Category: evolving

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They Grow Up So Fast

I see you, Momma Bird.  You flit across the yard with a blade of dried grass in your beak.  The first nest you made still lays in a heap on the patio.  Perhaps a wind gust swept it off the beam? The winds in that recent cold snap were brutal.  I admire your tenacity.  Not even Mother Nature’s mood swings could hamper your determination.  Instead of giving up, you started over in the same spot.  The cover of the metal roof must have come in handy.  Good thinking, to decide to build there with that bit of protection from the elements and the critters.

That day with the endless rain, I peeked out the window to see you hopping from branch to grass.  It must have been difficult to find any building materials that weren’t soggy.  Do you build at night?  How did you get that done so fast?  When do you rest?

I see you, Momma Bird.  I’ve been that kind of tired.

 

When the sun finally came out after those grey days of rain, I sat on the patio with coffee, making sure my lawn chair wasn’t too close to your new home.  I was bundled in a fleece jacket and socks, with a blanket over my lap.  How do you stay warm?  Or is that why you move so fast?  I felt a bit guilty for sitting and sipping coffee instead of working, like you.

You’ve been so patient with us intruding into your space.  We’ve tried to remember to keep a distance.  The taller one is a bit louder.  Sorry about that.  His voice fills the backyard, but he doesn’t mean you any harm.  He did remember to move his chair into the grass.

I watch you watching us.  You keep an eye on us.  I see that you are torn between protecting your nest and keeping yourself out of harms way.  Your instincts tell you to keep your distance.  Your instincts tell you not to trust us, but your obligations need to be fulfilled.

I see you, Momma Bird.  Many times my instincts have been louder than my plans.  Unlike you, though, I often refused to listen to my instincts.

 

The one with the long hair was the first to notice your baby.  She’s the quietest of the three of us, and she tends to be a bit more observant.  She tiptoed around your nest and came into the house to tell me of the new arrival.  When did that happen?  We should have showered you with gifts!  Congratulations!  Nice work, Momma Bird.  Your baby is adorable.  She looks just like you!

Now you are consumed with a new kind of busy.  Does that baby eat all day long?  (I know how that feels, too!)  I hear the little one has found her voice.  I’m impressed that you can hear her above the voices of all the other birds in the yard.  I have heard how excited she gets in anticipation of a feeding.

Yesterday, I saw her head poke up high enough above the nest so that she could stretch her wings.  She’s getting so strong.  You are feeding her well!  Her head was up for quite a spell.  She’s very insistent about getting those worms.  You are keeping up as best you can.  Her little beak is always open and ready to receive.  (Sounds like a human I know.)  I saw when you hopped over into the garden.  I had the sprinkler going and that must have made it easier for you to get the worms.  Look at you!  You are hard at work, sopping wet and keeping that baby alive and healthy!  I’m so proud of you, Momma!

 

I’m waiting for the temperature to get closer to 60 before heading out with my coffee this morning.  I’ll tiptoe.  I promise.  You can trust us, Momma.  There is room for all of us in this backyard.  We want your baby to thrive as much as you do.

But Momma, try to enjoy this time.  I know it often feels like you are too busy or too tired to stop and appreciate it all, but this time is fleeting.

They do grow up so fast.

 

Best wishes to all those with graduating baby birds.  Job well done!

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When You Can’t Fix the World

Do you lay awake wondering what you are supposed to do to try and fix the world?  Or is it just me?  Even though you know it isn’t your job, do you still have a hard time sleeping because you feel like you should be doing something?   Do you find it hard to appreciate what you have, while knowing so many have so little?  Do you ever feel guilty about having so much?

I know it’s not just me.

 

I took my father to get his first shot.  The person behind the counter asked to see his insurance card.  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but he lost his insurance card.”  “Well, can I see his driver’s license?”  I sheepishly looked at her and said, “He lost that, too.”  Now she was frustrated.  “I’m not trying to be difficult.  I am trying to help you.”  I apologized, again, and told her that I wasn’t trying to be difficult, either.  She said, “Everyone has either an insurance card or a driver’s license.”  What I wanted to say was, “Apparently, that is not the case,” but what I said was, “How do homeless people get the shot?”  She said, “Homeless people have driver’s licenses.”

(I provided his social security card – the new one I’d obtained, because he’d lost his social security card, too.  After much harrumphing, speaking to the manager, and giving me the side-eye, she announced that he would be able to get the shot.)

 

Maybe she didn’t get the memo – the one explaining that not everyone has all these forms of I.D.  Most likely, she was having a bad day.  I couldn’t help thinking that there are a lot of folks out there who don’t have any of the “requirements” necessary to get the vaccine.  Are they just not getting it?  Does anyone help them jump through the hoops to get the vaccine?  Do they have an advocate to insist that they are entitled to get the shot, too?

I came away from that exchange wondering how out of touch many of us are with the realities of others.  We view the world from our perspective and make assumptions.  How inaccurate are those assumptions?  We stare at the curated feed on our favorite social media platform, and unless we check in with differing news sources, most of us tend to think that our version of reality is the most common version.

If I wake up with a solid plan to fix the world, wouldn’t my “fix” simply be my attempt at making someone else’s reality look more like mine?  It’s not like I have the market cornered on success or happiness just because I have an insurance card, a driver’s license, running water and a roof over my head.  Who am I to think I might have a clue how to fix the world when there are SO many different ways of being in the world?

