• Retool

    Retool

    At some point, I sat in my recliner with the heating pad at my back and an ice pack on my shoulder and decided I needed to retool.

Holiday Tidbits

Dec 282022
 

The holidays aren’t what they used to be, at least not for me. Although I have a remarkable collection of friends, I am alone for all or a good portion of nearly every holiday I can think of and a few I can’t. Not like the family gatherings that took place during the season.

I used to be sad about that. No more. It’s not just that I’ve adapted. It’s become apparent that many of us get swept up trying to turn the season into a Hallmark moment, especially when children are involved. Yet there’s so much we can’t control: the cancelled flights, the crushing storm, the various viral diseases. All of these conspire to obliterate even the best laid plans.

I appreciate the effort to spread joy, share happiness, grab a piece of peace, and bask in the glow of lights—so many lights. I love the feel-good stories, the way that people have opened their hearts and homes to others who are stranded. I’d like people to be kind all year round and maybe they are, and we just aren’t hearing enough about that.

I feel fortunate this year, more than I have in some time. It’s about having not just necessities but also friends. Say what you will about social media, it has connected me to an amazing assortment of people who have provided me with a meaningful virtual community. Meanwhile, I have an IRL group. Seven of us got together for a Christmas Day that included a pop-up movie event at my house and coffee and chocolate at a hotel filled to capacity with families. We grabbed seats in a roped-off section of the lobby away from most of the mayhem and had a lovely time. Ho-ho-ho.

So now it’s nearly New Year’s Eve, another invented milestone. The beginning of a new year always marks an opportunity to express our wishes for an improved future, not to mention a chance to “do better.” For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s hard to make promises in the dead of winter when all we want are the gifts of more light, more heat, more color, less strife.

Still, markers exist for a reason. I’d like 2023 to be the year I design a custom-fit version of gratitude, one that feels less practiced and more present, less  saccharine and more mindful, less self-conscious and more aware.

I’d also like 2023 to be the year I become more tolerant. That will be harder. Because while I wish for peace with all my heart, while I support peacebuildig and conflict resolution organizations, while the idea of “reasonable discourse” sounds good in theory, I have become increasingly impatient with lies, personal attacks, false equivalencies, conspiracy theories, close mindedness, and all-out hatred.

I hate hate. I hate how well it serves the people who would manipulate and the people willing to be manipulated. I hate that intolerance is a cornerstone of entire movements that pretend to be about taking something back when really they’re about keeping someone else down. I hate the corrosive nature of hatred, a violent state of mind in which the end-game is some sort of wholesale elimination or domination.

How does one support peace with a less than hate-free heart? I don’t know. I guess my other goal for the new year  is to create a custom-fit version of tolerance that doesn’t put up with intolerance.

I have my work cut out for me.

Safety First

Jun 272022
 

I was a little anxious as a kid. A lot of things scared me: werewolves with red eyes, creepy crawly things, barking dogs and hissing cats, and bullies. As I grew a little older, my worries transformed into larger and, on occasion, justified concerns. For instance, I never believed that crouching under a wooden desk would protect me from a nuclear missile.

Some people are born to plunge headlong into this and that adventure without thinking about the consequences. Some people are born practically paralyzed with fear. I was somewhere in the middle, willing to do certain things but only after a lot of consideration.

At the same time, I also felt protected. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a very strong family unit. I never had any doubt that my father, my mother, and even my siblings would come to my defense in a nanosecond. The one thing that safety net never prepared me for was its absence.

I’ve been on this planet for decades now, and I’ve never felt so vulnerable as I do these days.

Part of it is age. While I’m a healthy senior woman at an ideal weight, I am senior. I’m less strong than I used to be, less agile with less stamina, more discomfort. I’ve had three joints replaced and I’m in line to have two or three more done in the next five years. I exercise every day and walk miles with my shoulders, back, and head held high. My friends and even my physician like to tease me about being bionic. Trust me, bionic beings aren’t stiff in the mornings.

The second factor in my increasing sense of vulnerability stems from my social situation. I have friends, lots of virtual acquaintances, and some kind neighbors, but I live alone. Sometimes I can find people to help me, but often I can’t. I’m used to being on my own, less a preference than a necessary habit. And as the years go by, I worry I’ll be less skilled at it.

Honestly, though, those first two factors are nothing compared with my distress over the state of affairs in the world and particularly here in the U.S. I feel as defenseless as I did when I ducked under my school desk, except the danger feels closer. Every time I think society is progressing, I’m smacked in the face by the truth. Our profoundly inequitable political system continues to provide loopholes and stymy the majority. Our broken medical system makes receiving and paying for treatment disturbingly difficult. Increasing numbers of people are turning to conspiracy theories and “alternative facts” to reinforce closely held beliefs. We’re living in the 21st century version of the Wild West, complete with unbridled emotions, galloping disinformation, and plenty of guns. Respect for life seems to stop at birth.

