An informed well-educated citizenry is essential to a working democracy and holds tyranny at bay, so goes the paraphrase from Thomas Jefferson and others. Keeping up with the changing political structures, ever fluctuating financial markets, revolving cabinet officers and increasingly violent intra-country disputes not only takes a substantial portion of one’s day, but as the news fills one’s mind it also has the capacity to dishearten one’s soul.

How do the producers and commentators at NPR, CNN, Fox, MSNBC, BBC, NHK and other networks, the editors (print and online) of the New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, the Atlantic, Boston Globe, Guardian, Jerusalem Post and other newspapers, magazines and streaming services maintain their sanity? Perhaps the legalizing of medical marijuana has arrived at a propitious time in our nation’s history.

At my annual physical, my internist worked a series of questions into the examination: have I fallen during the past year; noticed any changes to my sense of balance, energy or appetite; experienced frequent headaches or changes in sleep patterns; or had significant weight loss or gain? To this list of routine questions a new one appeared: how am I coping since the election? How startling, I thought, I was feeling relatively fine until that one.

“Hopelessly depressed, often at a loss for words, morally outraged,” I responded. “All of which has affected my sleep patterns, appetite, and I find myself staring into space more often than can be healthy.”

She nodded and replied, “And what are you doing about it?”

“I’ve reduced my levels of caffeine, alcohol and news intake, drink herbal tea, sip apple cider, listen to music, read more novels. I measure the number of blogs and podcasts I follow and try to intake a daily dose of humor. I continually bless Andy Borowitz and the opening monologue of Saturday Night Live. When I saw a justice of the Supreme Court with a “friendly” voting record at the supermarket a few weeks ago, I went over to wish the justice a long and healthy life. In other words, I’m coping.”

My two most important distractions from the disasters of the day are de-accessing my books, and renewing my passion for watercolor painting.

There is an old joke told about a moving man in Manhattan transporting a woman’s belongings from her West Side apartment to a new place on the East Side. “You’ll be back here on Columbus Avenue within two years,” he said. When asked why he made the remark, the mover replied, “You have more books than clothes.”

In the past month, I’ve placed dozens of shopping bags full of books outside my front door with a note stapled to each bag: free books. The first to go were mysteries, the ones devoured on airplanes and long winter nights never to be picked up a second time — everything with a title that begins, “Death or Murder or F is for . . . ” Out the door. Then the cookbooks of cuisines I never mastered or no longer have the desire to try: Jewish cuisine from the four quarters of the world, bibles of baking, braising or barbequing, cocktails for all seasons. Out the door. Art books from eras I no longer seriously study: mannerist sculpture, mosaic floors of Ravenna, classical coffins and caskets. Out the door.

Folks walking along, sometimes with dogs or children, other times with friends or iPhones, stop, browse, take one or two, or most recently brazenly walk away with the entire parcel of books.

I feel good, cleansed, refreshed.

Each time a book is placed in a shopping bag, two or three others are moved around the bookcase in a new arrangement. Biographies are alphabetized rather

than stored by historical era, books by classmates are placed in a more prominent location, unread novels are now closer to the bedside.

Whenever President Trump tweets, I begin a new painting (metaphorically, of course — he tweets far too often to begin a new art work each time he warbles). I’ve enrolled in a watercolor class and concentrate on landscapes, birds, flora, sea and urban scenes — very few portraits. I’ve made a chromatic color chart of each tube of paint and carefully torn heavy sheets of rag paper into half and quarter size. Brushes are routinely arranged by size and style: round tips, wash mops, detailing points. Proper preparation gets the creative juices flowing.

At first I used a canvas boat bag to transport supplies from house to studio; then I resurrected a wheeler that had an earlier life going to and from the farmer’s market. Now that spring has arrived and the market is soon to re-appear, I’ll make a decision: cart red apples home to eat, transport sap green paint to class, or perhaps buy a second wheeler.

The finished paintings are posted to Facebook so friends and family can observe my technical and artistic progress, and the Russians can track my areas of interest. How significant is it that I paint more images of the Brooklyn Bridge than the boat dock at Vineyard Haven? Concentrating on birds makes me believe it is possible to take flight and rise above the tumult on earth. I paint, therefore I am.

Such distractions are essential to good mental heath. So are petitions, protest marches and getting out the vote. A measured and varied response is called for in this Trumpian age.

Francine Trachtenberg lives in Washington, D.C., and has been a seasonal visitor to the Vineyard for more than 40 years.