Tag: being human

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When You Can’t Fix the World

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

I know it’s not just me.

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

And so I fix my corner of the world.

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

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

 

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

 

 

 

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Them and Us

My doorbell doesn’t have a camera attached to it.

There.  I said it.  Now I suppose I can expect a throng driving by at 2 a.m.  They’ll be riddled with bad intentions.  (Aren’t they all?)  They might take something from my yard or toilet paper the shrubs or otherwise make my life miserable.

I most certainly have just put a target on my house, because I put it out there that I am not surveilling the world while I’m sleeping.

The thing is, I prefer to believe that the world has interesting things going on in the night.  I want to pretend there are lovebirds gazing at the full moon over the river across from the park.  Maybe a hospital shift worker stops next to the park to decompress before going home to jump in the shower and wash off Covid.

Or, there are hooligans out there looking for their next score.  (Is that how you even say that now, or did I pick that up from a crime show?)  Or lost souls are trying to find themselves.  Or a homeless guy is looking in a dumpster for a good enough pair of jeans, that were too small for the guy whose house is a stone’s throw from that dumpster.

I’m not a fool.  I know that bad things happen out there.  I also know that good things happen out there.  Whatever it is, it is none of my business.  Everything that happens outside my door is not for me to know.  Just like everything that happens inside my house is not for the world to know.

I have my protected bubble, secured by three locks at both the front and back doors.  My only car is safely parked in the garage.  Any yard thing that matters (like the gargoyle that used to sit on the front step) is barricaded by both locked gates and the fence in the back.  If it’s in the front yard and someone wanders by in the middle of the night and decides they need it, they can have it.  Lighten my load.  Go ahead.  (They pinched the antique bike that was too small to ride and not sturdy enough to prop up a pot of pansies.  I learned my lesson.  If I love it, it’s not out front.  That’s why I moved the gargoyle.)

 

My neighbors have those doorbell cameras.  At first, I thought they were geniuses for getting them.  I even entertained the thought of getting on Amazon and signing up.  (I don’t patronize Amazon any more, and I’ve changed my mind about a doorbell camera.)

I am also a member of the Doorbell-Camera Neighbor group text.  (I capitalized those words because my neighbors have an agenda and they sound official.)  Lucky me.

I am getting too much information from this group.  I’ll be minding my own business, planning out my day, and get a text full of gasping emojis and shouting exclamation points asking if anyone knows who this is in the video that a doorbell camera picked up.

One time it was a young couple smoking in their parked car.  They were probably listening to music, getting high, talking to each other and praising the moon.  It felt like an invasion of their privacy.  Their moment was caught on two cameras that belonged to complete strangers.

Another time it was broad daylight, and a doorbell camera caught a yellow vest-wearing fellow, who had the nerve to walk across the neighbor’s grass.  I pointed out that the fellow was the meter reader.  I got a text back that said, “Oh, sorry.  I’m glad I asked you.”  I wrote back, “Yeah, so am I.”

I lied.

 

One of these vigilant neighbors checks into a site that lists daily/nightly crimes that happen all over the city.  She also scours Facebook for posts mentioning neighborhood crime activity.  Between her doorbell camera, the Facebook posts, and the city crime site, she fabricated an amazing story that potentially connected the car (spotted by her camera at 2 a.m.) and a Facebook report of a person shining a flash flight down an alley 6 blocks away, at 4 a.m.

I try to be helpful and suggest that the events are unrelated.  “Maybe the person with the flash light is looking for her cat,” I said.  (I’ve looked for my cat in the night, only to discover it locked in the neighbor’s garage, the next day.)

“Maybe the two in the car are young lovers who work the late shift at a drive-in and they’re hatching a plan about how to get out of this town before it eats them alive,” I said.  (Because I’ve been there, too.  I know that every kid in a car is not gonna steal the stuff on your front step.  Most of those kids don’t even look at your house.  They have their own stuff to deal with.)

