This morning I awoke to confirmation of the way things were trending last night before I went to bed. The election results were not what I was hoping, although not entirely surprising either. As much sexism and racism that I see happening around or am subjected to myself, I feared that bigotry would stand in the way of a win for Kamala Harris. My disappointment and sadness inspired me to start a poem, although I hadn’t finished before I needed to take my son to his bus for school. When I returned home I felt a little better and had an ending for my poem with a little bit of hope.

270, by Jacquelyn Block

I stayed up too late,

Watching the numbers climb like blood rising.

The red digit edges closer,

a heartbeat pulsing toward its mark.

I pretend calm,

pull the rough, scratchy blanket of apathy over my head.

Outside, rain slants against the glass, tapping soft as whispers,

Cool rivulets trace down the pane.

Inside, warmth slides down my cheek, salted with worry.

Restless dreams seep in, betraying the thin armor of indifference.

Morning unspools, a ritual that pulls me forward, step by step.

We walk to the bus—

Your small hand, warm and soft, tucked safely in mine.

Our feet pick careful steps over worms glistening on the wet sidewalk,

brown ribbons in the gray dawn.

How can I shield your kindness?

You press your hand to the window, fingers curling to shape a heart,

a silent oath made of love and hope, bright against the glass.

My wish for the future, carried away in your small frame,

whisked into the day.

And I am here, waiting, the door open, until you return.

As I always say, the great pendulum of life will eventually swing back. We only need wait for the future to arrive.

In the evening I had pottery studio, where I worked on some new pieces. I had spent all of my last visit glazing so it was great to get my hands in the wet clay. I was able to knock out three nesting nativity sets, a coil-y dish, an ugly face vase, a decorative gourd and a tiny owl.

All said and done it was a productive day for me creatively speaking. And now I’m exhausted and hope my sleep will be more restful than last night’s was.

In what situations do you find art to be uplifting to your soul?