Tag: random observations

Posted on

Who Will Serve Your Tacos?

“Jesse! “

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

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

Jesse nodded and took off her jacket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the actual fuck, Hank?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s your village, Jess?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted on

It Always Works Out

I last posted in July. While many words have since tried to coalesce into post ideas, not a one of those potential posts seemed to matter, when looking at the state of the world.

Since my last post, Jen has gone off to college, and Will has left one job and found another. While that doesn’t even make a ripple for all of you, my boat was rocked.

Also, in the months since my last writing, we celebrated an anniversary, of sorts. It’s been 15 years since the kids and I moved out of their dad’s house.

Speaking of rocking boats and the state of the world …

How Do I Know It Works Out?

Recently, with an abundance of time on my hands, I found myself going through digital photos. (Take it from me, if you don’t have a system for organizing digital photos, STOP reading this post and make a system for organizing all your photos. Do it now.)

. . .

I’m assuming you are much more organized than I am, and that you are still reading because you created files on your laptop for years and months and birthdays and Halloween carvings and dying of Easter eggs and first lost tooth. I’m envious of your organizational skills and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are more disciplined than I, and that makes me worried that we can’t be friends because I’ll always feel that my lack of discipline is disappointing you in some way. (Wait. I think that only applied to my romantic relationships. Never mind.)

Anyway, as I was scrolling through a hard drive full of unorganized digital photos, I noticed a common theme: kinks or bumps along the way always tended to work themselves out.

The pics of Jen before braces present a case in point. I loved that face so much that I didn’t want it to change with braces. Besides, I didn’t know where we would get the money for them. She wanted them so badly, even though she knew it would be tough to find the money. I would tell her, “Don’t worry, honey. It always works out.” Scroll forward a few years, and I love her new face just as much as I loved her before-braces face. It worked out.

More scrolling, and I see a set of photos from Will’s first vehicle. “Mom, where will I get the money to buy a truck? Can we even do something like that?” He and I made lists of lawns he could mow and walks he could shovel. I looked at him and said, “It always works out.” It did. After many lawn mowings and a small loan from his sister, he bought a truck. That was a couple trucks ago.

Then there are the pictures of the kitchen with the old appliances. The old range had quit working right before one of Jen’s birthdays. She wondered how we’d be able to make her cake. “It always works out, honey.” That year we baked her cake at grandma’s house, and found the funds to purchase a new range a few weeks later.

When Jen went off to school, those first few weeks were rough for both of us. We would count down the number of “sleeps” until her next trip home. We both put Post-its on our bathroom mirrors that said, “One day at a time,” because it was clear to both of us that even though this was going to work out, we were going to be muddling through one day at a time, at first.

. . .

I’ve learned that I have to time the delivery of, “It always works out.” In the depths of stress and worry, that can sound trite. No one wants to hear that expression when they are venting about how the Universe seemingly created a roadblock out of thin air. I wait to say it until after we’ve bumped over the roadblock, found the new route, and cruised a bit. Then, it’s safe to remind them that it does always work out. Sometimes I’m met with an eye roll, but they will begrudgingly admit that it does work out.

Back when they were little folk, I could have said, “It always works out, but it might end up looking different than you thought it would.” Or I might have said, “It always works out, and one day you’ll be glad that it looks different from what you were hoping for.” Or, “It always works out but it might beat you up a bit before it does.” My goal, then, was to encourage them, not dash their hopes with realism.

I didn’t consult a crystal ball to know it would work out, and I don’t know how to read tea leaves. Even if the coffee sediment in the bottom of the saucer looks like it means something, I can’t tell you what it means. But the three of us learned to have faith and trust that with a little effort and “some leaving alone” things would always work out, even if sometimes we had to remind each other.

What About in Today’s World?

Now, given the threats on women’s rights, voters’ rights, the climate, and our very democracy, can I truly tell my kids, “It always works out?”

Can we put Post-its on our mirrors and hope for the best? Who has the crystal ball that will reveal the future? Will this be a future with women’s rights, opportunities for all to vote, a climate that isn’t taking its last breath and our democracy still intact?

Will it work out for women if we lose bodily autonomy? (Untold numbers of women around the world have never even tasted that freedom, and we could very well lose it.) How do you reassure your daughter, while there are those who want to take away her rights? Will it work out for all those who lose their right to vote? Will it work out if we ignore all the signs telling us that climate change is not just a political talking point, but an inevitability? Has it been able to work out (albeit only for a lucky few), up to this point, because we’ve been navigating the bumps and roadblocks within the framework of this democracy?

More importantly, while it has often worked out for my little family, does that even matter if it doesn’t work out for everyone?

In another 10, 20 or 50 years, when this country looks in the mirror, will it like what it sees? Who will it work out for then?

Posted on

Margaret’s Return

“Thanks for bringing the coffee, Basil.”

“I always bring the coffee, Margaret.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted on

They Grow Up So Fast

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

They do grow up so fast.

 

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

Posted on

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.

 

 

Posted on

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. 

 

 

 

Posted on

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.

 

 

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.”

 

 

Posted on

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.