we put out a different water bowl in the kitchen for dogdog and babycat. neither one of them will drink from the bowl. we put their old water bowl in the next room, filled with water, so that they will be able to hydrate, but we were hoping that they would adjust to the new one. neither one of them will drink from the bowl. in the world they inhabit, one that must have low level anxiety frequencies they can feel from the-whole-outside-world, they do not like change. it’s been days and neither one will drink from the bowl.
“what now?”
in the past months and in what now feels like a broken world, we can face forward. we can set intentions and take one baby step at a time, all in unequivocal love of all humankind. we can be light for each other and we can hold fear tenderly. we can look newness of change eye to eye as we learn, challenge the status quo, embrace compassion and principle and stride confidently into a new time.
we can sit by the new bowl, encourage our dog and cat to drink from it, recognize their fear of the unknown, of change, and just love them.
metaphorically speaking, the gravel hadn’t even settled after we pulled out of the parking lot and our newly-created-recently-released website had already been changed. david warned me about this, telling me how tom m used to tell him this very thing about the moments – even just mere moments – after you leave a position. you are forgotten, your ideas are left behind in the dust; you are the person who used to do the job.
i had spent hours and hours and hours and weeks and months designing, branding, carefully trying to portray this unique place in a fresh, interesting, vital-to-the-community way. i painstakingly chose fonts and always included “xoxo” in posts. i pored over hundreds of pictures i had taken there, looking for the right imagery to represent this performing arts center to which, just over a year ago, i had felt an instant attachment. TPAC, a beautiful 253-seat theatre on a tiny island. i added a small heart to advertising, social media posts, communications. my heart was attached and it seemed apropos to subtly include love from TPAC in everything to the residents who have shared their island with it.
for the last year – until the end of the day yesterday – we, two people with lifelong immersion in the arts, have been the co-managing directors of this theatre. on this island-you-cannot-drive-to, across death’s door from the mainland of door county, we weathered our way through waves of challenges. we were brought there to create, to bring TPAC into next, to carefully elicit change in a place that pushed back against change. we made dear new friends; we gauged our days and our progress by the greetings at the grocery store. my fondness grew.
managing a performing arts center is not for the weak of heart. it is not, as some would think, simply about booking performers into the space. instead, it is weaving the place in which it exists into its very fabric, acknowledging the importance of the local arts organizations and forging relationships with their people, listening, working together to make the theatre accessible and intrinsic – necessary – to all. it is fundraising, addressing personality issues, graphic design, ad sponsorship, strategizing, gently and firmly guiding. for us, it was seeing the infinite details (i’m the detail one) and the arcing scope into the future (he’s the big picture one). it was sitting-on-the-edge-of-the-wooden-stage-dreaming at its best and cleaning-the-backstage-refrigerator at its most practical.
we lived in the littlehouse on the water, a place we still cherish. every morning i took a photograph over the lake; every night we marveled at the million stars in the sky. we walked on quiet roads and hung out laundry to dry. in the middle of enacting progressive forward-moving dreams, we had also returned to a simpler place, a simpler time. washington island is indeed away-away and the ferry that makes it possible to come and go dictated our few comings and goings.
there were moments, as you would suspect, of difficulty, for no tiny place is immune to that, to agenda or powerplay. indeed, no dense urban city is immune, so a somewhat homogeneous island with generations-long-standing residents proves no different. when we accepted this position we put on our ‘what’s best for TPAC?’ hats and, with more objectivity than those who have been immersed in the politics and life of a place for most of its tenure, we were determined to leave those hats on, despite all odds, regardless of any pressure to bow differently. we brought heart to TPAC and we leave pieces of our hearts behind in it.
every journey has meaning. today i grieve the inevitable exit from this place. they will continue on, outsiders-be-gone, with one of their own at the helm to take them into next, the island way. TPAC will continue to grow and change; there is so much potential there. we can see it.
and today, as i close my eyes and see the traditional red-cushioned theatre seating of the house and feel the wooden stage under my boots, i know my heart will mend a bit as the dust settles. and the key sticks in the lock of the backstage door just as it always has.
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.
“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
we don’t go into any store without a mask on. the way we understand this – is that this is essential. in an effort to curb the spread of this pandemic, protect others and do our part to ‘flatten the curve’ we need to follow simple protocol.
at the risk of redundancy, which i have been accused of before, we have been appalled at the lack of people wearing masks. it’s not like you are being asked to undergo a colonoscopy before entering the grocery store (or worse yet, the prep for one); it is a simple request: wear a mask. yet, there we are, in the store and we can feel the now-familiar tightness-in-our-chest-anxiety rising as we attempt to move away from people who seem to care little about distancing or breathing their aerosols our way. what-on-earth-is-so-hard-about-this??
david went to a small grocery the other day. he had his mask and he had brought disinfecting wipes with him. neither of these were burdensome to him. he walked into a somewhat crowded store and found that he was the only one wearing a mask. what?!
wwmrd? (what would mr. rogers do?): be a good neighbor. (i’m betting he’d wear a mask.)
we live in wisconsin so it would seem prudent to look up what the department of health services has to say about this:
When should I wear a cloth face cover?