 

And so I fix my corner of the world.

Spring is coming and the raspberries are needing my attention.  While I hate cutting back on any of the canes because I feel like that is eliminating potential for berries, I know they are healthier if I cut them.  I Google how to do it, again, because I can’t ever seem to remember the wise tips on proper pruning.  I put on long sleeves and leather gloves.  I really should wear protective glasses, but going to get them would interrupt my momentum.  I snip a couple at the base.  I step back to get the big picture and decide which one will be sacrificed next.  Thirty minutes have gone by and I’m completely focused on the task at hand.  I’ve stopped thinking about the woman at the pharmacy, or whether there’s another outbreak of gun violence in the country.  I stopped fretting about just what is expected of me next, or how I will most certainly fail to meet that expectation.  I pull out a long cane and scratch my cheek.  Because it’s warm enough to take off my jacket, my arms now look like I have been losing a cat fight.  The scratches hurt, but they give me something else to focus on, besides the sacrificial pruning of the precious raspberry canes or the ills of the world.

Two hours later, I’ve managed to rake up the canes into piles for burning.   I step back and admire the work completed.  The sense of accomplishment pushes negative thoughts to the background.  Tomorrow, I’ll light a bonfire to burn the canes.  With the smoke from the fire, I’ll send up thanks to past and future raspberries and the health that allows me to work in the yard.  I will give thanks for the good fortune of having a yard, a driver’s license and insurance.  I’ll say a thanks, too, for being blessed with an extra helping of compassion.

 

As far as fixing the world, I’ll help where I can, when I can, and remember to save some of that compassion for myself.

 

 

 

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The Boat

That humming sound you hear is coming from the bilge pump on my boat.  The pump has been running a lot lately.

When Jen and I watch TV while eating dinner (go ahead and judge – this is a crucial part of our Pandemic Survival Plan), I will often ask Jen to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of my bilge pump working in overdrive.  For the length of an episode of our current favorite series, I blissfully forget that the pump is running.

 

I once Googled what that humming sound was – the (real, not metaphorical) sound I hear in the middle of the night when sleep is a stranger.  They call it the earth’s hum or the world’s hum.  It’s a thing.  Look it up.

Anyway, last night I noticed the hum.  It’s had a different pitch to it for about a year now.  I’m convinced it was an octave created by all the bilge pumps in all the boats of the world.  They are pumping as fast as they can, as all the boats try to steer through this pandemic.

Can you hear it?

Every single boat must be taking on more water than usual.

 

I’ve charted some rough seas.  I’ve even had to replace the pump.  But lately, I find myself fantasizing about calm waters.  I crave the sound of gentle waves lapping a deserted shoreline.  I see the waves go out and leave a trail of foam.  Maybe a seagull can be heard off in the distance.  There isn’t another “boat” for miles.

Jen likes calm waters, too.

Will?  He likes the rapids.  The rougher the better.  He gets crabby in the calm waters.  Oh, he’ll tell me that he likes things to settle down, but about the time he says that, something in his life creates a tidal wave that inevitably sends a wall of water right for my boat.

Jen and I used to say that things would be too boring without Will’s tidal waves but, with the pandemic and the economic and political strains of late, my boat can’t take on any more water.

I’ve noticed that I am becoming adept at avoiding anything else that looks like a potential storm.  This avoidance skill is also in our Pandemic Survival Plan.  I’m saving my energy for the storms on my immediate radar.  Apparently, there is only enough room for the three of us (and a cat) in my boat.

 

I recently told Will that if he had two married parental units, he’d know which one to go to with a new drama.  You wrap your truck around a pole?  Go to your dad, and he’ll prepare me for the news.  You get your heart broken?  Come to me.  Poor Will is stuck with only me, so he brings me everything.  And I’m grateful for that, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

My boat is on the plains.  Nothing blocks my view.  I can see when a storm is coming.  But Will’s storms seem to come out of nowhere.  Well, not really.  I know where they come from.  (Because I know where they come from, you’d think I’d be better prepared.)  As long as he likes that kind of choppy sea, there will be more coming from that direction.

After he and I (and often times, Jen) finish bailing the water from the most recent storm, we can laugh about it.  I’ll say, “Geez, you’d think that, by now, I might have learned to not over-react.”  He’ll say, “You’d think by now, I’d figure out a better way to tell you this stuff.”  And then I think to myself, “Or you might figure out that life is so much better without all that stuff.”

 

And so the Universe laughs at me while I search for ways to keep a calm center in the midst of these storms.  The Universe laughs harder when I dare to tell Will that life is better without the rough seas.

Look at that!

The Universe left me a note in the sand on that quiet stretch of beach:  “Let him steer his own boat, Jesse.”

And once again, I am reminded that I learn more from Jen and Will than they will ever learn from me.  In the meantime, I’ll prepare myself to have to replace the pump.

 

There’s a meme that says something about, “You don’t know what someone else is dealing with, so just be kind.”  I like that.  Let’s assume that everyone’s boat has taken on too much water, their pump needs to be replaced, and they are doing their best to stay afloat. 

 

 

 

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The Spirit Guides Watch TV

Jon hopped off his skateboard and approached the bench from behind.  He could see the three of them sitting side by side.  As he got closer, he could hear talking and …

Wait, was that the sound of a gavel?

