Well, it's over. The election was long enough ago for some thoughts, as opposed to reactions, to come to my conscious. (It helped that in the interim I had two long drives over the Sonora/Mojave deserts, with Dylan on the stereo.)
First, the letdown. I had so much energy invested in the campaign and outcome that no amount of celebratory sensation could dissipate it, and so, like a balloon at the completion of its deflation, my body/mind sagged and shriveled. I spent the morning after the election watching postmortems on television and found myself barely able to pack my car to get out of the Las Vegas motel before checkout time. Then, while driving toward Tucson with no radio reception in my car, I listened to folk music CDs and got a dose of sobriety, realizing that we'd done this before: Forty-five years earlier, in August 1963, when Martin intoned about the dream, and we felt, for a few moments, that it was possible to reach the mountaintop. Well, we didn't then, and I felt unsure--sad, wise, conditioned--knowing how easily dreams can lead to rude awakenings.
Second, the resolve. I visited my daughter and her little daughter in Tucson and realized, fully, how deep a debt I've incurred by being lax in my contributions to the world they'll inhabit when I'm gone. I decided I'd better get busy cleaning up the place--its environment, its populace, its psyche.
Third, the calm. Really, I thought as I drove back to SB from Tucson, there's nothing magic in my revelations. What needed to be done has always been there, right in front of me: It's the next right thing, just as I'd always known.