You are so very hard to keep wishing well

Dear President Trump,

I’ll get back to my rant tomorrow or the next day, but tonight I feel like talking with you about some features of your contact page and of my letters to you. You probably aren’t familiar with your contact page since it would be strange for you to write to yourself, so I’ll fill you in. Every time someone wishes to write to you, we have to fill in our basic information; first and last name, email, phone, address. We can choose a prefix, a suffix, or to include our middle names, but those aren’t mandatory fields. Then of course there is the “What would you like to say?” field and the checkbox for receiving regular updates from the White House, which I’ve told you I uncheck every day. My very favorite feature of the contact page is that when you do something wrong, like leave a mandatory field blank or use too many characters in the “What would you like to say?” field, the field gets outlined in bright, angry-looking, red lines while when things are going fine, the outline lines are a calm, soothing blue. I love the irony there. You mess up and the page goes all righteously red on you and when things are copacetic you get a cool blue. Kinda captures your whole gestalt, doesn’t it?

The thing about my letters I’ve been thinking a lot about is how I always (with one recent exception) sign them “Sincerely, Tracy Simpson.” I’ve been questioning the “sincerely” part. I have no qualms about using the word in relationship to the parts of my letters where I’m calling you out on something. I feel very sincere about those opinions and the fear and anger that are usually behind what I’m telling you. Where I’ve been doing some soul searching is with the lovingkindness prayers at the end. It’s much easier to close with “Sincerely” when they are for everyone, but it is much, much harder when they are directed just to you, even when I do so with you in mind as my most difficult person. I often feel like I’m just going through the motions with both the prayer and the closing, pretending to be good when I would rather poke you in the eye. It’s like swallowing the nasty tasting cough medicine I know is good for me. You are so very hard to keep wishing well, but even if I can’t honestly say I love you, I know I need to keep trying. For my sake and maybe for the world’s.

May you be safe.
May you be happy.
May you be healthy.
May your life unfold peacefully.

Tracy Simpson

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