As he walked around the bench, he could see an old TV had been placed on a grave marker.  “What are you guys doing?!”

Through a mouthful of pie, Basil said, “We’re watching the impeachment trial.”

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Gladys said, “Shhhh!”

Margaret whispered, “Grab a piece, dear, and join us.  There’s room.  Scoot to the edge, Gladys.  Make some room.”

Jon grabbed some pie and perched next to Margaret.  He whispered, “I wondered where you guys were.  This isn’t the usual bench.”

Basil said, “We had to find a bench next to a plug-in.”  Jon said, “Cool!  Where’d you get the TV?”

Gladys scowled at Basil, “Shhhh!”

 

They sat for awhile and watched.  At one point, Basil got up to get a second piece of pie.  Margaret had made French Silk that day.  Jon walked over and asked if Basil had any more coffee.  “I brought an extra thermos because I knew we’d be here for awhile.”  Jon said, “Great.  So, Basil, why are we watching this?”  Basil unscrewed the top of the thermos, “It’s the impeachment trial for Trump, the former president.”  Jon held out a cup.  “Why do we care?”  Basil laughed, “We don’t, but it’s interesting to see how they conduct themselves, and why they all find this so important.”

Margaret approached.  “They’re done for the day.  Good time to stretch the legs.”  Jon took a fork full, “I’d have thought you’d make an apple pie today, Margaret.  You know, kind of an American pie.”  Jon laughed at himself.  Margaret wiped her hands on her apron, “I’m a little disgusted with America right now, Jon, so I opted for something else.”  Jon looked at Basil, “Apparently Margaret cares about this trial.”

Gladys walked over, shaking her head.  “Don’t you find it fascinating that they even have to have a trial for that guy?  Shouldn’t he already be in jail?”  Basil looked at Jon as he pointed at Gladys, “Tread lightly near that one.”  Margaret shook her head, “Seems a waste of time when everyone knows how the vote will go.  You could have all the evidence in the world, but the other side made up their minds before they even began.”

With both hands on her hips, Gladys said, “What are they supposed to do now?  Are they supposed to move on and pretend none of this ever happened?  Do they just let him get away with it?!  Doesn’t this pave the way for this to happen again?  Do ANY of them read history?”

Jon backed away and looked at Basil.  “I thought you said we didn’t care?”  Basil laughed, “Well, I guess I meant that I don’t care.  I came for the pie.”

Now Margaret put her hands on her hips.  Both Gladys and Margaret faced Basil.  At the same time, they both said, “Why don’t you care, Basil?”

 

Basil put his plate down and leaned against a tree.  He took a breath and said, “First of all, I’ll remind you that we don’t have to care.  We can view this from a distance.  Fortunately.”  Basil crossed his arms, “I would suggest that the living do the same thing.  Other than those on the front lines fighting the fight, what can most of them do?  Can all those watching TV or listening to the radio …”  Jon interrupted and said, “Or checking their social media!”  Basil said, “Right, Jon.  That, too.  Can any of them really make a difference other than elevating their blood pressure?  Shouldn’t they focus on what they can do?  They can improve their own lives and focus on their families.  They can make progress in their corner of the country.”

Gladys leaned in, “They could focus on truth!  They could stop spreading lies!  They could do their homework and read and quit jumping to conclusions.”

“True,” Basil said, “but that has to start in their own home.”

Margaret relaxed and said, “Basil is right.  There are warriors who are cut out for this.  Not everyone is cut out to be a warrior.  The rest could clear the way to let those warriors do the work, but back them up by cleaning up the messes in their own backyards.  They could fight in their own way.  They could start by making sure their neighbors have enough to eat.”

Gladys said, “And making sure their neighbors have a roof over their heads, while they are at it.”

Basil said, “I agree with both of you.”

Gladys said, “Isn’t it also the government’s responsibility to feed and house the masses?”

Basil laughed, “That depends on who you ask.”

Gladys said, “Fine.  But when the masses lose trust in their government, won’t they lose hope in the process?  And when they lose hope in the process, what’s next?  Anarchy?”

Basil said, “Whoa, Gladys!  History proves that the process prevails.”

Margaret said, “History also proves that the top rarely looks out for the bottom. And while they are busy repeating history, who makes sure there’s enough food and shelter?  And, Basil, you know better than to say, ‘Whoa, Gladys.'”

Basil smiled,  “That’s right, Margaret.  Gladys, I apologize.  What I mean to say is that if they focus on their own stories and work on change in their own part of the world, the process can prevail. The top will only ever care about power.”  With a mouthful, Jon said, “And money.”  Basil, said, “That, too, Jon.  The top will never concern itself with the story of the common people, other than to give their story lip service in order to gain more power.  It’s up to the masses to look out for each other.”

 

Jon said, “And they can vote, Basil.  That’s where they can make a difference.  They can vote.”

Basil patted Jon on the back, “You’re absolutely right about that, Jon.”

Gladys huffed, “That’s all fine, until the top takes away their right to vote.”

Margaret put her hand on Gladys’ shoulder,  “Then they make darn sure they don’t vote for the ones who take away the votes of others, dear.  And in the meantime, they make sure their neighbors have enough.”  Margaret re-tied her apron, “Meet back here tomorrow.  I’m making German Kuchen.”

Basil laughed.  “See you tomorrow.  I’ll bring another thermos.”

