real life. My family and I rocked on the porch and talked assault rifles, the right to bear arms, mental illness. What we circled, as we took turns holding my seven-month grandchild, is fear.

A beautiful smiling being we love beyond reason will put on a too-big backpack and head to daycare, preschool, Kindergarten and beyond in a blink. What do I do, how do I hold this, this edging towards dystopia under this president, this Congress, this social blindness to making safe decisions for children? This freedom to do the unthinkable? Here is what I have been thinking, staring into the waves: do I have to have this actually touch me personally to do something? What do you think.

The photo of a mother with shoes in her hands running barefoot towards the church where children were killed and injured while praying shredded my soul. You bet I have begun research. Let’s see where this goes.

In the meantime, it will touch us all and pretending otherwise because of your income, community, or beliefs is short sighted. How long am I going to sit this out just because I can?

Do the hard things for the long run. That is what I am thinking.

You?