Category: where’d she go?

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Walking Alone For Awhile

I’ve been thinking a lot about a favorite quote from Ram Dass: “We’re all just walking each other home.”

I see many interpretations of that quote, and I’ve always loved it, even though I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Honestly, I didn’t give it much thought because I liked the way it sounded. To me it has always meant that we’re in this together. We are all heading in the same general direction. We may walk side by side for awhile, or our paths may diverge, but we’re all going to the same place, so the least we can do is be there for each other as we make progress.

Recently, though, I’ve felt tired. I could blame it on winter, or age, or too much work. Am I expecting my body to still keep the pace it always has? Isn’t it logical to want to slow down at my age? I’m feeling the years, or the miles, as my funny daughter says. I suspect the exhaustion comes from our many attempts. My soul is tired, as I think hers may very well be, even if she’s only 21 in this go ’round. If we are working at it – and I do believe that is our soul’s purpose – then we will get tired.

How should we walk each other home? How much is required of us, and how much might we expect from fellow travelers? Is it up to me to drag you along if you aren’t keeping up? (For that matter, who am I to determine that you aren’t keeping up?) Is it up to you to drag me if I’m lagging behind? Of course not, on both counts, but I often forget that, especially when I’m tired. I know we all get to go at our own pace. Am I still a good person if I’m too tired to be there for you? Gee, *said facetiously* I wonder which spiritual teaching convinced me that always doing for others is what makes us a good person?

Do I have to be continuously walking? Can I just sit on the side of the road in the sun for a bit, and catch up on some reading and screen my calls? Would Dass be okay with that? Why do I even care what he would think?

Perhaps I’m fickle for prescribing to whatever approach appeals to me at a particular time, lacking loyalty to a guru or spiritual teacher for the duration. It got me to this point, didn’t it? It’s my process, and if switching philosophical/mystical/spiritual teams gets me to the next point, then all that matters is that I’m making progress. As long as I’m loyal to my progress, I can change up the method as many times as I like. If one approach is no longer serving, it’s time to try a new approach.

I’m learning that this experimental approach puts me in a position to meet new people. I’ve certainly met some interesting folks who’ve taught me important lessons along the way, but I’m feeling the need to slow down and process those lessons. Perhaps the tired is from an overload of too many messages/lessons.

Speaking of gurus, I’m pretty sure Abraham Hicks would say that I’m forgetting to have fun with the process. I think I moved on from his approach because it seemed, to me anyway, that I should be working harder instead of just having fun. (That probably comes from the same spiritual teaching that I referenced earlier.) Come to think of it, Dass basically says we’d do well to relax and enjoy the ride. I see pictures of the guy and he usually looks happy, and so does Esther Hicks.

What about you? Have you been feeling more tired than usual? Have you been dragging someone along the path, or have you felt as though you need some dragging? A smart someone recently told me, “Sometimes help is not.” Whether we are attempting to help or being helped, is it always helpful? Would we do better to take a break or focus our efforts on ourselves?

The dormancy of winter will end soon. I can already see the greening of the hill across the street. My energy will surge again, as much as the grass will grow, and I’ll be ready to do the work – in the yard and on myself.

Right now, though, I need to slow down and walk by myself for awhile.

I’ll be back.

Take good care.

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The Ivy-Covered Imaginary Wall

She’d cried the first time she’d walked into the house. It would be the perfect home for this new chapter. The house they were leaving was certainly larger and newer, but this new address made up for a lack of square footage and new appliances with acceptance, warmth, the hoped-for ability to sleep through the night and a fenced back yard.

It wasn’t an impenetrable fence. Squirrels, bunnies and neighborhood cats could gain access, but dogs could not. In fact, one neighbor’s cat, after squeezing under the fence, liked to peer in the sliding glass door to try to strike up a friendship with the resident cat. This usually culminated in the two feisty felines body-slamming the sliding door in an effort to prove who was the most fearsome. (This was good exercise for the indoor cat, and an excellent way for the outdoor cat to stay warm.)

The years passed as they want to do, and this little home showed itself to be the haven she’d wished for. Oh, there were bumps and bruises along the way, but the three of them (plus cat) had always found a safe place to land under the roof and within the fenced back yard. They’d heal their wounds and talk of their slights and remind each other that it always works out.