 

 

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Unsubscribed

I’ve been blogging for 11 years and I’ve yet to create a process (need?) for subscribing to either of my blogs.  I was never going to send you a newsletter or ask you to become a member of a club, so I didn’t see the point.

A couple weeks ago, I was giving serious thought to the idea of no longer self-hosting these blogs.  Are these blogs two leaves drifting down onto a forest floor covered in (prettier, better-written, more interesting) leaves?  Often I feel I’m in the middle of that forest, spilling my thoughts to the trees, moss and birds.

 

Hello?

 

Is anyone there?

 

This blog has been, and continues to be, my therapy.  While it’s nice to know others are out there reading, the benefit comes to me, even if I’m spewing to the trees, birds and other woodland creatures.  That’s why I’ve kept hosting them all these long years – the blogs, not the woodland creatures.  (See what I mean about better writing?)

But it costs money to self-host a blog.  It’s not a lot, and it’s certainly less than monthly therapy appointments.  That being said, whenever I need to tighten my belt (2020?!), I often look at those monthly charges and think about not paying Hostgator.  Hell, I could save that money and use up some of the kids’ unused (except for a few random pages of doodles and complaints about the teacher) spiral notebooks from home school to scrawl out all those thoughts – thoughts I’ve been paying to spew into the moss-covered forest inhabited by birds, who clearly don’t give a rip.

And then, a few days ago, I opened up the Jesse Blayne email account and there was an email from one who was wondering how to subscribe so she wouldn’t miss any of these words.

I ask you, when the Universe sends you a wink like that, what would you do?

I know, right?

So I created a page on this blog where you can subscribe.   If you like.  And then, apparently, this plug-in thingy will send you an email when I’ve written a new post.  Then you, and the moss-covered trees and the birds, will know what I’m ranting about. (Like that matters?  I dunno.)  But, just maybe you’ll be glad to know another soul out there feels the same way you do, and you’re not alone in all this craziness.

And I’ll save the kids’ old spiral notebooks for a different project like notes on gardening, or potential remodeling ideas (that are way too expensive), or how to understand my 22 year old son, or maybe donate them (the notebooks, not Will, of course) to Goodwill with the other home school books we no longer need.

 

Speaking of subscribing, I requested to be part of a Facebook Group about Covid.  I was hoping it was going to be filled with science-minded, caring folks who wanted to support each other through these crazy times.  I now see that there most likely isn’t that sort of Covid Support Group – at least not on Facebook.  I unsubscribed.

 

Speaking of unsubscribing, what have you unsubscribed from this year?

If Covid could have a silver lining, maybe it’s that we have an excuse to unsubscribe, unfollow and back away from many of the things we wanted to get away from, but were too polite to, before this virus.

Like that guy I unsubscribed from, a few years back, whose voice I hear saying, “No one reads your blogs,” right before I’m about to hit the Publish button.

I’ve tried to unsubscribe from the shenanigans in the White House.  My mental health is whispering (okay, sometimes screaming) that maybe it’s not such a great idea to pay attention to that circus.  What can I do about it, anyway.  But it reminds me of a big black hairy spider there, in the corner.  I’ve got to keep my eye on it.  Oh wait!  It just went under the green chair.  “Jen!  Grab a shoe!  Quick!”  And while Jen runs to grab a shoe, I’ve got to keep watching the floor under the green chair, because if I lose sight of the big hairy spider, it’ll reappear where I least expect it, and scare the crap out of all of us.

Also, who’s bringing the shoe for the spider in the White House and could they hurry it up, please?

 

I do hope this year comes to a peaceful, healthy close for you and that you feel encouraged and lighter about the possibilities that the new year might bring.  Thanks for being here.

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Survival Mode in a Pandemic

It’s been a couple months since I’ve written.  Ideas and titles for possible blog posts are written on scratch paper, tucked behind the Starbucks mug full of pens on the kitchen counter.  The mug was a gift for Jen.  She doesn’t drink coffee.  Thing is, I haven’t felt like writing, even though I know that’s exactly what I need to do.

I’ve lost a few pounds since the middle of February, yet this is the heaviest I can remember feeling.  I wasn’t trying to lose weight but, I don’t eat when I’m stressed.  I used to write to deal with stress, but I’ve lost the ability to focus.

This is new.  This is limbo.

I could search the internet to find the “experts” (can anyone be an expert during this?) who write about how to get up and shower and drink the coffee and plan the day during a fucking pandemic.  I don’t have the energy to search.

I have tuned into some podcasts – Ram Dass, Michelle Obama, Cheryl Strayed, Brene Brown – while gardening.  Many have given me permission to feel out-of-sorts; to be okay with not writing; to understand why I hate cooking the same 13 things over and over again.  (It’s no wonder I’ve lost weight.)

While I want to write something encouraging or uplifting, I can’t find the words.  I’m too pissed off.  I just now noticed that I’ve written “I” or “I’ve” or “I’m” 20 times in these first paragraphs.  All the experts would tell me to write about you, if I want this to be read.  Screw the experts.  I need to get this out there.  It’s about me.

Maybe it’s about you, too.

 

I am a mask-wearing, self-isolating, social-distancing island in a sea of folks who aren’t taking this virus seriously.

