it was but a mere second – nigh unto 4:30 in the morning – when my sweet poppo was on this planet and then wasn’t.
i said a wee-hours-goodnight to him, propped in a hospital bed at home in their house. he whispered back to me. i tried desperately to memorize his face, the love in his eyes.
and before the birds woke up in the morning, that morning eight years ago yesterday, i went from with to without.
three years later, we left my sweet momma sitting on the edge of her assisted-living-bed, grasping onto the blue-notebook-that-documented-their-moments-in-europe, her expression dancing with excitement, waving to us. i tried desperately to memorize her face, the love in her eyes.
it wasn’t but a couple weeks later, on the road back again to florida, around the time the sun is highest in the sky, i went from with to without.
suddenly, i was orphaned. suddenly i was without the two people who gave me life. suddenly i was without the two people who could answer any question i had about my growing up. suddenly – in a split second – nothing was the same.
100,000 families. in the past few months, due to the global pandemic decimating our country, 100,000 families have desperately tried to memorize a loved one’s face. they have held tightly to the memory of love shining in their beloved’s eyes. they have moved from one split second into the next. with to without.
and last night, on the solemn occasion of this number passing from 99,999 to over 100,000 – that one second – one person- one life – one with to without – i expected, foolishly, that something would change. that there would be gut-wrenching acknowledgement. that there would be communal nation-wide mourning led by the person in the highest seat in the land. that there would be kind, generous, thoughtful words spoken, grief-filled heart-soaked empathy for all that the withs-to-withouts have gone through.
and nothing.
we need remember. all of it. these are our split seconds.
the aarp article addressed ‘dyadic coping’, in brief, the way a couple together handles the stress reaction of the other spouse. the edition is dedicated to the pandemic so this bit of writing is not a surprise.
in my rant yesterday about every-little-thing david very calmly started to talk about a plan – ways that i can lower my level of anxiety, ways that i can process without taking it into my body. ugh. i just wanted to rant. for a little bit of time. his let’s-solve-for-this guy approach was lovely dyadic-ly, but made me want to roll my eyes. letting off steam, regardless of the lack of any linear thought, is helpful. five minutes later i felt better. nothing was solved, stress still existed, but i could breathe better and move on to the next thing until the next time.
these are somewhat sleepless nights. even if i drift off after our mountain-climbing adventure of late night fare, i awaken. and, like you, i suspect, i start to think. everything from wondering when i will see my children to finances to work to why the kitchen sink is draining slowly filters through my brain. although i would definitely label david more daytime singularly focused, my obsession is in the middle of the night with angst. serenity is elusive.
perhaps this painting is so very appealing to me because of the quietude. the surrender to rest, beloved pets conceding to the gravity pull of being together, of repose. an eyes-closed moment. triad-ic coping.
“and if you have nothing good to say, say nothing at all,” my sweet momma would admonish.
yes, sometimes ‘you just gotta button it up’. there are those moments you know it. there are also those moments you knew it but the cat did not have your tongue and the reactionary in you reared its ugly head and you spat out something you instantly regretted.
wisdom has been passed down in quiet steadfast sages. their lessons have been lost on many; their diplomacy skipped in dna strands, oft replaced by quick tempers and faster tongues.
as jen would say, “you can’t un-say/un-see/un-know it.” good to remember.
one day, back in college, i had the good fortune of eating lunch with paul simon. the chitchat was about many things under the sun, but i wish i had asked him a bit more about this song. he said that in the inability of people to communicate, no one was listening to him and no one was listening to anyone else. as we passed by captain mike’s and the irish pub and the beach and downtown a couple days ago, i thought he clearly wrote this song about now, the middle of this global pandemic. who is listening? who is speaking? who should be speaking? who should be listening? why is the silence – truly in the middle of so much noise – so deafening?
And in the naked light I saw Ten thousand people, maybe more People talking without speaking People hearing without listening People writing songs that voices never share And no one dared Disturb the sound of silence
i wonder about a world where no one is listening, no one is paying attention. i wonder
what kind of world are we passing on to those behind us? keeping quiet, speaking out, exercising verbal self-control, standing up, articulating for what is right in the face of adversity….
and we know that sometimes it is simply best to keep your mouth shut. to wait. sometimes it is the right thing to do. sometimes it is the only way through to the other side.
silence speaks louder than words. silence is, indeed, often golden. insight, compassion, discernment, respect, knowledge, empathy, listening – all golden qualities of those who choose their words wisely, those who know when to keep their mouth shut.