Part of the reason it always worked out was because in between homeschooling, baking cookies and cranking out homemade pasta; after carving pumpkins, figuring out the new job and scheduling the dentist and vet appointments; before one left for college and after the other hurt himself too many times at the job that built his confidence, she’d been methodically building an imaginary wall around the house and yard. This wall was a borderline even though she was the only one who could see it. It was six feet high and made of stone. Over 17 years, Engleman Ivy had grown over the wall and, this time of year, if they hadn’t already gotten a heavy snow, the leaves were crimson and crackly.

She hadn’t planned for the wall to be this tall. When she’d first started the build, she figured a four-foot wall would certainly provide the protection she felt she needed. She wanted the cats and squirrels and bunnies to still have access. The cats had no problem jumping the four feet and perching on the top of the wall. They’d sit for hours on sunny days pretending to doze but really looking for birds. The squirrels and bunnies used the arched doorway that had long ago been hidden under the overgrown ivy. She’d intentionally built a doorway and included a solid wood door that was six inches thick. By now the hinges were rusty and the lock had yet to be used. The door was propped open, and the ivy prevented it from swinging shut.

More recently, with the arrival of unwanted intruders, she’d had to extend the height to six feet. The ivy had no problem getting to work and hiding the addition. It was hungry to stretch its “legs” and thrilled to have more surface to cover with its tendrils. Still, she hadn’t felt the need to close and lock the door. She’d always figured that was a last resort. It helped her sleep knowing she had the option to close the door if she needed to. (Even her counselor had mentioned that boundaries aren’t permanent, they can be flexible and change just as life changes.)

And so it was that a day came along, just as the leaves had turned that dark shade of red, right before the first snow, when the cats had been particularly aggressive in their body slams at the sliding glass door. She’d been feeling stretched and pulled in too many directions. She’d lost interest in the things she loved. The candle needed more than the two ends. She woke in the night and remembered that she could close the door in the wall. The next morning, after that first cup of coffee, she put on her boots and grabbed the coat she’d put in the closet last April, which was really too soon, since they always seemed to get one more snow before spring staked her claim.

She grabbed a pair of trimmers and slowly, apologetically started cutting away at the Engleman Ivy that had been anchoring the wooden door to the wall. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she snipped, “You’ll grow back in no time.” A black cat sneaked through the doorway to watch her progress. Squirrel jumped down from his precarious perch on a sunflower stalk to see if he could snack on the ivy clippings. She turned to wave at indoor cat who was standing at the sliding door making sure all knew who was in charge. Once the ivy was cleared away, she’d tried to pull the door closed. The hinges, having been unused for so many years, had forgotten how to do their job. She remembered she had a can of WD40 under the kitchen sink. As she walked into the house, squirrel and black cat ran off to find something more interesting. Indoor cat met her at the door and mewed her questions. She answered with a couple treats for the queen and said, “I’ll be right back.”

The oil did the trick, and with some effort, she was able to get the door closed. Now to find the key for the lock. Would it be in the tool shed, the potting shed or a kitchen drawer? After much hunting and asking cat if she knew where the key was, she found the key hanging from a nail in the tool shed. Unlike the hinges, this key had been wanting to do its job for some time – one turn and a click, and the door was locked.

She went back in the house, put the water on for coffee and took off her boots. “It had to be done,” she said to cat. “Your buddy has never used the doorway anyway. Bunnies can dig a hole underneath the wall and squirrels never have an issue getting into where they want to be. It always works out, remember?”

That night she was able to sit on the couch and read for an hour. (Lately, she’d had a hard time concentrating). Weirdly, she hadn’t felt the need to pour a glass of wine. She sensed a familiar peace settle within the four walls, a peace she remembered from the first time she’d walked into the house. And the sleep? She slept like bears do when they hibernate. She slept like cats do when they find a sunny spot.

And so, the door would stay locked, and the ivy would grow. One day she might decide to clear away the ivy and open it back up, or she might not.

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LTSG – Let That Shit Go

This is my new mantra. Or, more accurately, when I remember that I have a new mantra, this is the one.