It’s not the first time I’ve been the odd one out.  The fringe is my zip code.  The unconventional is my groove.  And while I find solace in my garden, I am bone-weary tired of worrying about all the kids of the world, not just my own.  I am frayed from caring too much about how they’ll navigate once this administration is done raping and pillaging.  I struggle to remain optimistic, when my soul tells me that the pendulum has to swing the other way, all while I’m surrounded by folks who don’t want to let go of the status quo.

And it’s lonely over here, hiding behind my mask, hoping for the best, knowing full-well we are headed for an Avenger-sized train wreck that will make all other train wrecks look like something the Hulk might step on.

 

On a bright note, I have blooming, swaying, towering hollyhocks in my back yard, for the first time ever.  So that’s a happy thing.

 

I remember being told that if I want anyone to read this blog, I would be smart to steer away from politics and religion.  Well, dammit, we can’t afford to steer away from politics right now!  If all the quiet, low-under-the-radar, mind-their-own-business types would rise up, we might stand a chance.  Maybe we could see a return to civil discourse, manners, respect, compassion and love.  If we express our concerns and share our voices, maybe our kids could have a future!

Last night, I learned my neighbor – a nice young man, a homeowner with two happy, busy daughters – is shouting from the social media rooftops his support of the current administration.  I’ve been what-the-fucking since I saw his posts.  I’ve had numerous conversations with him.  We share concerns about keeping the neighborhood safe, fixing up our homes, finding roofing contractors and raising kids.  I thought we had a connection.  I’ve often felt like a mom-figure to him.  How the hell can he support Trump when he’s raising two daughters?!  How can anyone who has children, or professes to love females, support the current administration?!

I will lose a friend (many friends, most likely) when I put the signs up in my yard.  This will be the first time I declare my stance before an election.  Desperate times …

Don’t tell me about how Trump has done so much for the economy.  My neighbor and his wife have three jobs between them, to make ends meet.  That doesn’t leave a lot of time for effectively raising two kids.

 

This year I grew these from seed.  Don’t they look like something from a Disney movie?  They’re called Penny Blacks.

 

I can almost hear my family and friends rolling their eyes at what they probably perceive is my over-zealousness about the mask.  I’ve seen Will roll his eyes, when he thinks I’m not looking.  Truth be told, I’m rolling my eyes at them, too.  Thanks to Trump, that political divide in families has gotten much bigger.  It used to be that I could go to a family dinner and enjoy the food, the card playing and the banter.

I told you, it’s lonely being me.  But, it’s not an option to NOT be me.

A couple days ago, after a sleepless night of worrying about college kids and how they’ll cope, I was feeling the isolation of my stance on all things virus related.  I succumbed to searching for Facebook groups of like-minded individuals.  Even from the safe-distance of my home, I hoped to find my tribe – a group to commiserate with.  In case you didn’t know, there are scores of anti-mask groups on Facebook.  I couldn’t find a single group for those who wear masks, other than the group of 7 who make masks.   Instead, I opened a new tab to explore the possibility of moving to New Zealand.

 

Did I tell you we will have pumpkins this year?

 

Jen is on the island with me.  She went off to college.  We were nervous, scared and excited.  She came back home after seeing how cavalier the other students were about masks and social-distancing.  She’ll be taking classes online.

Who can possibly thrive in this narcissistic culture that can’t sacrifice a couple social engagements, wear a goddamn mask, or keep their asses home long enough for this generation (our future!) to be able to get an education?!  When will we see that serving only ourselves will be our end?

How can a culture, that is so supportive of athletics and team sports, be so full of folks who are shitty at being team players?

That sense of entitlement will cost us all those things that we hold dear, including our families and our futures.

 

I know.  You think I’ve gone off the deep end with all the time to over-think, during this extended period of self-isolation.  The introvert in me doesn’t mind the distance.  Perhaps I needed a pandemic to show me how to stick to my boundaries.  The HSP in me loses sleep with worry for all the kids.  If it weren’t for yard work and walking, I’d be curled up in a fetal position on my yoga mat complaining about my stress-induced back problems.

Here’s the thing.  We need to go off the deep end.  We need to get uncomfortable.  We need to go out there and make damn sure that our kids have a chance.  Complacency allows this massive train-wreck to happen.

 

The italicized portions of this post are a reflection of my coping mechanisms during this seemingly unending, politicized pandemic.  I rant for stretches and then I go out to the yard for respite.  “Oh, look.  A bee on the sunflower!  Oh, there’s my garden buddy!” (A wee bunny munches in the yard while I water and weed.  He’s not smart enough to be afraid of me, or maybe he knows I’m all bark and no bite.)

Then I check social media and remember to be mad at the world.  Jen and I vent together and shake our heads.  Then she goes back to a project (her coping mechanism) and I go back outside. 

Later, we’ll go for a walk, vent some more, take pictures of the offspring of the multiplying bunnies in our neighborhood, wonder at the moon, and consider how nice it would be to live somewhere else.  As weeks roll into months, we fret and worry and hope, and get ready to vote.

 

*I ran to the store before posting this.  Will and I had gotten Jen a pasta machine for her birthday.  Between all the pasta we’ll be making and the baking we already do, we needed to stock up on flour.  I’m pushing a cart that has a 25# bag of flour and a 25# bag of jasmine rice, and I happen to run into two, who I now realize are part of my tribe.  I rarely see them because they are staying home like Jen and I are!  We stood 6 feet apart and yelled through our masks and talked about the glasses of wine we hoped to be able to share one day.

