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Lovely Day

Coffee, ear buds, laptop and time in front of me.

This is the sweetest deja vu.  Hell, I should light a candle.

 

Somewhere, after the election and before the inauguration, it occurred to me that I hadn’t listened to my own playlists since – I can’t remember when.  (Most likely that dates back to somewhere around the time the outgoing decided to run for president.)

On inauguration day, after listening to (and being captivated by) Amanda Gorman, I felt the softening.  (Hello, hope!)  It was a familiar melting of the tension like that I’d all-too-often carried back in the days of the narcissist.

My eyes delighted at the colors I didn’t realize I’d been thirsting for.  Teal, maroon, the brightest yellow, red and blues washed across the screen and foretold the promise of possibility in this new chapter.  Other than burnt orange, had we seen anything other than shades of grey in the last four years?

Then, that night, when Demi Lovato sang “Lovely Day,” the melting included tears.  I began to sway.  I felt lighter.

On the 21st, I started to put some pieces together.

 

I haven’t written much, or listened to music much or felt the desire to create much – for what seems like a very long time.

I used to take pictures for posts, and arrange the art in the house and have music on all the time.  I used to look up ideas for projects and dream up recipes and write and read.  I remember walking the hill without holding a phone.  (Recently, I may have been seen storming the neighborhood, head down, earbuds in, listening to NPR, in an effort to prepare for the next debacle.)  And dance!  I used to dance to Sam Cooke, The Squeeze, Pink Martini and anything and everything from the 70s, sometimes even when the kids were in the room.

I discovered that in the last four or five years, if I had music on, it was after the news, for 30 minutes while I threw an uninspired dinner together.  I used to dance when I cooked – wooden spoon in one hand, a glass of wine in the other.

I had seen the tweets about how the transition out of the last administration was so much like coming out of an abusive relationship.  I had observed the familiar patterns in the behavior.  (Part of me kept thinking that “the people in charge” would do something.)  But it wasn’t until Thursday, that loveliest of days, after the inauguration, that I knew what those tweeters were getting at.  Just like in my previous experience, that abuse permeated everything so slowly, that it isn’t until it’s over that I realize what had happened.  Sure, I called out the behavior.  Just watching him talk turned my stomach.  But I still didn’t realize how everything had been tainted, until he was gone.

I had been in a state of high-alert, which prevented me from being able to focus.  I’ve barely read a book in the last couple years.  Now I see that it felt too risky to take my eyes off of him.  I felt the need to keep my family safe.  You know, keep an eye on the spider in the room.  That nightmarish spider is finally out of the house.

 

Last night, Jen and I danced in the kitchen.  Who cares if the neighbors could see us?  I hope they were dancing, too.  Tonight we’ll skip the news and play music, while we quickly check social media – just to make sure that it’s okay to take our eyes off of current events.

I just looked out the window to see the shadows in the park.  Is the sky bluer?  Even the chickadees don’t seem as mad at the squirrels, for eating all their seed.

It will take some time to trust that feeling of hope.  It took years to do the damage.  Perhaps the biggest lesson is realizing that WE are the people in charge.

Let’s enjoy this lovely day.  Let’s savor it and stretch it out for longer than the typical news story lasts.  We’ve earned it.

 

Then let’s get back to work to make sure we can keep dancing.

 

 

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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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Thanks For Being You

Jesse slowly opened the heavy wooden door just enough to let her eyes adjust to the dark.  There were two cars in the parking lot, but she wanted to make sure there wasn’t a crowd, before entering.  “Jesse!  How are you?  Come in.  It’s safe.  I promise.  My hands are cracked and sore from continually wiping everything down with a Clorox solution.”  Hank held up his hands.  “You’re okay.   I promise.  There are only two tables of customers right now.”

“Hank!  I’ve missed you.  I drove by so many times and wanted to …”  Jesse took a seat at the bar, surrounded on both sides by empty bar seats.

“Jesse, don’t apologize.  I completely understand.  I stayed closed as long as I could, but the bills piled up.  I didn’t have a choice.  I had to reopen.”

“I tried waiting until the parking lot was empty.  How is your family?  All healthy?  How are you coping?”