Today I learned that an extended family member came to town and didn’t get in touch. Initially, I was a bit hurt. Why didn’t she call or text? What did I do? Why wasn’t I on her list of folks to see while she was here? While I was in the shower, I remembered: Let That Shit Go! (Also, Jesse, remember that the last time she was in town, you weren’t excited about getting together, anyway.)

As the member of the extended family who struggles the most with sweeping things under the rug, I often find that I’m not invited to family gatherings. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry. We assumed you had other plans.” Or another favorite, “The last few times we invited you, you couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t come.” The family Black Sheep needs a poster on her bathroom door that says, “Let That Shit Go!”

When the last social function you went to was attended by library-supporting, long hippie skirt wearing, single women of a certain age, and you wonder why you rarely go out, or why it is that you have found your tribe and it’s nothing like you thought your tribe would be, remember to Let That Shit Go. Let go of those ridiculous expectations of where you thought your life would be right now, or who you thought you’d be spending it with. Besides, those ladies need to have someone to pass the baton to. Accept that baton proudly and with grace. Embrace your patchouli-scented tribe and carry on!

When someone comments that you spend way too much time with your kids and should work on getting a life outside of being a mom (and a dad), give them the side eye and LTSG.

Also, when your kids have issues with their vehicles and you get pissed because their “dad” is clueless and/or rarely checks in on them, LTSG and be glad that he rarely checks in on them because he’d stir up the pot, criticize them for how they handle these grown-up issues, and then give them the silent treatment for not having called or texted him more often. (As you remember, Jesse, he thinks the heavy lifting in the parenting game should be handled by the child, not the parent.) Let That Shit Go!

When you get told that you aren’t doing enough, LTSG.

When you are told that you should do it better, LTSG.

When you are passive aggressively informed that you fail to meet expectations, LTSG. And let them go while you are at it.

When your wardrobe and your yard and your car and your house and even (Goddesses forbid) your kids and your life are not like everyone else’s, LET THAT SHIT GO! (To be clear, I’m not advocating that you let your life and your kids and all that other stuff go. Let the comparisons go! You knew that, right?) It can get pretty quiet over here doing things differently than other folks. Get comfortable with the quiet path. Let the noise and commotion of the well-worn path be for others.

Also, the whole taking things personally? Yeah. I’m trying to Let That Shit Go, too.

Today I’m letting all that shit go. I’m heading out to watch all the bees happily bobbing from one blossom of clover to the next in my unconventional little private funky haven of a backyard.

*I got this cool poster at Society 6. It really is mounted on my bathroom door.

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My Second Saturn Return

I’m smack dab in the middle of my Second Saturn Return.

While I may read about astrology and refer to it to try to make sense of things, I don’t know a lot about it. I discovered this second return business a few months ago and it was a light-bulb moment. I had been blaming a lot on the pandemic, but the pandemic ended up being the framework for me to become more myself, which, it turns out, is very much a part of this Saturn Return thing.

As a person who has spent her life wondering why she doesn’t fit in, when she’ll be in the right place, or why she can’t comfortably do things like others or feel the way others do, I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can quit wondering about that. At least that’s what Saturn says.

Don’t all of us struggle with wondering where we fit in, if we fit in, and why it’s so difficult to feel a sense of belonging? I know it’s the hallmark of an INFJ to feel that, but would we (those lucky enough to live long enough) even have a Second Saturn Return if it wasn’t necessary (for all of us) to come to a point where the stars shout out, “It’s okay to be you and it’s about damn time!”

The stars aren’t up there for only those who believe in Saturn Returns. They are up there for all of us.

Perhaps you are thinking that I’ve lost it during my second return. I’ve turned into a recluse who is angry at white men and politicians and laziness and entitlement and apathy. Maybe you’ve noticed that I’m over here screaming that we need to care more, when clearly I have work to do on caring for established white men. Yes! I am a conflicted, complicated, messy, contradictory woman in her Second Saturn Return. I am all of those things and more.

I GET TO BE ALL THOSE THINGS BECAUSE THE STARS SAY SO!

I’m turning 60 next month and when my kids ask me what I want (and what I want to do) for my birthday, I wince.

I Googled “60th birthday present” and promptly told them NOT to get me some commemorative bauble that will sit in a box in my sock drawer. I Googled vacation spots and remembered that we would most likely be in the middle of a BA.2 (or whatever variant we’ll be on by then) cloud wherever we landed. I decided I’d rather put money toward the new bathroom we’ve been needing for 5 years.