I think maybe I didn’t know who was part of my tribe, until this pandemic.  For that, I am grateful.

Thank you, Universe, for showing me that Jen and I are not alone on this island.

 

 

 

 

 

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Slow Learners

“Seriously, Margaret, why wouldn’t they wear a mask?  How tough is that?”

“Jon, that’s an interesting question coming from one who refused to wear a helmet when skateboarding.”

“Yeah, but I was the only one at risk.  That’s different.”

“I see your point.  But why wouldn’t you wear a helmet?”

Jon thought for a minute, trying to remember what it was like to glide on a board in his physical form.  “I guess I felt freer without one.  When I was learning to skate, I had to wear one.  Then when I got good enough, I didn’t fall as much, so I didn’t need one.”

Margaret wiped her hands on her apron.  “You needed one, dear, but most likely there was no one around to remind you to put one on.  Maybe the folks who refuse to wear masks feel freer by not wearing one.  Hand me that bowl of lemons, dear.”

Jon reached for the bowl of lemons, “Not the same, Margaret.  Not at all the same.”

 

“Margaret!  What kind are you making today?”  Gladys sat down and smoothed the pleats of her skirt.

“I’ve been feeling like lemon meringue.  It’s summer, and summer calls for lemon meringue.  We’ll have to eat it quick.  The meringue never keeps for long.”

Gladys laughed, “I’m sure we won’t have a problem.”

Gladys tugged on her necklace as she thought how to ask, “Why do you think they’re still talking about how Black Lives Matter?  They’ve been going on about that for so long.  You’d think they’d have figured it out by now.”

Margaret separated yolks from whites into a small bowl.  “Interesting, isn’t it.  And we still see struggles on other fronts, too.  Women haven’t progressed much further than in my day.”

“Progress still takes so damn long.”  Basil walked up and took a seat.  “Snails pace, I tell ya.  When those, that have, risk losing any of what they got, they’ll do all they can to make damn sure no one else gets any.”

Margaret reached for a lemon, “I imagine it’s hard to relinquish control when you’ve had it for so long.”

Jon laughed.   “Those who need control have no clue how great life is when you don’t worry about controlling everything.”

Gladys rolled her eyes, “Spoken like a guy who never wore a helmet.  Folks control when dealing with uncertainty.  Uncertainty causes fear.  Controlling is how they deal with fear.”

Jon looked at Gladys.  “Do you think that’s why they won’t wear masks – because deep down they’re afraid?  And because of that, NOT wearing a mask is their way of controlling their fear?”

Basil took a sip of coffee and shook his head.  “Nah.  That’s a nice theory Jon but, I don’t buy it.  Lots of folks are just plain lazy.  They don’t like being inconvenienced.”

“And lots don’t like to be told what to do.”  Margaret gave Jon a sideways glance before measuring cornstarch into a pan.  “Kind of like Jon and helmets.  Right, dear?”

Gladys said,  “That’s right.  Ask me about what it’s like to tell a man what to do.”  They all laughed.

 

Jon sat down next to Basil.  “Seriously, though, why do you think they’re such slow learners?  Isn’t it obvious to them what they need to do?  Wear a mask, already.  Save some lives, already.  How many times must they be told that Black Lives Matter?”

Basil smiled.  “Was it obvious to you what you needed to do when you were learning to skate?”

Jon grinned.  “Sure.  It’s obvious to anyone who wants to skate.”

Basil said, “So it was obvious what you needed to do.  Did you pick it up quick?”

Jon rubbed his elbow.  “Heck, no!  I fell a thousand times.  I scraped up every square inch of me.  There was nothing quick about it.  Even though I knew what to do, it still took a long time to get good.”

Basil laughed.  “Do you think it’s the same with being human?”

Gladys stood up, “Basil, you can’t equate learning to skate with learning to be an empathetic, evolved human.”

Basil grinned, “I knew you’d get riled, Gladys.  The point I’m making is that even though people know what needs doin’, they’re slow to get there.”

 

“Dear, stir this while I beat these egg whites,” Margaret handed Basil a whisk.  “Humans aren’t born wanting to share, or wanting to put others first.  Think of what it’s like to teach a child to share.  It’s an ongoing process.  A good parent works at it all through that child’s younger years.  Schools work at teaching children to take turns.  Church preaches sharing.  It takes time to learn these things.”

Jon laughed, “I knew kids who would only share when an adult was watching.”

Just then the timer beeped.  “Jon, dear, could you take that pie crust out, please?”

“How will I know it’s done?”

“It’s done, dear.”  Margaret stopped the mixer and looked at the three of them.  “We are wired to survive.  Sharing, putting others first – these things go against that instinct for survival.  Except for moms, of course.  Moms have to share.  We don’t have a choice!”  All four of them laughed.

Gladys asked, “Haven’t we evolved enough, by now, to override those instincts?  Can’t we see that we have enough, and that we’ll survive if we share?”

Basil said, “Our brain knows we need to share, but that conflicts with our base instinct to get what we think we need to survive.”

Margaret folded a bit of thickened cornstarch into beaten egg yolks.  “That’s exactly right, Basil.  All these things  – sharing, thinking of others, putting others first – need to be learned.  They don’t come naturally.  More importantly, they need to be learned repeatedly.  When we don’t have parents or church or peer groups or even the government reminding us to do those things, we forget the lesson.  We need constant reminders.  Community fills that role.  When community breaks down, we lose the examples of why those ideals are so important.”

