Dear Governor, Let’s turn Vermont’s darkness into delight

2024-04-30

Dear reader,

I nominate the eclipse as the defining event of the 2020s. Call it the “Totalicade.”

“I’m feeling so happy,” my 12-year-old son said, with a laugh, as we gazed up. Even a child hadn’t expected to feel such childlike delight.

Approaching April 8, 2024, I felt the event would be historic and incomparable, and I still do.

Here in Vermont, a state of 647,000 people welcomed another 160,000 visitors. That’s 25% more people. There had never been that many cars on I-89 and I-91, ever. But there were smiles all around.

Crime paused. Parking wasn’t an issue. We had enough lodging for the influx of people, making me wonder if we have a housing crisis or a place-sharing crisis. Sales spiked. Phones were forgotten for a moment.

Our family spent the day in Montpelier, where the bustle downtown made me feel happy and excited. Could our downtowns be like this more often on a Monday at 9 a.m.? Lines for coffee were out the door, but I heard no complaints. We were all in line for something special.

We wanted to be close to nature, and so a friend recommended St. Augustine Cemetery. We brought our beach chairs up there just after noon, then watched group after group bike and walk up the hill to found a viewing terrace.

Kids biked up and down. The couple next to us brought a homemade pinhole camera. Another brought a colander. As the light dimmed—but not like at sunset—I felt it was lit like Hades, the Greek underworld. And yet, we were joyful. Sitting next to dead people brought together Carpe diem and Memento mori. It felt poignant to seize the day while remembering your death. It was a kind of near-death experience, and we were at peace.

Then, a black hole opened up in the sky and fire streamed behind it. We heard a cheering come up from the State House a second before the last crack of sun disappeared for us on the hill. We clapped along with the rest of Vermont.

It was one of those one-minute-thirty-five experiences that you try to soak up fully. Like seeing the love of your life for the first time. The love of my life pointed out that the solar eclipse was the moon’s time to shine. We were seeing Luna herself, Alison noticed, with a sunlight halo. Wow.

Back at work the next week, a reporter was checking out a theory. “I feel like a darkness has descended over the State House,” they confided. Was it true? I don’t know—this is my first rodeo. But I’ve encountered plenty of stress and defensiveness.

“You like to throw grenades,” one Scott Administration staffer commented to me about my recent op-ed.

“I’m open to the feedback,” I replied. They squinted at me, like that wasn’t normal.

I headlined my recent Digger op-ed provocatively—a risk—hoping to draw attention to the conclusion. I suggested in Why don’t Vermonters want to work for Phil Scott? that in the vinegar of our tight fiscal climate, we oughta stimulate the beehive of Vermont with the sweet honey of a bigger vision. We oughta keep climbing.

Take our issues with substance use. Though I supported S.18, I don’t disagree with Governor Scott’s veto message. He’s right to call out our society for our focus on “unhealthy products.”

One way to identify an addict is that they spend all their time and attention either getting high or working on getting their next high.

As lawmakers, we are suffering a similar affliction. We’re spending a lot of our time talking about intoxicants.

For the good of all of us, is there an off-ramp to addiction culture that would also bridge the chasms in our community?

The number-one thing many Vermonters in recovery lack is sober housing. A place not only where residents are committed not only to staying clean, but also to each other and to the values of their community. Not a motel room, not a slapdash congregate shelter, but a place where residents take turns cooking and doing the dishes. A place with tools for building trust and pride in responsibility. A place to share laughter and togetherness—social capital that sustains individuals through hard times.

Around the world and across time, humans have developed a form of housing that is both beautiful and frugal, sober and yet filled with simple pleasures. A place with a welcome mat for virtually anyone, and where anyone can be sure to find togetherness and purpose. That place is a monastery.

What if we reinvent the monastery as today’s Universal Basic Apartment? Let’s open a competition asking the top architects and builders in the region to design a frugal, convivial, dorm-style pre-fab house. A dignified place with intensive gardening out the back door providing residents with healing food and meaningful shared activity. 

What if we don’t have a worker shortage, but a disability crisis?

Here in our Universal Basic Housing complex, residents pay rent on a sliding scale to an ownership cooperative. Permanent residents provide mentorship and organize pancake breakfasts and group support. Small craft businesses jump at the chance to train and recruit. Former addicts thrive on routine, accountability, and being a part of something healthy.

Let’s not only invest in sober housing. Let’s imagine more of our challenged areas bustling with it.

Vermont can be a place for healing, attracting the right kind of attention—the kind of delighted, happy-just-to-exist-in-Vermont feeling we all had on April 8th.

The moment the sun peeked back out, I felt disappointed. My first and probably only view of the sun’s corona was over. Would the delight go, too?

Then I realized that the wonder we felt, looking up at the sky with goofy glasses, was a feeling we manifested right here on Earth, in our bodies. No need to wait for the next syzygy, or travel to Iceland. Here in Vermont, we can sit with our darkest problems and manifest all the delight we need—if we choose to.

Our family views the eclipse from Saint Augustine Cemetery, Montpelier. Photo taken by our neighbors with the pinhole camera. Thanks!