In lieu of a shiny trinket or a trip to a place I can’t afford, I requested that Jen draw something that commemorates this auspicious (?) day, and Will take a picture of the three of us on the day. That way they can both use their talents creating something I’ll cherish, and it’s crossed off their lists.

Here’s what else I want from them:

I want them to try to circumvent the astrological system and see if they can learn to be okay with who they are, long before I did. Just because the stars give permission when you turn 58, couldn’t my kids be mavericks and get there a little sooner?

Being okay with who they are requires that they make their mental health a priority. (Being okay with who they are doesn’t mean they just sit back and say, “This is it. Take me as I am.”)

I want them to pay attention to how they feel. For years, I’ve wanted to see a therapist, but either I didn’t have the money, or something else was more important. The library provided therapy for me – that and the internet. I want them to know they have options. We live in a time when there is much less stigma about getting help. Because of all the resources available, there is no excuse for not seeking help. Yes, money is a factor, insurance is a thing, and trying to get an actual appointment during a time when absolutely everyone is faced with challenges may make getting help seem impossible, but help is out there. Reading (and writing) can fill the gap until money, insurance and an appointment can be worked out. For many of us, reading and writing are all we have.

Attention to mental health paves the way for us to accept ourselves.

It’s hard. Many days it just plain sucks. It requires work. I want them to understand that mental health is something they will work on their whole lives. As they grow and change, new issues will come up, and other issues will fade or be resolved. Mental health is not a project that gets crossed off the list, but an ongoing journey that could culminate in them being the best possible versions of who they can be. We’re all works in progress. (Putting in the effort also prepares us for whatever is in store in the next go-round.)

Also, I want them to take a good hard look at who they let into their lives. Are they surrounded by people who lift them up, or are they surrounded by those who want to bring them down? One of my aunt’s favorite quotes was from William Gibson: “Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.” Are they surrounded by assholes? Or worse, are they assholes? Some days we all are. That’s when we have extra work to do.

I want them to find their tribe. Tribe is a big word. There can be two in a tribe – you and one other, but that person has your back, just as you have theirs. You most likely won’t find your tribe in your family or on Facebook. You might find your tribe on Twitter or at the library or in the produce section at Whole Foods. It can happen. Trust in the possibility.

The last thing I want for my 60th birthday is for them (and me) to lighten up a little. I want Jen to stop insisting that every grade has to be an A. I want Will to stop beating himself up for some of the choices he made in the last couple of years. (I plan to forgive myself for some of my choices, too.) I have to wonder, if we all lightened up on ourselves a bit, would we find it easier to be kinder and more caring of others?

I plan to continue to accept myself, while working on myself, up to (and beyond) my Third Saturn Return.

Happy birthday to complicated, caring, messy Me.

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Who Will Serve Your Tacos?

“Jesse! “

“I know, Hank. It’s been awhile. At least that’s what everyone says to me after I resurface from my preferred lock-down location. But, something’s driving me crazy and I had to run it by you. Besides, I’ve missed you … and your beer.”

“Well, it’s always a treat to see you walk in that door. Having the usual?”

Jesse nodded and took off her jacket.

Hank slid a beer across the bar and said, “So what’s got your mind spinning now, Jess?”

“Okay, I know we are wired to survive. At least that’s what the books – that we are allowed to read – tell us. We wouldn’t still be here mucking things up if that weren’t the case. Many moons ago, threats looked like a saber-toothed tiger. And I get that threats have changed as we’ve evolved.”

Hank dried his hands on a bar rag, “Have we all evolved, Jesse?” Hank laughed, “Yeah, now some of us face a threat by being in the wrong place with a different skin color. Or, a threat is being exposed to a communicable disease; or being alone in an alley while wearing a short skirt; or losing connection to the internet while binge-watching Castle.”

Jesse laughed. “When Jen is home from college, we binge on Castle! Love that show, even if he’s full of himself. Anyway, if you consider the fact that many of us survived childhood, middle school, learning to drive and decades without a television remote, it’s pretty clear we’ve demonstrated that we do have the capacity to survive. The other thing is that we’re wired to protect our offspring.”

