How We Walk Through Fire

We arc and grand and sing and wonder here at the end of the world, hoping to keep it all going, sundered from dark, ready for wild.

One of my late mother-in-law’s favorite sayings was, “Don’t worry about the small stuff, and it’s all small stuff.” 

It bothered me. Not because she had been a terrible mother who hadn’t bothered to raise her three children and then skipped grandparenting altogether, but because it isn’t true.

On the one hand, when we say that we’re concerned about being late for an appointment—whether it’s work, hair, the dentist, or Pilates—those are small problems. First-world problems. If you run out of soap or toilet paper, you can usually make your way to CVS and buy more. If you can afford it. Small stuff. If your kid loses a game. Small stuff. If you get in a fender bender. Small stuff.  

If your spouse or child turns out to have a mental illness? Not small stuff.

If your spouse or child or sibling becomes an alcoholic or drug addict? Not small stuff.

If your friend dies of a fentanyl overdose? Not small stuff.

If your spouse nearly dies of a heart attack—not small stuff. 

If you can’t pay your bills and might be evicted, not small stuff. 

All of this has happened to me or someone I know. And most of us have had deaths, overdose, drug abuse, mental health crises, alcohol problems, and financial ruin impact our lives. 

If you think it’s all small stuff, you are living the calm, protected life of the American middle or upper class. Watching only certain news stations. Unaware that for many people in this country, and in countries with less money or endless wars, there are problems that exceed “small stuff.”

We have a saying at Red Hen: We are measured by how we walk through fire.  During the easy times of a marriage, a family, an organization, a community, or a nation, you don’t know who possesses resilience. 

You know when you are walking through fire.  Who stays the course.  Who keeps walking.  

In the end, I was irritated by the idea that “it’s all small stuff,” because I was moving mountains. I felt that the obstacles in my life making publishing and literary culture work—the raising of funds for diverse books, the partnerships, the distribution of books, the business itself—all of it felt like Everest, and I couldn’t bear to have my work reduced to anthills.

If I had any idea how hard it was to build literary culture in a city like Los Angeles, to find support and allies, I would never have started Red Hen. But now, I am all in. It is not small stuff.  

I am not alone. I have a team of warriors who believe in books and stories, which are more important than ever. Every day, we come to our work believing that we will find more allies to publish change-making, world-shaping books, authors like Afaa Weaver, Douglas Manuel, Amber Flame, and Kristen Millares Young. 

We who work to change the world see our lives in grand terms. We are building castles, running up mountains. We are, as they say, “at play in the fields of the Lord.” For me, that means we are doing the work of making room for the voices on the margins, for untold stories; we’re saying, yes, yes, I will build a bookshelf, and a bookstore, and lift your story into the world. We arc and grand and sing and wonder here at the end of the world, hoping to keep it all going, sundered from dark, ready for wild.