Finding the power change when so much seems beyond our control

“Amen, ashe” (pronounced ashay) “and may it be.”

These words ended each of the several thoughtful talks I watched online on Sunday from my Unitarian church in Durham. Such talks bear a passing resemblance to the “sermons” in the churches I grew up in.

I’m new to this church and I was curious to know what “ashe” meant. When I Googled it I found many different meanings. One was this: “Ase or ashe (from Yoruba àṣẹ) is a West African philosophical concept through which the Yoruba of Nigeria conceive the power to make things happen and produce change. ... Existence, according to Yoruba thought, is dependent upon it.”

Well! So the youngish, bespectacled African-American minister at church today was telling me that my very existence depends on the ability to change things and make things happen?

Did he mean change as in transplanting my black-eyes Susans or sweeping my driveway or vacuuming the stairs?

That can’t be it. I’ve gone months without vacuuming my stairs and I still exist.

Or did he mean something big like saving the nation by causing our president and ruling party to change their ways?

I can see Trump now at the podium, wearing his squinty purse-lipped man-of-authority face: “Folks, we’ve changed. Everything’s different now. Just like magic. We’ll now be protecting people from the virus, stopping its spread and eliminating it. Nobody will be forced to work; in fact we’ll pay everybody to stay home and stay healthy until it’s gone. The folks who do volunteer to go back to work to keep the country going will get generous paid leave, hazard pay and unions. It’ll be terrific.”

Yeah, right.

It reminds me of when I was a child. I once asked my grandmother why black people and poor people didn’t get to do certain things. The exact question I asked her is lost to fifty years of time, but I remember vividly that we were near her 1960-style TV on legs, in her small living room next to the screened porch, in the Forsyth County town of Kernersville. I was mad. “It’s not fair!” I said passionately.

Her answer came without hesitation: “Honey, we can’t do anything about that.” Shock at her thinking, then fury, sprang up in me. I felt a burning like acid in my stomach. “Yes, we can!” I told her.

Well, Grandmother, this time you’re right. When it comes to changing the minds of our president and ruling Republicans, I can’t do anything about it.

So what power do I have to change things and make things happen?

I have the power to care for my son and husband. I can look in my husband’s eyes, caress his cheek, appreciate his cooking, listen closely when he talks of his distress with the government and his worries about job security. I can sit beside my son and play his favorite video game, “Animal Crossing,” with him. I can set up bike rides and online movie nights for him and his friends to combat their depression at having to stay apart. I can straighten his desk for Monday morning’s online school. I can encourage my son to eat his vegetables and invite him for a walk.

I have the power to speak my mind on Facebook or by writing letters to the editor of the newspaper or writing essays.

I have the power to connect with people I love by calling them on the phone, writing them letters, or coming over for visits in the driveway wearing masks and standing 10 feet apart.

I have the power to calm my own mind. This is a different kind of power. It’s like the motes of dust that float through a sunbeam – elusive and difficult to grasp. It requires the time, space and silence to breathe deeply for many breaths.

Each breath turns me one degree away from the media drumbeat of dreadful news. I draw each breath deeply, audibly through my nose, then hold it for a moment while I thank God for my healthy lungs. Each inhale and exhale is a step toward mental clarity. With each breath I regain my power, my being and my intention to change things and make things happen.

So I will keep my newfound word “ashe” in my mind today. I’ll transplant my black-eyed Susans, arrange a movie night for my son, give my husband a hug, and keep taking deep breaths.

Amen, ashe and may it be.