“I gotta stop you there, Jess. I know some who aren’t wired that way, or at least their wires are crossed.”

“Oh, I know that’s true, Hank. Sadly. But, it’s also true that some who didn’t procreate still have the desire to protect the offspring of others. Did they get an extra dose of empathy? Is that a carry over instinct from a previous life when they did have kids? Or is it part of our basic wiring to protect the species?”

“It’s gotta be part of our basic wiring. If we aren’t giving birth to the ones who grow up to work in the factories or plow the fields or serve the tacos, someone’s got to give birth to them. We’d all better look out for the kids in order to keep society running. Right?” Hank walked to the end of the bar to greet a new customer.

When he returned Jesse said, “So with these instincts of survival and protection of the species….”

“I know where you’re going with the, Jesse…”

“What the actual fuck, Hank?!”

Hank laughed and shook his head. “I know. I know.”

“How has the definition of a threat changed so much? I know that perceived threats change for each of us with the passage of time. A steady diet of Taco Bell, beer, coffee and ramen was not a threat in my 4 – okay, 5 – years of college. Now, I’d definitely consider that diet a threat. See, that’s proof that I want to survive, right? I’m not thrilled at the prospect of my kids subsisting on that kind of diet, but the one who does, well, he seems to be surviving. How can the definition of a threat be so different for different people? Weren’t we all afraid of the saber-toothed tiger? Why aren’t we all afraid of Covid? Why are some of us afraid of a mask? Why are some of us afraid the government will force us to get a shot? Wouldn’t we have been thrilled to have a government protect us from that saber-toothed beast?”

A customer looked over at Jesse. “Sorry if I’m a little worked up, Hank.”

Hank wiped a worn spot on the bar that had seen a lot of wiping over the years. “Never apologize for being passionate, Jesse. Maybe ‘fear’ isn’t the right word. Many don’t want to be inconvenienced. Our lives have become cushy since the days of fending off tigers. Now we have time to sit around, with a remote in our hands, deciding we don’t have to be inconvenienced by wearing a mask, or getting a shot or staying home to watch the football game when we’d rather meet friends at a crowded bar.”

Jesse slid her empty class over to Hank. “So how has business been?”

“I’ve got a bit of a reputation, I guess. Folks – not a lot of ’em, mind you – come here knowing it won’t be crowded. They know most will be masked, as much as possible, anyway. I’m doing okay, for the times.”

“I’m glad for you, Hank. For awhile, there, I worried you wouldn’t be able to keep your doors open.” Jesse reached for her new beer and took a sip. “Why does it look like some believe that protecting others puts their own survival at risk?”

“I dunno, Jess. Do they equate survival with freedom?”

“Maybe that’s it, but how free are you if you’re dead?”

“Well,” Hank chuckled, “some think that’s the ultimate freedom.”

“You’re such a philosopher, Hank. That’s one of the things I love about this place. But, all of this gets me to thinking about the need to belong to a group, which is part of that survival instinct. It was a lot easier to go up against a tiger when in a group. It’s also an offshoot of the desire to protect offspring. You try raising children as a single parent. We need a village!”

“How’s your village, Jess?”

“Don’t get me started!” Jesse took another slow sip as she pondered. “Okay, so the village raises or protects the children and the species survives. Right? Society continues to function. Fields are plowed; widgets are produced in the factories; apps are designed for our devices; and all the tacos are served. Much of the functioning of society is handled by groups – families, churches, schools – you get my point. And even though I’m not much of a joiner, I can see how the group you belong to can dictate many of your beliefs and choices. I’ve a friend who is a diehard Broncos fan. Her bathroom is decorated in Broncos memorabilia.”

Hank looked at the end of the bar. Before he walked down to take an order, he looked at Jesse and said, “Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that kind of thing, Hank!”

When Hank returned, Jesse asked, “How does one intentionally decide to join the anti-vax group or the anti-mask group? Doesn’t that go against the basic instinct of survival and the other – perhaps, as you suggested – not so basic instinct to protect the species? What kind of chemical mash-up happens in a brain when it sees a mask and determines that a mask is bad? What goes on in a brain that decides vaccines are bad?”

Jesse shook her head. “Is that directly related to the power (brainwashing) of the group? I’ll admit to some brainwashing from my left-leaning, save the children group, but I’m not walking around boosted and masked while suffering from some sort of cognitive dissonance stemming from my choices conflicting with my instincts.”

