“Hello Eve, hope this message finds you well. Harry had his doctor visit today still in great health. We celebrated his birthday in beginning of month. Had over foot of snow. Harry did not like it at first but loves it now. Just wanted to touch in with you.”

The text came from Harry’s new humans. Harry is the Mountain Cur I’d gotten from a shelter two years ago ago, only to give him to another family last summer because he and Aussie together were too much for me. They ran away all the time. I found him a beautiful couple with lots of dog experience, and 7 months later they’re still giving me updates: jogging for several miles in the mornings with J, running around the yard, going on drives, still iffy with the cat, etc.

I’m grateful for the updates, though I no longer ask for them. Harry’s and my paths parted in good, healthy circumstances. I trust the family he’s with now, they’re as happy as could be with him.

Do you look back a lot and wonder if you made a good decision? Bernie had no patience for the drama of second-guessing and I’ve inherited much of that legacy. What was, was. You discern as well as you can and make the best decision at the moment. No control over the future, no basis for a final judgment on whether things turned out right or not. I think of the famous story of the Dalai Lama’s reply when he was once asked whether he thought the French Revolution (1789) was a success: “Too early to  tell.”

With Harry, Aussie, everything I do, it’s too early to tell.

At the same time, I love getting these texts re Harry’s good life. I still remember the dreadful week after he left, leaving Aussie and me alone in the house. A silence descended on us and Aussie did canine shiva, a week of lying and moping around. She recovered, Harry recovered, the house recovered. I’m happy, Harry’s happy, J and his family are happy.

“I’m not happy,” Aussie grouses.

Let go of the past. Or, as some say it, let it be.

I woke up in the early hours this morning, and suddenly the old pre-election voices were back: He incited a mob and they attacked the Capitol—and the Republicans are going after Liz Cheney? Not Matt Gaetz, not Andy Biggs or Paul Gosar, and not Marjorie Taylor Greene, all of whom enabled and defend him still! Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy flies down to Florida to grovel back into the Great Leader’s good graces!.

Of course, none of these were the issue. It’s the unleashed forces of fear and its antidote, anger. They bubbled under the surface before Trump, but four years of unfettered tweets and bogus claims have helped them spread throughout this land, even the world, and become political staples.

They came for a visit in the early hours, mocking my efforts to stay engaged and at the same time calm, as if saying: Long time no see. We haven’t connected with you in a while—how’re you doing?

I had a few hours’ conversation with them even as it got colder and colder outside. They didn’t shut up till close to 5 in the morning.

Peace has returned this frigid Friday afternoon; I will probably sleep well tonight. The angry voices won’t come back for a while, and when they do, I plan to let them be.

These forces will out; they need to have their say. They’ve built up way too long to quickly blow off the stage. I believe they’ll ignite violence. We can minimize it, but we can no longer prevent it completely.

I’m concerned but not pessimistic. Sometimes you just have to let things unfold. The furies have escaped the box, and they’re not going into retirement very soon till something else happens. For now, letting them be means giving them their space, minimizing the harm, watching out for those they victimize.

I opened an Amazon package two days ago and out came a wall tapestry with photos of a gorgeous young woman and the signature Selena. It took me a while to figure out that the package wasn’t for me, it is a tapestry of Selena Quintanilla, the mythical Latina singer who was killed some 25 years ago, one of the gifts ordered by the children of immigrant families for Christmas. This one came over a month late.

At first I got annoyed about the delay. And then I looked at it as it lay open on the bed showcasing the tragic, beautiful face, and thought of the young girl who wanted that tapestry to hang on the wall so she could look at it from her bed or desk, dream about Selena and her music, dream about love and life.

I called Jimena. She right away knew who’d ordered it. “She still wants Selena,” she told me. “Bring it next Wednesday and I’ll get it to her.”

You can also send a check either to support my blog or to buy food cards for immigrant families to: Eve Marko, POB 174, Montague, MA 01351. Please write on the memo line what you are donating to. Thank you.