Once each summer, I’d take my four kids to Ohio’s Geauga Lake, a now-closed amusement park. The park put out entrance fee coupons that made it almost affordable. They also permitted visitors to bring in their own food, unlike the more enticing (and expensive) Cedar Point. I’d drag our red wagon behind me packed with food, diaper bag, cooler of drinks, and whoever was a toddler at the time. When we finally got home I’d hustle them through a quick scrub, pull on their pajamas, and shorten our evening sing together time so they could get to bed well past their usual bedtime.

I was in my 20s, then my 30s, energetic enough to leap up each morning toward whatever the day held. But every summer, after our amusement park visit, I found myself beyond exhausted. My whole being simply on the fritz. I had no idea what the problem might be. I gradually realized it was overwhelm. A long day of constant vigilance at a crowded venue keeping my kids in view. A long day of noise without a moment’s peace to sit somewhere quiet for a spell. A long drive there and back.

I learned to avoid planning anything the next day or two after our annual amusement park visit. It wasn’t just me. The kids needed time to chill out too. They’d lie on the couch reading or play in the backyard or draw pictures while listening to audiobooks. They didn’t want to go anywhere, didn’t want friends over, they just needed to BE. We were like those creatures from Dr. Seuss’ Sleep Book, the Collapsible Frinks.

That’s what this year has felt like to me. Like post amusement park visit syndrome. Every day’s news packed with atrocities committed in our names against people around the world and people down the street. Gut-punch news about this administration’s war against the environment, healthcare, education, civil rights, even civility. Nearly everyone I know is beyond overwhelm, no matter if they voted for or against. I’ve barely been able to write this year— no essays published and only a few poems. To close, here’s one of those poems, this one published in One Art: a journal of poetry:

I DREAM OF HUBBLE’S LAW

I’m standing in front of my mother, head tugged
while she braids my hair as she does every morning.
I am seven years old, she must be mid-30s.
Her lipstick is bright red, her hair nearly black.
Taster’s Choice freeze-dried coffee in her cup,
Cleveland news and weather on the radio.
My baby brother bangs his spoon,
smile-flinching each time it strikes.  
My sister and father are at the table, all of us
unaware we’re in my dreamworld,
unaware we are inexorably moving away
from each other the way stars grow more distant.
Stand still she says as she fastens a tiny rubber band
at the bottom of each braid so I don’t turn around
to hug her as I long to in my dream. I want to hang on
for dear life as galaxies move apart ever faster
in a universe widening toward absolute zero.