“Beat the yolks, please, Gladys, while I add more of the cornstarch mixture.” Gladys shook her head, “It’s tiresome that humans need to be reminded to be human.”

Jon winced, “I wished I’d done a better job of picking peers.  Where would I be now if I’d picked a different group?”

 

Margaret said, “It’s a shame, isn’t it.  Think of it like Jon and skateboarding.  If he hasn’t done it for awhile, he gets rusty.  Everything takes practice.  Lessons need to be reinforced.  They need to practice sharing, practice putting others first.  They need to practice accepting others and including them, until they can do it without thinking about it.”

Basil put down his coffee cup, “Evolution is an ongoing process, especially for lazy humans!”

Jon laughed, “You sound like a crabby old sage.”  He grabbed his board,  “I, for one, am glad to be done learning those lessons.”

Margaret smiled, “Oh, dear!  You’ve only just begun!”  She put the pie in the oven, “I’ll let you know when the pie is ready.”

 

The Spirit Guides are between incarnations.  They hang out at a cemetery, watching our foibles, offering insights, all while enjoying Margaret’s amazing pies. 

 

 

 

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and so the people …

And so the people found themselves in a modern-day pandemic.  It wasn’t a problem that kept itself on the other side of the globe, adversely impacting only those people.  This pandemic impacted all the people.

The pandemic caused the people to lose most of their preferred constructs.

Schools had to close their buildings, leaving parents to navigate learning via Zoom, email, and homework packets.  Rants changed from,  “Get off your screen!” to, “Get on your screen and pay attention to your teacher!”

Bars, gyms and theaters were closed.  Sporting events were canceled.  Worship could, in some cases, only happen online.

(Did anyone else hear the Gods laughing?  Seriously, the people have yet to figure out that their Gods are everywhere, not just in a building or a tent.)

Shops could bring you what you wanted to your car, or through a window.  Due to crazed online orders, many started a cardboard collection, sorting their deconstructed boxes by size, but keeping them out of the house because of the risk of contamination.

You could drive up to your favorite tavern, order a Manhattan, have it delivered to your car, and drive home sipping.  Read that again.  You could drive home sipping on a cocktail.  (Apparently, pandemics encourage drinking and driving, or is that just in my neighborhood?)

 

The people either watched the news and ranted, posting their opinions on social media; or they avoided the news, learned to bake bread, and magically revived all their dead and dying houseplants.  (Yeast is the only item I’ve seriously considered ordering from Amazon as our stores are perpetually sold out.)

The people either re-connected with their kids over board games, pizza nights and a 5th showing of The Princess Bride; or they holed themselves up in separate rooms of their too-big house and crossed off the days of the calendar until this “damn quarantine is over,” wondering why they ever thought it was a good idea to start a family.

 

The people learned how much they could do on their own, or they realized how much they needed each other.

 

Some of the people felt their hearts soften when they called to check on neighbors or made masks for co-workers or baked extra muffins for the guy at the end of the block.

Some people felt their hearts harden as they raged at the government for taking away their privileges and keeping them from living the lives they’d grown accustomed to – lives often full of self-indulgences and instant gratification.

 

The people were presented with an opportunity to evaluate, learn, and grow.  They could take stock in their progress – decide what was working and what wasn’t.  The people were given a chance to re-prioritize.

 

Some chose to embrace the slowness, the lack of over-scheduled activity, and the opportunity to connect with kids or the ones they found themselves living with during this stay-home phase.  They came to appreciate the deliberate, soul-filled approach to life.

Some chose to cling to a return to “normal.”  Those people would not rest easy until they got back all the ways of living that they thought had served them well, before the arrival of this “damn virus.”

Some will most likely come out of this pandemic taking steps to part ways, file for divorce, change their last name and argue over who gets the dog on which weekend.  Some will undoubtedly decide they’ve had enough of living alone with a cat, potted plants, an extensive collection of herbal teas and Netflix, and sign up for a dating site.

 

There are lessons in all the approaches.  There is no right way or wrong way, because lessons are taught in all the ways.

 

You might shout, “But, wait!  The only sane way is the way that helps the environment and keeps the people safe!”

And another would roll their eyes and say, “But that’s ridiculous!  The only way is the way that saves the economy!”

Could the people find some truth in both of those ways?

If choosing life and environment costs us a thriving economy, can we learn how to pull together to survive a challenged economy?  If lives and the environment are the costs of a thriving economy, are there not lessons in that approach, as well.

Could the people learn to care for each other as well as themselves?

 

And so the people learned.

 

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The Sanctuary – Blue Room Launch

Now I am sitting in the seat, hands perched on the controls.  The attendant has closed the shield.  I am encased in the bubble.  I’m not sure I want to go anywhere.  I’m loving staring off at the blue.

No sounds.

No smells.

Peace.

Quiet.  Stillness.  Calm.

 

 

And because my brain never sits still long enough to appreciate the calm, my fingers grasp the controls.  I feel the slightest texture.  I am excited to see what will happen.  I push the right control forward and the blue screen undulates.  The blue deepens.  Is that a breeze I feel?  I look up to see if there is a fan above me.  Nothing.  All I see is blue.  The blue is getting darker.

I’d swear I’m moving through this dark blue.