American exceptionalism used to mean a land of unparalleled advantages and endless possibility. Now it seems to be linked to mass shootings (we’re number one!) and squandered resources. Maybe that’s where evolution has decided to take us. Throw in a pandemic or two, a cyber attack, an energy meltdown, and a series of weather events spurred by a warming planet and what do you have? A series of entertaining books and movies set in post apocalypse times, when the hardy survivors take to the highways and byways to survive, thrive, rebuild, and connect.

Meanwhile, I’m just looking for a safe place to live.

 

 

Middle Ground

May 052020
 

Quarantine is on my mind. How could it not be? Our current pandemic has upended our lives. We are dealing with a novel virus, novel as in singular, out of the ordinary, unexpected. Rumors abound, along with advice, opinion, social distancing, businesses closing, new businesses arising (puzzle and mask-makers are thriving). Some of our government leaders, particularly at the local level, are rising to the occasion. Others, particularly at the highest levels, are most assuredly not.

Never mind. It’s up to us to sort through the junk guidance, junk science, “fake” news and real news others claim is fake so we can get to what we need. Then it’s up to us to figure out how we will cope. There are a range of choices between between sitting on your couch eating crackers or candy and watching bad movies or writing the next great American novel. I speak from experience, by the way, because in the last eight weeks, I’ve done one and attempted the other. I suspect I’ve put on a few pounds, but I finished my latest book, the second in the mystery series featuring Samantha (Sam) Tate, a younger and more intrepid version of me (okay, minus the bourbon and the gun).

Which leaves me between the extremes of utter despair and hyper-activity, or hyper vigilance.

I think of where I strive to be as the “calm center.” I won’t be able to paint my back porch or make five hundred masks to sell for charity. But hey, I fixed a one-size-fits-all mask so it fits me. Never going to take up roller blading, but I am walking three to five miles a day, which gives me a decent enough aerobic workout. I haven’t yet made the podcast I keep threatening to make, but I take an online yoga class most mornings. The fact that a hundred thousand other people have also done that much (or that little) doesn’t bother me. It means that a modicum of success is all that is needed to simulate forward motion.

I have my own coping mechanisms and those are, I’d wager, also shared by many as well. I laugh out loud. I coo over animal videos. I cry. I rage. I indulge in, oh, take your pick: food, wine, exercise, social media. I entertain fantasies about fixing, building, repairing things that I can’t possibly fix, build, or repair. I gripe, I sulk, I dance, I play piano, I shadowbox or kick the wall. Other days, I bounce up, relatively pleased with myself and go about my business. Good news, by the way. There are more of those, although that may owe a lot to improving weather.

Others don’t have such opportunities. Many fret about not working or worry about returning to work. They have bills to pay and mouths to feed. They may be working from home with restless kids who don’t appreciate the virtues of distance learning. I worry with them, for them.

When the virus hit, I was navigating my way through my sorrow over losing my sister. I had travel plans to visit friends. That’s off the table. I occasionally remind myself how much harder things are for the people who can’t plan funerals or say goodbye or save people they thought they could save.

Such comparisons are pointless, even debilitating. Do you find yourself comparing your precautionary measures to those of other people? Are you sure you’re at least six feet and wouldn’t further away be better? How much are you wearing your mask and how effective is it? Is it paper or cloth? Did you add a filter? How many times a day do you wash your hands? How long? I know people who take off their shoes at the door, who leave packages outside overnight, who wipe down everything with Clorox, who wear their masks at home, who suit up head to toe to shop, then strip and their throw clothes in the washing machine when they get home. I know people who won’t leave the house.

I probably know people who do none of those things, although they’re less likely to brag about it.

Mine is not to judge. Or be judged, by the way. People you know—and hardly know at all—have no problem telling you how they feel about your clothes, your hair, your television watching habits and now, your pandemic behavior. You pick up your mail without gloves? You spray this but not that? You let a plumber into your house? You’re going to get your dog groomed? You’re seeing the dentist? Well, yes. Turns out I have a cracked tooth that’s become infected. It hurts. It will need to come out. Thank you, but I don’t want anyone’s opinion on the subject except the dental surgeon who will be removing it as soon as the state gives him permission.

Unless I truly need input, I’m reluctant to share my specific self-care habits with anyone—what I wash down, when I wash up, how I shop, what I decide is safe for me to do. Sure, I might let slip to a close friend that I’m lining up at Trader Joe’s in case she wants me to pick up some chocolate peanut butter cups. That’s going to be about it for the foreseeable future.

Which is how long, exactly? Insert shrug here. We don’t know. That’s a challenge, since no one is in a great mood, despite the brave faces. We’re all restricted, we’re all frustrated. Some have turned their fear into hate, their feelings into crimes. They deliberately flout public health and safety standards. Their entitlement leads them to push for an imagined “freedom” suitable only for a single-occupancy desert island. They threaten us. That infuriates me, truth be told. Their actions are ignorant and selfish. I hate to think I live in a country with such people.

Most people aren’t like that. I want to believe that. Most people are trying to find the middle between resentment and contentment, euphoria and depression, reckless optimism and utter despair. They social distance, stay in touch, check on their neighbors, reach out, help where they can, respect the front line workers. They make mistakes and are subject to anxiety. Mostly, though, they wave and smile and stay at least six feet away.

I’m good with that.

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