Hank folded and unfolded a bar rag as he listened to Jesse’s rant. “I seriously think that we are all dealing with cognitive dissonance, Jesse. Maybe that’s the only thing we all have in common.”

Jesse nodded, “Oh, I know! But maybe they aren’t bothered by cognitive dissonance, just as they proclaim – those who are still alive to do so – that they aren’t bothered by Covid.”

Hank put both hands on the bar and leaned in. “At the end of the day, the members of those groups will continue to believe the propaganda coming from the leader of the group. They’ll go home and fall down some rabbit hole on the internet that confirms everything that their leader tells them. They’ll binge-watch conspiracy theories and call their friends and rant and rave, just as you are doing right now. They’ll share posts about how only stupid people wear masks, or the government tracks you with the shot. They’ll vote for those who think like them. And all along they have no real clue that their own choices are jeopardizing their very survival.”

Hank leaned back, “What ever happened to critical thinking, Jesse? How will society function when so many are misguided?”

Jesse reached for her jacket, “They think they are critical thinkers, Hank. Even though they haven’t connected the dots on why it’s not as easy to get tacos these days.”

Edit: I hit publish, and got on the treadmill to read the next chapter of Caste – the Origins of Our Discontents. Chapter 20, The Inevitable Narcissism of Caste, speaks of the narcissism of group leaders. Perfect timing? If you haven’t read Isabel Wilkerson’s powerful book, you really should consider it.

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Margaret’s Return

“Thanks for bringing the coffee, Basil.”

“I always bring the coffee, Margaret.”

Margaret looked up at Basil and grinned, “I know.  I appreciate that, so I thank you.”

Basil twisted the lid off the thermos.  “That’s one of the things I love about you, Margaret, besides your pie.  You are always thanking everyone.”

Gladys adjusted her skirt as she approached the others.  “It kind of sounded like you were calling us together for a meeting, Margaret.”

Margaret handed Gladys a thin slice of lemon meringue.  “It’s more of a Going Away Party, dear.”

Just then, Jon road up on his skateboard.  “Who’s going away?”

Margaret handed Jon a larger slice of pie and said, “I am.”

Basil grinned.  “Nice, Margaret.  It’s your time to return?  I’ll miss you, but I’m happy for you.  Are you excited?”

Through a mouthful of lemon meringue, Jon said, “Cool!”

Gladys perched on top of a grave marker.  “I’m thrilled for you Margaret!  Tell us, what are you hoping for?  What do you want to learn?  Who do you hope to see?  Oh!  I can’t wait for my turn to return!”

Before taking another bite, Jon asked, “How many times have you returned, Margaret?”

“Oh, dear.  I’ve lost track.  Really.”  She paused a moment, then looked up at the sky and said, “I have no idea.”  Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the coffee Basil had poured for her.  She looked at her friends.  “You all ask good questions.  I’ve been contemplating this next return.  You know, it’s funny, Jon.  I’m not apprehensive about the returns anymore, so I guess that says I’ve returned enough times to get the hang of it, so to speak.  I look forward to them.”  She chuckled and took another sip.  “Yes, Basil, I am excited to return.  And to your questions, Gladys.  Well, of course I’m prepared to learn more.  After all, that is the whole point of the return.  As to what I hope to learn, I have to say, I’m hoping to learn something other than service.”  Again, she laughed and took a bite of pie.

Basil said, “But service is just about the highest calling.”

Jon looked at Basil, “What’s the highest calling?”  Basil replied, “Fishing, of course.”  All four laughed as Basil poured himself another half inch of coffee.

Gladys smiled, “I’d be pretty tired of serving if I were you, Margaret.  You’ve elevated service to a new level.  It’s about time someone served you for a change!”

Margaret laughed.  “That sounds like you, Gladys.  But honestly, I’m sure I’m not done serving.  That’s who I am.  But I am tired.  Serving, thinking about how to serve, thinking about who to serve, and wondering if I’m doing enough… It’s exhausting.  It’s not that I want pampering in the next go-round, although I wouldn’t turn that down.”  Basil and Jon looked at each other and winked.  “But maybe I’ll learn a new way to serve that doesn’t leave me so tired.  I hope I learn how to serve others while serving myself, too.  Does that make sense?  Gladys, sometimes I think you’ve already got that figured out.”