“Archie’s dilemma is coping with a world that is changing in front of him. He doesn’t know what to do, except to lose his temper, mouth his poisons, look elsewhere to fix the blame for his own discomfort. He isn’t a totally evil man. He’s shrewd. But he won’t get to the root of his problem, because the root of his problem is himself, and he doesn’t know it. That is the dilemma of Archie Bunker.”
“to live a life in clover: to live a life of ease, comfort or prosperity”
the clover on the side of the trail was huge and bountiful green. we look for the bunnies and wonder who is lucky enough to be nibbling these leaves. we ask each other – which clover is sweeter: small-leafed clover or large-leafed clover? we make up the answer and walk on, leaving the field of green, satisfied our clover-knowledge is adequate for the time-being.
we pass the lake, overflowing its banks onto the trail, muddy at our feet and steel-grey-blue out in its depths. goslings follow obediently behind their parents, the beaver makes a rare appearance, cranes soar overhead, fish jump. we stand and watch for a few minutes, quietly taking in the field of water, our breathing slowing.
we walk through woods, verdant green peeking out from every brown corner, the field of the grey bark of trees, oldest, youngest, all climbing to the light. frogs echo from the swampy ponds off the path. we relish the silence.
past the cut-down fields of corn, brown, the dirt lays barren but for old stalks laying amid the former rows. we walk and talk about farmers and crops plowed under and whether there will be planting again in these fields, brown now and corn-green later.
and we know, as we walk, that, despite it all – circumstances of abundance, circumstances of lack – we are lucky. we are walking. we are breathing.
we will walk in verdant green and blue-water and grey-bark-trees and brown waiting-fields. we will walk in rich fields, all golden with life.
we just read/watched the new york times interactive article from may 24 called ‘an incalculable loss’. tiny people on the screen of our laptop, nearly 100,000 lives were represented – deaths from march 8. the visual is mind-boggling, staggering really.
bone-weary.
we paused at every descriptor on the screen for people who had died. a man who loved to wear suspenders. a woman who always smiled. a composer. a mother of six boys. every one of them with lives and circles – concentric circles reaching out and out and out.
bone-weary.
of the excuses, the justifications. the inadequacy. the gross miscalculations. the ignorance. the comparisons to the flu, car accidents, natural attrition. the opening-up push-for-the-purposes-of-an-election despite the fact that whole-cities-numbers of people (PEOPLE) are dying in short order.
bone-weary. of the division, the based-on-nothing arguments, the dangerous political game-playing, the i-don’t-wanna-wear-a-mask-so-i-won’t whining, the inability of those “in charge” to focus, the heinous lack of regard for truth, the gross name-calling, disrespect and distraction from the president’s mouth, the dogged inaction of that same office to quell the spread, to actually even the playing ground for all and address the real issues, the zealousness of those who have his nationalistic vision in their rose-colored glasses of divisiveness, of inequity, of apathy.
bone-weary.
these are lives. people who never expected in march to not be here on memorial day to recognize and honor the fallen, those who actually have protected us. oh, you say from-the-‘other-side’, that’s everyone – no one has any guarantees on life, you argue. ahh. but we can expect that we live in a place that has our best interests at heart. that we live in a country that will do all that it can, with all of its armor of knowledge and research and its vast fortunes, to protect us all – every one of us – from something like this – a mere global pandemic.
i write to both My Girl and My Boy every night to say good night. i have since the day they left for college. that’s about 4,380 times for my daughter and 3,285 times for my son. i’m quite certain that they have rolled their eyes multiple times along the way. but the idea that these 100,000 people no longer have the option of loving their child – or anyone they care about – with a nightly goodnight wish stuns and breaks my heart. this could have been different.
bone-weary.
we passed the park down by the beach yesterday. we passed by the marina. we passed the irish pub. we passed by the bar with wide open doors, people spilling out onto sidewalk seating. we counted four masks. in all those people, all those crowds, all that bustling humanity – up-close-and-personal-no-social-distancing – only four masks. this is one of the very towns – kenosha, wisconsin – used as an example of a whole city wiped out to illustrate the number 100,000. it makes me tired.
bone-weary.
