“Make the world go away / Just get it off my shoulder.” Elvis sang those lines in 1970 and the refrain has been ringing in my head the last few days.
This is a week, after all, usually spent generating excitement about the new year. Brainstorming, organizing, “casting vision,” setting balls in motion, girding loins, possibly pretending we’re not still wiped from December. It’s hard enough in a “normal” year, but the whiplash this time around just feels insurmountable.
Because the world won’t go away. Whether it’s lunatics in the capitol, or a fatal car accident, or a new strain of COVID, or the soul-sucking rodeo of rancor and self-justification known as (social) media, these things intrude.
It’s gotten to the point where I envy those who react with anger, which at least seems energizing. For me the knee-jerk has always been sadness accompanied by the desire to retreat — into nostalgia or art or the minutiae of life with small children. I suppose I’d be tempted to reconsider the Benedict Option if that allowed a person to retreat from fellow Christians too. My fantasy is more the McFly Option.