Gladys laughed.  “Well, we all know that my scale tips in the direction of serving myself before others.”  Gladys smoothed the pleats of her skirt.  “I’m not always sure that’s a good thing, but I also don’t feel the need to change.”  They all chuckled as they nodded in agreement.

Margaret stood up to get ready to serve another piece of pie.  “See what I mean?  My need to serve others is automatic.  I would like to get my scale to a balanced point where I can serve myself and others.  And as far as who I hope to see…”  Margaret reached for the pie server.  “I know I’ll be seeing you all again, at some point.  We certainly won’t be in the same roles, but I’ll run into you, for sure.  Jon, I hope you’ll be older.”  Jon said, “Me, too!”

Basil said, “Maybe we’ll do a little fishing together, Margaret!”  Margaret laughed and said, “I suspect we’ve already done that, Basil.  But we’ll most likely be doing something together again.”

Margaret sat down and sighed.  “I’m ready for a rest.  I’m ready to take stock in what I’ve learned, and get prepared for the next lessons.”  She looked at Jon.  “How do you younger folks put it?  Recharge batteries?  I need to recharge my battery.”  She reached behind to untie her apron.

Jon reached out and said, “Here, Margaret.  Maybe it’s my turn to serve?”  She hung the apron on a branch of a nearby tree and turned to hug Jon.  “You don’t need an apron to serve, dear.”

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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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Independence Is Just Beyond Our Grasp

Warning:  If you have no interest in feminism, stop reading.  Come back when I’m less angry.  Also, I’m not sure when that will be.

 

Jen is heading off to college in the fall.

. . .

She has all her necessary credits to graduate.   She has her driver’s license.  She has work experience, a kick-ass portfolio, and a plan for a course of study.  We didn’t spend any time learning how to balance a checkbook because…

She does know how to file her taxes.  She also has an extensive background in navigating difficult personality types.  Even though there are a million other things she’d rather do than cook, she knows enough to bake a cake, and make a box of mac and cheese.  Weekend nights she makes stove-top popcorn with too much butter and she often whips up smoothies.  Better than that, she knows how to eat well.

She’ll be fine.

The only item left on the list before she *choke* leaves the nest is a self-defense class.  It’s been many moons since I took a class in how to protect myself from a perpetrator.  I figured we’d take one together.  I thought I’d found one until I looked into it further and read the blurb that said, “How to defend yourself when the attack is taken to the ground.”

WTH?!

Neither of us plans on letting an attack get that far, so I searched for the class that stops the attack before it reaches the ground.  It occurred to me that, in my town, anyway, all those classes are still taught by men.

Instead, I purchased  Ladies* Personal Defense gadgets for both of us.  Then I changed the entry on the list to:  “Search for an online self-defense class taught by a female.”

 

When there are so many educational options available online, why are we sending our daughters to college campuses? 

Jen wants the college campus experience.  She knows she has the option to never leave the safety of our home and study online.  After all, that’s what we’ve been doing for the last 10 years.  It’s time to get out into the world.

However, it’s 2020 and our daughters still risk personal safety in pursuit of higher education.

Why are we willingly paying mountains of money to institutions that clearly cannot make the personal safety of college students a priority?  And, yes, I know.  That should be taught at home before young men go off to college.  Will that ever happen?

Should she attend an all-female college?  Is that the best way to tackle the issue?   If we want to be safe, must we avoid all males?

 

Can we avoid all males?  Asking for a friend.

 

And, in the terrifying unlikely event (Gods forbid) that an attack happens, she then must report to the police department, which is largely populated by men.

Do you see how independence is just beyond our grasp?

Do you see the reason for my sleep-deprived, worry-filled nights?

I tried to search online for the manufacturer of the kitty self-defense gadget.  I assume it was designed by a man, because a woman wouldn’t have given it that pathetic moniker.

Do you see the irony?  Men teach self-defense classes to women.  Men design our self-protection gadgets.  Men work to keep us safe… from men.

Are they coming at this problem from the wrong direction?

 

*The name – Ladies Personal Defense – tells us all we need to know.

 

 

 

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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.

. . .