what is the word for horrifying AND hopeful?

I try to write a sentence and trail off thinking about whether I added soy sauce to the grocery list, thinking about what ICE is doing in Minneapolis, thinking about how to juggle lessons and rehearsals and meetings and meals for the week ahead. I check Instagram and think the internet used to be a place we visited, not a place we lived and read another book instead: Long Island, The Accidental Favorite, The Correspondent, just this week. I come back to post and feel paralyzed. The less you care about doing something well, the better your chances of it doing delightedly, of doing it at all? The goal is just to get something recorded before the month is over, if January ever ends. I used to imagine the less important I became to my children, the more adept I might feel at doing other things besides mothering, like writing. Hush little inner critic, don't say a word.

Hank's friends gathered for hot chocolate and Young Sheldon and crochet last night. One girl does not knit but enjoys untangling knots. They'd likely include her regardless, but I admire the group's celebration of her useful, engaged participation.

Recently I've wished the whole world could watch Wonder, or be reminded of the way redwoods collaborate to share water, spreading resources to help the entire forest survive hardships like drought or fire. I can't make anyone abide the precept "choose kind" or take heart the parable about hogging all the water, but I can marvel at the way those things work.

In the bleak midwinter, I'm looking for ebullient colors and divine textures, making a very concerted effort to source joy in every possible way. Tucker got an electric guitar for Christmas and I finally understand, from him, some of the nuances. Also now I like to refer to my favorite old quilt, the one that does not plug in, as my acoustic blanket. Tuck humors me.

After a long day at school last week, Tucker sat at the counter and water colored for hours, chatting the whole time. He revisited a photo he'd taken in Wales as inspiration, our view from the top of Carn Ingli. While he painted he told us about the sheppey, the unit of length defined as the closest point at which sheep remain picturesque (approx 7/8 of a mile, fyi). He mixed colors on a clear plastic lid, creating blues and greens that felt very refreshing, like in a spearmint specific way. After at least three sessions, Tuck's painting is finished and on the fridge now, waiting for just the right frame, sparking delight.

Oh, these boys are my absolute favorite hopeful story. The daily tenderness, the ordinary suffering, the stubborn faithfulness, the full complexity, may it all be reflected here.