My left hand moves the control forward.  I’m “moving” faster.  The color is darker.  The air flows faster.  I feel like I’m swooping down into depths.

I take my hands off the controls.  The breeze stops.  I feel suspended, as if I’m floating in deep blue ocean waters.  Is this what it would be like to freely breathe under water?  I am relaxed.  There is no fear or anxiety.  I gently push the right control to the right.  Did I move to the right?  Or does my brain assume I’ve moved?  I take my hand off the control.

I continue to float.  My mind wants to know what to expect.  Would I come upon a massive school of fish?  Will they part as I “swim” through?  My curiosity prevents me from enjoying the weightlessness of my position in this deep blue.

I push the left control to the left and move in that direction.  Now I push both controls to the left and speed through the dark blue.  The air flows again.

Far ahead of me, I see reflections.  Floating shapes are materializing.  Slowly, approaching from the dark blue shadows, images form into ….

 

Memories?

I want to see more clearly.  I am insistent.  What am I seeing?

I yank both controls back.  Will I get to the images more quickly?  When both controls were pushed forward, I sensed that I was swooping down.  Now, with controls pulled back,  I am clearly soaring up through these dark depths, racing through reflecting images of memories.  The farther I go up, the lighter the blue gets.  I see Patches, my favorite cat from childhood.  There’s my hot pink Stingray, the bike that allowed me the first taste of freedom.  Images speed by:  the tie-dyed pillow furniture I’d made for my Barbies; a favorite mod-print dress from 1st grade; faces of friends from 2nd grade; crushes from 6th grade; the car I drove in high school.   Oh! That’s the Eagle’s album that had melted in the back of that car.  Weird!  I can almost smell my dorm room.   There’s my favorite pair of skis.

I am moving so fast it is impossible to catalog all the memories as they flash by me.   The air moves faster.  I begin to feel dizzy.  I want to slow down but, more desperately, I want to know where I’m headed.

The blue is lighter still.  I look up and see that I am approaching the lightest shade of blue.  Is it the sky?  Am I coming to the surface of an ocean? Am I ready to leave all these memories?  What is next?

. . . . .

If you were sitting in the chair, hands on the controls, what would you see?  Where would you go?  Would you swim contentedly in the memories or would you soar to the surface and excitedly embrace what is next?

 

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The Sanctuary – Blue Room

The only light in the hallway comes from under each of the six doors and the Tiffany lamp.  You look at the attendant to see if she might give you a hint.  You glance at the polished stones.  Is there some correlation between the stones and the doors?

She told you that the purple and green rooms are occupied.  You briefly wonder what is happening in those rooms.  You don’t hear any sounds coming from under the doors.  You don’t smell anything that would give you a clue. The glowing colors under the remaining doors are red, yellow, blue and orange.  The doors aren’t labeled.  There isn’t a flyer or a brochure telling you what’s behind each door.  Your lizard brain wants you to reach for your phone and try to search something about “The Sanctuary.”

The attendant stands a couple feet away from you.  She’s giving you quiet and space to make a decision.  You take a breath.  For some reason – probably a feeling – you say, “The Blue Room, please.”  The attendant walks to the table, selects a stone and places it in the pocket of her tunic.  She then walks to the door of the Blue Room and glances in each direction before turning the handle.

 

Immediately your eyes need time to adjust to the light spilling out of the room.  The attendant gently touches your elbow to assist you into the space.  You see some kind of screen.  It’s expansive – so large that you can’t quite tell how tall or wide it is.  Is it curved?  The screen encompasses the ceiling, or at least you think it does.

Starting at the floor and scaling to the ceiling, you see every shade of blue from the darkest, almost black indigo to cornflower blue that wants to fade to white.  Are you swimming?  Are you flying?  You feel light-headed.  You reach out to steady yourself and the attendant puts out her arm.  You grab her arm and she leads you to the center of the space.

For the first time, you notice a chair. Or is it a chair?  It looks like something a serious gamer would use.  It’s ergonomic, sleek, white and encased in a clear bubble-like shield.  The attendant presses a button on the back of the chair and the bubble slides out of the way to allow access to the seat.  She smiles and motions for you to take the seat.

Gingerly, you step into what can only be described as a sterilized cocoon.  You’ve never experienced a more comfortable chair – no pressure points, no need to adjust.  You are completely supported and feel as though you are floating in the center of a quiet blue space.  For a moment, you start to feel claustrophobic, but that is overridden by your excitement and anticipation of what comes next.

Once you are in position, she walks around to stand in front of you.  She speaks quickly and quietly.  “Each arm rest is equipped with hand controls.  Place your hands on them now.  Acquaint yourself.  Push buttons and pull levers.  Nothing can happen until I close the shield.  Feel the knobs and familiarize yourself.  The controls are intuitive.  Push both forward to move faster.  Push either side forward to move at a controlled pace in a certain direction. Pull one back to go back.  Pull both back to stop.  The left control will send you to the left.  The right…  You will see.  Don’t over-think.”

The attendant steps out of view to give you time to adjust.  You notice a slight texture on the grips.  They fit your hands perfectly.  The controls are white.  Everything on the chair is white.  There is not point in looking at the controls to perceive a difference between levers or buttons.  Clearly, you are meant to feel the controls.

The attendant must have pressed the button because suddenly the shield closes to encase you in the bubble.

. . .