“you keep thinking people are going to wake up, but they never do,” said a friend yesterday.
bone-weary.
tired and disheartened. alive, wide-awake and pissed.
and in the mist of the new grey day, uncolored by the pattern of another’s fabric in our close grasp, we rise.
we sip from coffee mugs, just the two of us, conversation spilling, yet stale in two-dimensionality.
we plan the day, but stop short of planning, for the days now have measured repeat signs.
sudden unexpected changes in rhythm punctuate the andante pace in isolation,
projects to learn and complete, new rules to follow.
we long for lingering conversations with dear ones, in person, touching distance.
for wine glasses clinking together,
for groceries we do not wash,
for sidewalks we willingly share,
for overdue embraces.
we long for that which was, that which we see we took for granted. we mourn. we grieve.
anger hangs as low clouds; aerosols so fine as to break down walls of solidarity.
laughter is key; we find it hiding around corners, peeking out, entering the fray and retreating. we chase it, grasping its laughter-tail and pulling it back into our life-day like warm taffy.
we watch news of this place, this state, this country, this world and find joy in small stories of goodness, in videos of lions napping on roads.
we long to feel less like we are in a science fiction movie and more like we are in a flattening curve.
we wish we hadn’t watched the movie contagion.
we end the day on top of mount everest, breathing air so thin that every breath is deliberate. we linger on the top-of-the-world, just as other-worldly as our own hometown right now.
we long.
we sleep, forgetting for a few hours, waking and, for moments, not remembering.
we step outside, coffee in hand
and the sun warms our faces and we wish to share the patio with voices and slow-dancers.
i was 18 and on long island the first time i was called for jury duty. back then, reporting was for two weeks so i drove out to riverhead each day for ten days. it was serious stuff and i, in my innocence, listened carefully to every detail during jury selection and, later, during the case to which i was assigned. i was intimidated by the presence of the judge, law enforcement, court bailiffs, attorneys, these people who had dedicated their lives to justice, to maintain rule of law and abide by due process of such, while providing for equal protection, seeking social order. “courts: they exist so the equality of individuals and the government is reality rather than empty rhetoric.” (NACM) i researched my responsibility. i was respectful of every instruction i was given, and believed that the process was based on constitutional rights and values and that truth would prevail. “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth…”
less than ten years later i was the victim-witness counselor at the state attorney’s office in one of the judicial circuits in florida. i worked with local law enforcement, the FBI, attorneys, social workers, court bailiffs, judges, all dedicated to the due process of those who had been accused of crimes and those who were victims of crimes. my position was working with victims of violent crimes or surviving family members of those victims. heinous acts committed upon others, i was intimidated by the presence of cold, calculating types sitting across the deposition table from me, wishing, at times, that i could put a paper bag over my head to avoid identification at a later date. it was bracing and disheartening, a dark look into what people are really capable of, twisted, distorted minds culminating, often, in the death of an innocent person. my first case was one of the saddest, though i shudder thinking of many of them, wondering if they are truly rank-able. the young woman worked at a quick stop gas station/convenience store, her shift the wee hours of the night. the two men who kidnapped her had planned for a long time to dig an underworld and keep her and other women there. their efforts were stymied as they began to dig and discovered that sand kept filling the hole, so they assaulted her and murdered her. one of my very first days: welcome to the state attorney’s office. each case that was presented was treated with respect and complete attention to detail; the truth was the ultimate goal, for justice, for the memory of the victim, for the victim’s family, for proper sentencing and/or rehabilitation. “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth…”
thirty years later i watch as the wisconsin court system, that which is supposed to be non-partisan, apolitical, a fair arbiter of the law, has deemed the governor’s safer-at-home order during a global pandemic unconstitutional and has thus thwarted the ability of the governor to protect the populace. “courts: they exist so the equality of individuals and the government is reality rather than empty rhetoric.” (NACM) hmmm. yet, instead, leaning heavily on the right side of the political seesaw of a supposed-apolitical supreme court, the justices declared the state ‘open’ and triumphantly, though virtually, just as during their vote, raised their glasses of celebration in every wisconsin bar about five minutes after their declaration. the truth? wisconsin’s coronavirus numbers had not ceased climbing; there was not enough testing nor contact tracing as per the federal government’s previously-stated guidelines, which, at the time, were stated as the truth. “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth…”
meanwhile, the administration’s truth-seesaw has become the stuff of amusement parks and circuses – long roller coasters of thwacking metal cars on tracks, criss-crossing and reversing direction, houses of mirrors, convoluted stories and warped sideshows. “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth…” would present some challenges in this case – were truth to be told.