 

I want to scream at my friendly doorbell-camera neighbors, and tell them that they are suffering from information overload.  I want to say, “You don’t need to know all of this stuff!”  I’d include a hands-on-my-hips emoji, if only I could find one.

I could duck out of being in the group text, but I see that there might be a benefit to being neighborly.   (When I learn what that benefit is, I’ll let you know.)

 

What brought them to the point of suspecting the worst of everyone?   When they write the text that accuses the kids in the car (or the flash light-carrying alley walker) of being up to no good, don’t their stomachs hurt?  Don’t they feel bad for making those judgments?

In defense of the doorbell camera neighbors, they do have stuff – campers, trailers, extra cars, ATVs – to keep secure.  Have they forgotten what it’s like to not have everything they ever wanted?

Us, well, we don’t have all that stuff.

 

Am I the only one who connects the dots?

You buy the things, and then you start worrying that everyone wants your things.  Then, you become preoccupied with making sure that no one will ever get your things, or hurt your things.  Can you ever go camping without worrying that your house is left vulnerable?  (Well, you can if you ask the nice lady across the street to keep an eye on your house. Where is that damn emoji?)

Now, I am the one who is judging them, and my stomach does hurt a bit for doing so.

Maybe they are coping – the best they can – just like the rest of us.  Could be they are controlling what they can control in this time when we have so little control over anything at all.

 

And so I stay in the group text, and I banter back and forth about the comings and goings in the neighborhood.   And I also agree to keep an eye on things when they take their toys and head out of town.  As for me, I refuse to buy a camera.  I will go on believing that good, unusual, private (maybe even magical) things go on in the night.

 

I imagine that you also connect these same dots on a macroscopic cultural/political scale. 

I thought you might.

 

 

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The Boat

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

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

 

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

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

Can you hear it?

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

 

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

Jen likes calm waters, too.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

Look at that!

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

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

 

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

 

 

 

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The Spirit Guides Watch TV

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

Wait, was that the sound of a gavel?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gladys scowled at Basil, “Shhhh!”

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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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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An Ode to Costumes

Here’s to costumes – not just the ones we wear to celebrate Halloween.

From the pink costume someone puts us in to prove to the world that we are, indeed, a baby girl, to the “costume” put on us the day of our funeral, life is full of costume changes.

If we’re lucky, we have a trunk full of costumes when we are a kid.  Even eating a bowl of cereal warrants dressing the part.  A kid in a costume isn’t so much hiding from life, as he is tackling life.  He’s Superman or Spiderman.  She’s Princess Leia or a ballerina.  Life is celebrated, and what better way to do that than by wearing a costume?

The school years start and costumes are mostly relegated to October 31st.  One day out of the year we get to pretend to be someone outrageous.  The rest of the year, we pretend that we have life figured out.

We agonize over the different costumes needed to navigate adulthood.  We need a costume for every reinvention along the way because we are told we must,  “Fake it until we make it.”  A good costume helps with the faking.

Here’s to the costumes we wear to prove we are worthy of coupling.  For some that might be fishnet stockings or thigh-high boots.  (Years ago, the perfect mate wore an apron.)  Later, some of us wore a costume (that he most likely picked out) to prove we were a good enough wife.

Here’s to the costume we wear to show the world – and convince ourselves – that we are a good enough mom.

 

To the heels and business suit we never felt smarter in.

To the running shorts that never made running more enjoyable.

To the yoga pants that became the going-to-the-grocery-store pants.

Here’s to make-up that never makes us look younger, hair-color that never completely hides the gray, and perfume that never adequately disguises our own unique scent of fear.

 

Then, blessedly, we get to the point where we don’t give a damn.  Here’s to the bold costumes we wear to celebrate a certain age and to let everyone else know that we are done faking it in order to fit in.  Whether we proudly wear mom jeans, or leggings underneath billowy skirts, purple hats or black from head to toe, at this age, our costumes say we’ve arrived.  Almost.

These might be my favorite costumes, yet.  Although, I was a witch for Halloween 2 years in a row in junior high.  I wore that well.