“My family is fine.”  Hank walked to stand closer to Jesse, but not directly across from her.  “How are any of us coping, Jess?  Business is down, of course.  The good thing is that this place attracts folks who are as concerned about this damn virus as I am.  Many wait to come in when there are only a couple cars in the lot.  I’m relieved.  It’s manageable that way.  But still, the bills …”  He started to reach for a glass.  “Are you having anything today, Jess?  How are you?  How are your kids?”

“Yes!  Beer, please.  In a bottle, please.”  Jesse winked and shrugged her shoulders.  “Sorry, Hank.  It took a lot of guts for me to come in here.  I’ve so missed this place and you, too, of course!”  She thought about taking her jacket off and laying it on a stool, but changed her mind.  “Daughter is home, studying online.  Son has had a couple scares at work, but tests came back negative.  Thank the gods.  Although, can any of us really trust the testing?”

Hank had grabbed a glass, but put it in the sink full of soapy water before reaching for a bottle.  “Have you had to test, Jesse?  I have.  It’s not a big deal, but it provides a little reassurance.  I guess.”  Hank popped the top and slid the bottle down the bar, meeting Jesse half way.  “What made you decide to come in today?”

“I’m feeling hopeless, Hank.  The election business, on top of the virus, on top of the usual …  I’m exhausted, sleepless, frustrated, angry and rudderless.  Never mind all the new gray hair.”

Hank laughed, “Join the club!  There are quite a few of us, and many of us have gotten grayer.”

Jesse took a napkin and wiped the top of the bottle, pulled down her mask and took a long sip.  “I know.  And I shouldn’t bring all this negativity in here, but I was starting to feel desperate.  I guess I was desperate to know that I’m not alone in feeling this way.  I think I know where you stand on a lot of these issues, so I wanted to …  I don’t know what I wanted.  I just know that things can’t keep heading in this direction.” Jesse took another sip and chuckled.  “I like your mask.”  He adjusted his mask, embroidered with large white letters on black – Barkeep.  “I’ve got another that says, Boss, just in case I’ve got a group in here that doesn’t have a clue.”

Hank folded a bar rag.  “I thought of you and your daughter when I heard the announcement for the new Supreme Court appointee.  That’s a blow, Jesse.  All the progress made, over so many long years …  I can’t imagine what you must be thinking.  But then, the election, and …  Well, I think I know how you feel about that.”

Jesse sighed as she looked at the bottles on the back of the bar.  She observed the different colored liquids.  Some were dark and rich looking, while others were clear, like water.  She thought of the altered states that the liquids produced.  She thought of how many sought solace in those colored liquids.  How many more are seeking solace in them now?

“I don’t know what to say, Hank.  First, I’m mad at myself for taking for granted the progress that women made.  I’m mad that I haven’t applied myself to that fight.  I feel that many of us have failed the next generations of women, and men, too, by letting this happen.  But at the same time, I’m celebrating that we have a woman as V.P.  Go figure!  And we have a president who might …  I dunno.  They’ve got a lot of work ahead of them, but I do feel a little safer with those two in place.”

Hank put on a new pair of latex gloves.  “I hate these things.  I don’t know if it’s better to wear them, or just keep my hands in bleach all day.”  He snapped a glove too hard, ripped it, and sighed.  “It’s optimistic to think this new administration is going to fix everything, but I do hope it’s a step in the right direction.  Have you been in lock-down this whole time?”

“Yes.  I’m thankful that I can stay home and still do some work.  I do feel guilty for not supporting local businesses, but we all have a different way of coping.  I feel bad for not coming in here.  I feel bad for not going to my favorite coffee place.  Let’s face it!  I feel bad about a lot of things!”

Hank nodded his head.  “Strange times, indeed.”  Just then the door opened and a boisterous group of 20-somethings came in.  None were wearing masks.  Hank walked around the bar to meet them.  “Hey guys!  Thanks for coming in, but we’re closing up for the day.  Try us again, but please wear your masks next time.”  Hanks eyes crinkled, so they knew he was smiling through the mask.  He had a way of delivering the message that let the kids know they would be welcome again, but not today.

Jesse watched the group look at each other, look at the two other occupied tables and, rather than pitch a fit, walk out discussing where they might go next.  “Nicely done, Hank.  I like your style.”

“I’d like their business, Jess, but I’m not going to argue with them about wearing a mask, and I will not risk my other customers or myself.  It’s a delicate balance keeping this place afloat.  I do not have the energy to argue.  It’s just easier to be nice about it.”  Hank walked back behind the bar.  “You waste energy feeling guilty, Jesse.  Conserve your energy.  We are all doing our best to get through this.”

