apathy , the upside of intention + author Star Roberts

Body: 

“Intention is what creates {our} reality” ~ Deepak Chopra

What do you want, what do you wantwhat-do-you-want?

For yourself, for family, our nation and this pending November election?

There’s a downside to apathy: lack of interest, enthusiasm or concern aka: “sorry… not my problem” (or) “I’m just too busy”.

Apathy is ignorance void of intention when it impacts us on a humanistic level. 

I’m actually in favor of healthy detachment but at a point - there’s no space for apathy. It’s delusional to think that someone else can carry our slack on issues that affect us as “a collective”.  

Strike apathy from your repertoire. 

If reality is a state of being, intention gives us the fuel to move forward; cause to assert ourselves, the aptitude for survival and capacity to thrive.  

This November be of service; make “the vote” your intention.  Vote for someone, some cause, some-thing more relevant than yourself that best serves us all - collectively.   

Make a difference: Vote. 

Soak in a timely piece written with intention by memoir writer + sister / friend Star Roberts.  Star co-authored - We came back to say: an Anthology of Memoir

 

Read this story of hope … 

 

                                                 Bobby & Barack by Star Roberts

The only letter I‘ve ever written to a well known person was in June of 1968 to Ethel Kennedy. It was right after her husband Bobby was shot in the kitchen at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. I was 13 years old and grieving the future of our country. 

A week earlier, my mom, sisters and cousin Pam and I all piled into our Ford Wagon Master in Tacoma, Washington. We were headed seven hours down I-5 to Roseburg, Oregon to see and hear Bobby Kennedy speak on the steps of the Douglas County Courthouse to a crowd of around 1500 people. It was my first encounter with a politician up close. I don’t remember the exact words of his speech, but I so vividly remember the goose bumps it left on my arms. He was charismatic, passionate, and inspiring. He was his brother, but better.  It was the first time I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself and it felt amazing.

After the rally, we held up our campaign posters that said KENNEDY in big bold capitol letters and took each others pictures. In one picture my eyes are barely peaking over the large poster and beside me, my cousin Pam has a big smile on her face. Her bouffant hair-do is a testament to the times and the magic properties of a good teasing comb and a can of Aquanet. 

We rode back up the freeway the next day full of hope, Orange Fanta and possibilities. In the long, dark tunnel of bad news, delivered nightly via Walter Chronkite and the CBS Evening news —in the form of body counts, tear gas, and race riots—Robert F. Kennedy was our bright spot at the end of it. I became hopeful. I held my breath. And then, unbelievably, a short a week later he was gone.

I didn’t know where to go with my adolescent grief so I took pen to paper and wrote to his widow, Ethel. I had to let her know how her husband had moved me. I had to let her know how sorry I was. I had to let her know how sad I was for her and her kids, for me, and our country. I didn’t expect to get a response. When the letter showed up in my mailbox, a few weeks later with a Massachusetts postmark on creamy white stationary, I was amazed. It was a typed response to my condolence letter, thanking me, and it was hand-signed, by Ethel, and I knew in my 13 year old heart she had really signed it.  My grief found a place to go in that moment and in that place there was comfort.

Great men enter our hearts quietly on a first name basis, whether we’ve met them or not. On that night in November of 2008, when Barack came out on the Chicago stage and gave his acceptance speech, even though I was only watching on TV, I felt the goose bumps all over again, in a way I haven’t since 1968. My goose bumps and I looked over at my 15 year old daughter Riley, and I could see on her face, she knew history being made. I held my breath, sent a silent prayer upwards and chose hope again. Hope for this man who has sparked her political passion and re-ignited mine. Hope for Barack to be kept safe and to burn brightly for a long time to come...

Fast forward four years and here we are again. Same hope. Same worry. Same thought that if we dare to dream the bigger dreams, maybe, just maybe, it will all be worth it. My daughter is now 18, away at college and out of our nest for the first time in her life. I won’t be sitting beside her during the upcoming election night and I know she is buried in her new life so I text her with my pesky parental reminder: don’t forget to register and vote! For now, I’ll keep my fingers crossed and choose hope again. It is what I know how to do.

  • Star Roberts is at work on Hellsgate: Stories from A Northwest Childhood. Her essay “Moving Away” is a PNWA Literary Contest Finalist for 2012.  When not writing, she can be found reading, nesting and mothering in the shadow of the Space Needle. She awaits good news at: stargish@comcast.net