Me and my trusty glue gun have been all fired up lately, making beautiful new things and mending beautiful old things.

Yet. There are things I can not fix with my glue gun. And they trouble me.

I cannot fix the ugliness streaming bountifully from the tiny orange man in the big white house in Washington, whose name I will not speak or type, whose face and voice I shield myself from at all costs, whose filthy, hateful mind pollutes the air, water, and thoughts of neighbors and strangers alike, whose tiny fingers linger over the proverbial and actual nuclear button, and whose boastful ignorance provokes both allies and enemies all over the world.

I cannot fix the attitudes that trouble me about women as objects better seen than heard. I cannot fix the minds of those who are horrified by the notion that a woman might express an opinion as loudly and openly as a man and might occupy the highest office of the land. I cannot fix the hearts and priorities of those who see controlling women’s bodies in the same light as early American settlers saw the naked land they “found”: the most important frontier to conquer, control, and exploit.

I cannot fix my own body from the invisible and poorly understood oddity that is Lupus, which often leaves me tired, foggy, itchy, achy, and breathless. I cannot fix the broken system that has left me with no medical insurance to help me manage this likely life-long condition.

I cannot fix the laws and attitudes that perpetuate the frequent mass slayings of people, often children, who are just trying to learn, pray, live. I cannot fix the distorted minds of those who believe that the right to bear arms is more important than the safety of my sweet little boys and millions and millions of other mothers’ and fathers’ precious children of every age.

I cannot fix the notions people have about religion, about owning, monetizing, and having the unlimited copyright on divine love and protection. I cannot fix the terrible things people say and do to each other in the name of the god of their understanding.

I cannot fix the hideous, hateful attitudes of those who see skin color as a provocation and battle rather than glorious shades in the rainbow of mankind. I cannot fix the mindset of those who think we need big walls to keep out the poverty-stricken, starving brown children and prisons to lock up the ones who dare to cross an arbitrary border in search of some basic human dignity.

I cannot fix the lingering, palpable fear that if things continue in this manner, it could someday be me and my family clutching our possessions and trying to cross a border for asylum.

I cannot fix the hole in my heart left by the death of my mom, and the other important women in my life. So many funerals, so much loss. Though I’ve tried, I cannot seem to mend the splintered remains of my original family bio unit, torn asunder by a father with controlling attitudes and sometimes hateful actions, and then by his subsequent death, and now by estates and wills and courts and lawyers. I can forgive it. But I can’t make it pretty.

Here’s what I can do though. I can take my troubles to the craft table. I can make lovely things. I can carefully preserve the history in every doorknob and hinge and wall and floorboard of the amazing old house the Universe has entrusted me with. I can love my husband and our children, and even our fuzzy kitties, fiercely and abundantly.

I can make my home a sanctuary of love and peace and light and beauty. And my glue gun will help.

So today I will make something.

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