By Anne Lamott

I am not sure what my role in the resistance will be, as my feet and right hip frequently hurt. Also, it was announced in the news beginning several hours after the November presidential election that the resistance is muted, and/or that there is no resistance. Democrats and the opposition leaders — of whom there are apparently none anyway — don’t know what to do.

But how could anyone?

When my mother fell into a steep decline with Alzheimer’s disease and diabetes in 2000, my two brothers and I met with a gerontology nurse. She listened to our grief, confusion and absolute exhaustion. How would we know when it was time to move Mom to assisted living? How could we keep her from bingeing on the rolls and cookies she was shoplifting from Safeway, which the checkers paid for because they loved her? How could we get her to take her insulin when she was so confused? And the nurse replied gently, “How could you know?”

This had not occurred to us. We thought we must be stupid not to know. She said, “You guys all need a good, long rest.”

I think we need and are taking a good, long rest. Along with half of America, I have been feeling doomed, exhausted and quiet. A few of us, approximately 75 million people, see the future as a desert of harshness. The new land looks inhospitable. But if we stay alert, we’ll notice that the stark desert is dotted with growing things. In the pitiless heat and scarcity, we also see shrubs and conviction.

Lacking obvious flash and vigor might make it seem as if there is no resistance. But it is everywhere you look.

It is in the witness and courage of the Right Rev. Mariann Budde.It is in the bags of groceries we keep taking to food pantries. It looks like generosity, like compassion. It looks like the profound caring for victims of the fires, and providing refuge for immigrants and resisting the idea that they are dangerous or unwanted, and reaching out to queer nieces, siblings and strangers and helping resist the notion that their identities are unworthy, let alone illegal.

It is in our volunteer support for public schools and libraries, because we know the new president holds them in contempt and fear. Teachers and librarians are allies for souls who have been dismissed as hopeless.

These unabashed do-gooders will definitely get the best seats in heaven, nearest the dessert table. What they have to offer — patience, companionship, poetry — is about to be defunded by the new administration, but not by us.

Resistance may depend on federal district court judges, but it will look like bake sales. Too bad my mom is no longer here to donate her stolen cookies, but I am here, as are all my friends.

They ask me for direction, because I am a Sunday school teacher, and they feel like children: “How will we get through the next four years?”

I tell them a few things that always help me.

First, I tell them what my Jesuit friend Father Tom Weston says when I call him for help when I feel craziest. After assuring me once more that he can counsel Protestants, too, if they are pitiful enough, and no matter the exact details of the latest calamity at the dinner table or in D.C., he always says, “We do what’s possible.” So we are kind to ourselves. We take care of the poor. We get hungry kids fed. We pick up litter.

Second, I tell them what Susan B. Anthony’s grandniece said. Also named Susan B. Anthony, she told her therapy clients that in very hard times, we remember to remember. Remember that the light always returns. Remember earlier dark nights of the soul, for ourselves, our families and our nation, when we fell in holes way too deep to ever get out of. Remember the Greensboro sit-ins and the march from Selma to Montgomery, the 2017 Women’s March, the coronavirus vaccine. Remember how in the desert, down by the arroyo, you’ll find dubious patches of pale green, maybe a random desert lily and, impossibly, baby leaves.

Molly Ivins would have told me on Nov. 6, “Sweet Pea, we got our horse shot right out from under us.” We did, and it hurts like hell and we loved that horse, and people are laughing at us. We need a little time here to decompress.

Now is a time of quiet. A passionate activist friend told me she doesn’t feel very resisty yet, but one thing that characterizes deserts is the stillness, until the wind blows. And, boy, when it blows, it’s like an organ. You can hear its shape and power because everything else is so still. How or when will the wind start up? How could we know? But it always does. Spring is less than two months away — warmth, light, daffodils, life bursting into its most show-offy self.

“Give me those far away in the desert,” Saint Augustine said, “who are thirsty and sigh for the spring of the eternal country.”

I can tell you this: The resistance will be peaceful, nonviolent, colorful, multigenerational — we older people will march with you, no matter our sore feet and creaky joints. There will be beautiful old music. There will also be the usual haranguing through terrible sound systems, but oh well. Until then, this will be my fight song: left foot, right foot, breathe. Help the poor however you can, plant bulbs right now in the cold rocky soil, and rest.