the truth flies by the hand of the self-served. the truth is misrepresented in more artistic mediums than the best fine arts university could offer. falsehoods are reported on, written about, gushed over. and people i care about and love believe them. danger lurks in the darkness of this truth-void; the deposition table will later provide bags to cover all the heads. made-up stories as adults with impact on a country are not merely child’s play. this seesaw of truth is about life; it’s about living. it’s to uphold this: “to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity.” (the preamble of the u.s. constitution)
we passed a house flying an american flag. under the american flag was another flag. it said: “trump 2020. stop the bullsh*t.”
my favorite snapchat filter makes my face round and my eyes huge, adds giant john-denver-glasses and changes my voice. and i love it! using a filter makes short-selfie-movie-making less about how you look and more about how you could look: with big eyes or ears or as a unicorn or years younger or years older or with different hair or as the opposite gender. my niece wendy and i use it as a constant communication device; we are free to be as weird as we want to be or as funny or as playful.
when this filter disappeared temporarily – the one with big eyes and glasses and a voice octaves above my normal voice – i panicked. making a video for wendy as just me was not nearly as enticing and i sadly thought i’d have to resort to simply texting again. i wondered if i should write a letter to snapchat, but fear those at snapchat don’t read letters. how antiquated. alas, even without a letter of reproach from me, it reappeared and all is well again in snapchatland.
technology is throwing us all for a loop…well, those of us who were not born with it in our very veins. we are videoconferencing for work, google-chatting for play, creating audio and video files to fill in gaps where people can’t be, using photoshop to create slides for iMovies or iPhoto videos, layering audio files on music software, creating youtube channels and pic collages, learning how to change wav files into mp3s into m4v’s, messaging people via text, email, facebook, instagram, pushing our little cellphones to their outer limits (or is it us we are pushing to outer limits?)
we are immersed and treading water.
so much learning. oy, such a steep curve. all in the name of staying in touch in these virtual times. you can’t touch people but these laptops and ipads and cellphones are reeling from overuse. (or is it my born-in-1959-middle-aged-brain?)
but for those of us with analog veins, coffee is still coffee. and i am ever grateful for that. it’s a necessary tool in this virtual world. every day these days needs a bit of a jumpstart.
and as frank k. says, “that apothic. it’s such a drinkable wine!” yes, frank. another necessary tool – the coda of the day these days.
jumpstart to coda. and in-between, we tread, virtual wave after virtual wave.
i have asked more than one person if they feel as i do – like they are living in an alternate reality.
from the moment i broke both my wrists to now, the smack-dab middle of the pandemic, it has felt that way – like we are in some kind of alternate reality. a reality with different rules. a different set of mores. different judgment. why?
when i used to be a minister of music, way-back-when in florida over 30 years ago, i worked with a wonderfully-southern georgia tech pastor, kirk. we had a long tenure together and implicitly relied on each other. at a distinct point in time, he decided to turn over all the wedding rehearsals to me. i remember the moment of that decision, the moment he sighed, exasperated at the disrespectful lack of regard for simple guidelines.
the rehearsal ahead of time went well. we lined up the wedding party and they walked up the aisle to their chosen music, went through the faked vows and such and then walked back down the aisle. kirk, in his treasured drawl, slowly reiterated the guidelines to them about the next day – their wedding day. the guidelines were common sense: reminders about what to do or not do and how to be sure that this very-important-day would escape judgment by the perspective-of-time years later.
