show the way the world could be
A millennial's lament: my childhood is trapped in a world that no longer exists, and it's a world all of us seem to perpetually yearn to find again. When I hear nostalgic music on TikTok and Instagram reels with a slideshow of photos from a 1995 Toys-R-Us catalog or Christmas in 1998, I can't help but think the ache I feel is for a world that felt somewhat contained. Now, I can pick up my phone and scroll for 10 seconds, and see a post for how to heat your home with candles and a crockpot liner, then images of children maimed by violence, followed by clips from fictional and actual hockey games, followed by a video of a mother violently torn from her car by ICE and separated from her screaming children, followed by stealthily recorded videos of Leslie Odom, Jr. reprising his role as Aaron Burr and absolutely crushing "The Room Where It Happens" in Hamilton. I don't think our brains were ever meant to experience life this way. I'm tired and I want to go home.
I'm writing this on the eve of an anticipated ice storm in metro Atlanta, in what feels like a waiting room of existential anxiety. Our apartment flooded several years ago, and a tree fell almost directly on our house two years ago, and I have extra anxiety around acts of nature these days. In the last week, I've watched state terrorists execute civilians and use and detain five year old babies. On Tuesday, my son received another diagnosis for a condition that is treatable, but is yet another life-changing experience that will demand much of him. Chris and I are still processing it (or at least trying to), but the primary emotion I'm feeling right now is anger. I'm furious that my son has to work so hard for things everyone else takes for granted, because he lives in a world that was not built for him. I'm enraged at the violence of our country's leaders and the indifference of so many people who were once part of the fabric of my community as a child. Many of my friends are experiencing hell for a variety of reasons right now, and I'm angry about them all. I also know the anger is just a dam for all the sadness I feel. I'm constantly balancing grief and gratitude, rage and joy. If I had a dollar for every time I've said/thought "two things can be true at the same time," I'd find a way to live off of the grid on a sheep farm in New Zealand.
Personally and professionally, I tend to dwell in the in-between spaces. As a counselor, the primary liminal space I bide is grief and loss. This work demands I move toward the hopelessness, carry a torch, and be a companion to someone's journey through it (and help future counselors to learn how to walk alongside others). I love this work, and most of the time, I still hold a lot of hope at the end of the day.
Tonight, I'm not entirely without hope, but I am very, very, very weary.
I keep thinking about Orpheus. To be fair, my Roman Empire is Greek Mythology, so I'm always kind of thinking about Orpheus, but lately, the myth has been deeply relevant. I have loved musicals all my life, but if you made me pick one as my all-time favorite, it's Hadestown. I love everything about this show. It involves my mythological favorites (especially Persephone) and I could seriously write another dissertation on the brilliance of Anaïs Mitchell. (Also – if you love the show, I'm obsessed with this video of the opening number during a U.S. tour when the trombone player was out so the guitar player stepped in for the main "Road to Hell" riff).
Back to Orpheus: if you've not seen the show or are unfamiliar with the myth, Orpheus is the mortal son of a muse who falls in love with a mortal woman, Eurydice. In Hadestown, times are hard. Orpheus is trying to write song that will bring the world back into tune again, while Eurydice is worn out, starving, cold, and tired of fighting for food and shelter and safety. In a moment of desperate resignation, she trades her soul for a ticket to Hadestown: ruled by Hades, god of the underworld and riches and wealth, where she hopes to not feel hungry anymore. (In the myth, she's bitten by a rattlesnake on their wedding day and dies).
Orpheus, my heart is yours, always was, and will be / It's my gut I can't ignore, Orpheus, I'm hungry / Oh, my heart, it aches to stay / But the flesh will have its way / Oh, the way is dark and long / I'm already gone / I'm gone
Orpheus is devastated. With guidance from Hermes, he embarks on a dangerous katabasis to find his love and bring her home to the land of the living. He defies all odds: he makes his way to Hadestown, finishes his song, and uses his music to soften the heart of Hades, who agrees to let them leave on one condition: Eurydice must walk behind Orpheus, and he must walk alone. If he turns back to see if she's still behind him, she'll have to stay in Hadestown for eternity.
Here's the thing about Hadestown: Hermes tells us it's a tragedy like 3 minutes into the musical. It does not have a happy ending. Orpheus makes his way out of the cave leading to the underworld, but turns around before Eurydice has fully stepped out. The audience collectively gasps (the first time I saw it, a person a few rows in front of us practically yelled "NO!"), and Eurydice is lost to Hadestown.
So why do I keep thinking about Orpheus, and what does this have to do with hope?
The genius of Anaïs Mitchell. She's a singer-songwriter-playwright-prophet. Orpheus is full of hope and optimism and faith, despite everything. And this isn't some kind of oh well, look on the sunny side, things will be okay, think positive anemic false hope. This is will to live in the face of the worst possible outcome.
In one of my favorite numbers, Orpheus breaks the wall to make a toast as they celebrate Persephone and the return of summer:
To the world we dream about. And the one we live in now.
Oh, to live in the world I dream about. I dream of a world where I don't worry about my son because every system in our society is built on care rather than a bottom line for a handful of billionaires who are terrified to die (earlier in his toast, Orpheus says, "if no one takes too much, there will always be enough"). I dream of a world where ICE doesn't exist because we all know in our bones that no person is illegal. I dream of a world where Christians are not the worst possible part of Christianity. I dream of a world where we don't tear each other apart and blow each other up. What courage it takes to toast the world we live in now.
As Orpheus and Eurydice prepare to leave, the chorus of the workers in Hadestown encourage their journey:
Show the way so we can see
Show the way the world could be
If you can do it, so can she
If she can do it, so can we
Show the way
Show the way the world could be
Show the way so we believe
We will follow where you lead
We will follow with you
Show the way
The story is so close to a happy ending. Everything almost works out. The world could be so different.
I've felt a version of that for the last decade, as I lament the world of my childhood I will never really feel again. As Chris and I brace ourselves for meetings with teachers and plans for school and accommodations and treatments and tests and constant trips to CHOA. As I grapple with my own death anxiety and terror of leaving my son behind on this earth. As I watch America's long violent history take on new forms, where cruelty is the point, and powerful people live with no regard for the planet or their fellow humans.
At the end of the show, after our hearts are broken, after our hero almost won, Hermes, messenger of the gods, sings:
'Cause here’s the thing
To know how it ends
And still begin to sing it again
As if it might turn out this time
I learned that from a friend of mine
See, Orpheus was a poor boy
But he had a gift to give
He could make you see how the world could be
In spite of the way that it is
I'm trying to chase hope in the midst of despair; to see how the world could be in spite of the way that it is, and live accordingly.