Jesse laughed, “Admit it, Hank, your best is better than most.”

“I don’t know what they’re dealing with, Jesse.  This is my best.  Maybe the folks who get all riled up about masks, maybe that is their best.  I don’t know.  I only know what works for me.”  He laughed, “But I do have the Boss mask, if they want to argue.  I’ve only had to use it a couple times.”

Jesse reached for her bottle, “You see why I missed this place?  Thanks for being you, Hank.”

 

 

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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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Junk Drawer as Metaphor

I bet we’ve all got one – a junk drawer.  I have two – side by side.  Maybe I have more junk than most?  I dunno, but it makes sense to me.

During this pandemic (wow, never thought I’d write those three words together in a sentence) I’ve been doing a version of Marie Kondo that has me wiping things down and pitching things as I go.  (I haven’t searched Goodwill, but I suspect they don’t want any of our stuff for obvious reasons, so it will sit in the garage until it’s safe to pass on.)

As I methodically wipe/pitch/sort, I over-think.  Surprise!

 

I hope you are coping well with the way life is these days.  For the six or so people who still read this blog, I’ve most likely checked in with you.  But I would suggest that none of us truly knows how we are doing.  We mention that our pantries are stocked, or that the car will have to be taken out for a spin, or that we dusted off some old board games, or that we’ve found a new crush on Netflix.

But how are you really?

 

You might know me well enough, by now, to know that I am at peace with where the world is today.  I firmly believe that this pandemic will provide us with a much-needed reset.  I also know that you most likely don’t agree with me.  🙂

 

As I was getting ready to organize one of my junk drawers, I couldn’t help but notice the obvious metaphor.

If my junk drawer represents my life, this is what I would describe:

A toddler (Coronavirus) just came into my kitchen and pulled open the junk drawer to look for his Hot Wheel. (Seriously, there is no significance with my referring to the virus as a he.  I think.)  He pulled the drawer open too far, and because I wasn’t there to catch it, the drawer landed on the floor with a deafening crash.  All the contents of the drawer flew in every direction.  Some things ended up under the range, some under the fridge.  Some bounced and landed in the sink full of a solution of bleach water.  I heard a couple items roll into the living room.

The toddler (that fricking virus) laughed and ran into his bedroom to look for his little car, because it was not in the junk drawer.

 

What could I do?

 

I did the only thing that made sense.  I cleared a spot on the floor and sat down to survey the damage.  I grabbed the dividers and the organizing containers and I started sorting.  I worked slowly, remembering to breathe.  Instead of yelling at the rascal who created this disaster, I focused on the task at hand.

 

Wow, I have a lot of binder clips.  Why?  What am I trying to control?  What is my need to contain?  How much of it can I have any influence on?

And pencils?  Why do I keep the stubby ones?  Am I worried I will never be able to afford more pencils?

I have batteries for gadgets I no longer own.  I save batteries that I’m sure lost their juice back when Will played with remote-controlled cars.  Am I hanging on to those just in case they’ll revive, even though I know they won’t?

I’m sure Post-Its are replicating in that drawer, or I have some misguided fear of running out, so I buy them even if I don’t need them.  Could be buying pencils instead?

I don’t even know what flew under the range or the fridge or rolled into the living room.  I’m not sure I care.

 

I made a 4th cup of coffee, even tho’ my limit is 3/day.  Desperate times (pandemic or spilled junk drawer) allow for desperate measures, and aren’t we limited enough already?!  I even poured whipping cream in for additional comfort, and sat down amidst all the contents of my “junk drawer” to methodically decide what to keep and what to pitch.

 

QUIT trying to control, I said to myself, loudly enough to make the cat jump.

You’ve survived this far on a restricted budget.  You’ve mastered life with a tightened belt.  Buy the damn pencils.

Friendships that have long since lost their juice will not revive without a great deal of effort.  Choose wisely.

It’s okay to stock-pile Post-Its.  I’m allowed my ideosyncrasies and all the other things that make me me.  I am keeping the second junk drawer!

All the stuff under the fridge or range or wherever it landed –  I’ll deal with that when it arises.  Or not.

 

How will you organize your “junk drawer?”

 

More importantly, stay safe!

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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.

. . .