The exquisite pain of this is that from where I sit, it strikes me that so many are trying to make an apology for what cannot be apologized for. While I cannot know that, I have impressions. I sat with a Black sister this week by phone and listened in mute silence to her rage about these very things. There isn't a fucking thing I can say. Nothing I can do. Nor is there anything in my purview that would possibly calm, assuage, or make things better. The only thing in my power is to stand witness, be respectful, and validate. Beyond that I can do very little, other than agitate. The pain this kind of thing causes me is nowhere near the pain that it causes the Black community, and for my part, those members of that community who have long been part of my family and people I have considered among my closest friends. I can do little more than feel. I can't fix, it’s insulting for me to try to, for as a white woman, most of this is completely beyond my ken. To even say I understand is not only insulting, but it's a lie. Of course I can't. But I do weep, in a thousand ways. I don't know what good it can do, but for those who are close to me, about the only thing I can offer is the willingness to hear and embrace the rage, not try to calm it down or fix it or justify it. Just. Fucking. Listen. Because so damned many don't want to hear it.

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Horizon Huntress, prize-winning author, adventure traveler, boundary-pusher, wilder, veteran, aging vibrantly. I own my sh*t. Let’s play!

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