they did not heed his advice.
instead, the groom showed up inebriated, as did the videographer.
the groom stumbled multiple times over his vows, and, literally being held up by the bride, finally punted out, “forever and ever, till we die” in lieu of the more delicate loving words of the standard vow. the videographer vaulted over the stationary communion rail in the front of the sanctuary and sprinted to the back of the church in an effort to beat the wedding party there and film their exit. it was a circus. i wonder how they view all that now, decades later, with judgment-as-it-passes-through-the years. did it stand the test of time? i wonder if they ask, ‘why?’
we are living this now.
we have a choice.
to decide to prevail by the pandemic safety guidelines and be able to look back with clear consciences, knowing we did all we could to heed advice, or to throw caution to the wind and see what happens.
looking around, watching as people react and push back against this very-important-time, i suspect judgment will not be on our side; it will not stand the test of time.
“words matter,” my sweet momma would tell me, “things people say matter!” she was right, of course. even back then.
so i did an experiment. i deliberately straddled the ideological fence and listened. and this is what i heard and saw:
“masks. eh, they’re a symbol of fear!” he spouted.(*1) what?!
on reporting on his own viewing of a reporter at a protest on long island getting verbally attacked, he mouthed off, “it was pretty entertaining!” (*2) what?!
on the president haughtily announcing ‘we’re back! with or without vaccines!’ she cheered, “i was doing the fist pump there!” (*3) what?!
and then she needled, “democrats are favoring lockdowns over liberty!” (*4) what?!
“libtards,” she wrote. (*5) what?!
wow.
we were hiking and passed by a couple people on the other side of the trail. moving into single file and off the path in an effort to avoid their non-single-file-ness, we heard, “i want to keep people safe and this is a big deal, but….” she resisted. (*6) but what?!
the wisconsin supreme court overturned the safer-at-home order and five minutes later the bars were crowded. “i miss going out,” she whined to the news, maskless and inches away from the next person at the crowded not-a-mask-in-sight bar. (*7) what?!
on america, he ruminated, “we don’t do critical thinking in this country.” (*8)
he’s right. we don’t do critical thinking in this country. otherwise we would expect better.
we would expect a leader who is respectful and thoughtful, steeped in truth, who has an ounce of empathy and who recognizes that the divides in this country – economic, political, moral, prejudicial – are perilously close to chasm-esque, never to return to center. a leader who sets an example. a leader who wears a mask, just like the rest of us. the centrifugal force is spinning out of control; the lack of careful, prudent and meticulous planning, the words from his mouth making us all teeter into the danger zones of no return, of never-be-the-same, of absolute division, of a dismal road ahead. especially in matters of health. in all matters of disease.
we would expect a country with a primary intention to attend to the most basic of needs for its populace (think maslow’s hierarchy): physiological needs. health.
we would expect the encouragement of the coming-together of people instead of the touting of ripping-apart division. extremism, headstrong nationalism – in the name of patriotism (def: devotion to and rigorous support of one’s country) doesn’t consider the equality of all people and their fundamental rights and needs. ie: health.
we would expect that people will – in their willingness to acknowledge that their every behavior will impact literally everyone around them, everyone they come into contact with – sacrifice and rally around that which protects all, that which will help eradicate the invader, this pandemic. efforts to protect the health and well-being of all.
we would expect to take advantage of the brilliant minds of scientists, doctors, researchers in order to responsibly get the country back on track. for our health.
we would expect consistency in message, consistency in plan, consistency in dedication and commitment to the well-being of the people of this country, the people of the world.
we would expect that the weight of a person’s life is far more important than the weight of that person’s (or any person’s) bank account. for as my poppo would say, “you can’t take it with you!” and any money or stock or holding or real estate or hedge fund pales in comparison with, say, your own actual life.
we would expect more.
yes.
because we deserve more.
————
* and if you are curious about the quotes: *1: rush limbaugh, *2: sean hannity, *3: laura ingraham, *4: laura ingraham, *5: someone i went to high school with, *6: a young woman on the des plaines river trail, an Illinois park with signs posted requesting single file trail-walking, *7: a woman interviewed at a wisconsin bar, *8: chris cuomo
reverse threading 