I prayed “Help Her rise. Help Her win.” Not her with a little “h”. Capital “H” Her, as in the She Of Whom I Am A Part, because I am a woman, and because I live on Earth. She who has been oppressed, suppressed, abused, and maligned in this country from the moment it was stolen from its original keepers.
I informed Spirit, in case Spirit somehow missed the last eighteen months in one slow cosmic blink, that many humans and non-humans would suffer and even die if Mr. Impossible’s campaign promises became President Impossible’s legacy.
Fight for yourself, I prayed. Save yourself. Marshall your forces and help her, capital “H” Hillary, rise and be worthy of what she claims to represent. I prayed for the spirits of the dead to turn the energy towards victory on behalf of those who would join them in short order otherwise.
Now it is the aftermath and the last person standing is not a capital “H” anything. Maybe if it were four years or even four months hence I would have some satisfactory explanation for how we let this happen. But I’m writing this today, from the Land of Impossible, and all I have to offer you is this:
I believe that the heart and spirit of every prayer is answered, and I believe that answer sometimes, maybe most times, doesn’t look at all the way we think it should.
Maybe by the time you read this, no explanation will be necessary. Maybe you will have already discovered the mysterious blessings, the unequivocal answer to the great glaring “WHY?” Maybe you will already be rejoicing in the knowledge that capital “H” Her, capital “S” She, did in fact heroically save not only herself, but all of us as well.
Maybe you will be the ones to shout back through time and reassure us that this was Her plan all along, and that the emergence and emergency of Mr. Impossible was the very thing that made all the rest of it possible.