You should wear a cloth face cover when you are outside the home conducting essential activities such as going to work, to the grocery store, pharmacy, banking and enjoying outdoor activities while maintaining physical distancing.
that seems relatively clear. embracing redundancy once again: “you should wear a cloth face cover when you are outside the home conducting essential activities such as going to work, to the grocery store, pharmacy, banking and enjoying outdoor activities while maintaining physical distancing.”
down the street the state of illinois is requiring face masks. ahhh, you say with a cavalier smirk unhidden by a face mask. that state has a democratic governor, you point out as you enumerate the many ways that the government is taking over your personal life by issuing coronavirus guidelines. i’m not a biologist or an epidemiologist but i suspect that this pandemic is not stopping to discern the difference between democrats and republicans. and a face mask, worn by you or the people you encounter in a day, just might protect you, your family members, your friends, your colleagues, the people-who-you-don’t-know-at-the-grocery-store-but-who-count-anyway.
so why are the vast majority of people not wearing masks? why are so many folks not social distancing? why are people announcing vacations on facebook? vacations? are we even encouraged to do that right now? (because who wouldn’t love to go merrily on a vacation for a while?) one sweet person, who lives in another state, replying to a text of mine that bemoaned missing my children asked me if we were on “house arrest”. everything is confusing.
one of the funniest, albeit a tad off-color, clarifications of the what-would-mr-rogers-do approach i read said: “having some states locked down and some states not locked down is like having a peeing section in a swimming pool.” no exponential brainpower needed there. i would think that swimming-pool-water-rule applies to most all the guidelines. seems pretty clear to me.
i guess i’m just saying i don’t understand. this is a global pandemic. despite a plethora of conspiracy theories distorting reality, there is medicine and there is science. i, for one, would rather place my trust in the people immersed in those than in self-aggrandizing politicians or propaganda-pushers, each ignoring medical science in their own creative ways. there is a difference. “america strong” reads the flag we pass on 7th avenue. strength and resilience are found in unity, not division, in working together, not apart, in being neighborly.
as the country begins to prematurely open up and disregard the CDC’s guidelines as “overly restrictive” we will likely download that multi-page guide. we would like to see more specifically how we can do our part . thinking they might actually protect us, we want to see the ‘overly restrictive’ restrictions. we want to participate in a responsible way. we will follow these guidelines as best we can. we will social distance. we will cough into our elbow. we will not gather. we will not pee in the pool.
and we will freaking wear masks, even if we are the only ones.
the contagion is not merely the virus, although that is more than enough for this tenuous world to handle. the contagion is seeping into relationship, into communities, into cities and states. it exhibits as an inability for people to have conversation about this pandemic. it is a pestilence that hovers over the virtual aisle between us, waiting to swarm in locust fashion. it is pervasive. it is contention.
we took the helm of a performing arts center last year. when we started, we sat with the board of directors at our first official board meeting and told them that, in all things, we would be wearing our ‘what’s best for TPAC?’ hats. we would ask questions: what is best for the whole? what is best to move the organization in a progressive way? what is best to open the organization’s heart to embrace ideas in an equitable way, in a forward-thinking way, in a way that will keep the organization safe from harm and pushing toward better health. we have worn the ‘what’s best for TPAC?’ hats proudly, through thick and thin, for it is in the organization-as-a-whole that we are invested. we haven’t always been popular, and in fact at times have been shunned in silence by this same board, but we have stayed steady in our quest to keep the performing arts center and its needs central and not to get lost in self-serving contention that exhibits as peripheral arguments or sidelined motives. the possibilities of grand health and as a wildly successful place artists wish to be are all within reach for TPAC; all personal agenda need be left at the door and the wooden stage of this beautiful performing arts center will be filled with creating, performing, reaching audiences of all manner, flourishing, as the mission statement tagline reads.
our country sits smack in the middle of a global pandemic that demands we put on our ‘what’s best for ALL of us?’ hats. we are seeking health. and, though we as a world have not garnered all the information about this specific covid-19 disease that we need, it seems that the brilliant scientists and doctors, epidemiologists, researchers and public health experts have asked an abundance of questions and given us some guidelines. these guidelines, put in place and central, are not the stuff of popularity contests. they are the stuff of those ‘what’s best?’ hats, the stuff of steady leadership, the stuff of keeping people safe from harm and pushing toward bettering health. through thick and thin, and with sacrifice, it doesn’t seem too much to adhere to these guidelines as a means to an end.
but cavalier complaint, unrest and protest are rampant. and contention ensues. ‘we’ll have to agree to disagree’ we hear time and again. i wonder what it is we are disagreeing on? can we ask questions: is it the wish for all people to be well? is it cooperation with each other to that end? is it communal responsibility? is it adhering to recommended guidelines, among others: to stay home, maintain social distancing, wear a mask? these are not difficult asks and have proven to be effective at flattening the curve of this disease, a disease whose myriad symptoms exhibit in so many ways, in which dying is devastatingly painful and lonely, and one is suffocated with the pansy words ‘agree to disagree’, tentacles of irony and shameful smugness killing any chance of conversation. misinformation begets misinformation. it encourages loud dissension, infighting, uprisings bearing arms, people basing decisions on erroneous reports; it misguides. instead, misinformation guides people down paths of complacency, lazy inaction, self-serving-disregard-for-others the hat of choice.
we are living in a state of ‘agree to disagree’ and where has it gotten us? agree to disagree. at what cost? over 1.1 million americans have already contracted this virus and over 65,000 have died.
is there a chance we could agree to agree? can we ask questions: that perhaps over 64,000 in two months is too many deaths? that humanity – each of us – is not dispensable? that we cannot move anything forward without health, without living and breathing people, including an economy of any value to humankind?
what’s really ‘best for ALL of us’? can we ask questions: in this country touting that it is helping each of us, might it be possible to actually help each of us, instead of the not-so-hidden inequity sorely apparent even in the structure of stimulus bills and tax packages? might it be possible to recognize that goading people into angry protest is not a responsible re-election campaign strategy? might it be possible that angrily and aggressively bearing automatic weapons in public venues is unacceptable? might it be possible that bullying should not be seen as a substitute for incompetent leadership? that division is not a cure; it will neither heal or stimulate. division will further divide this indivisible-one-nation-under-God. “the ‘invisible enemy’, as the so-called leader of this country refers to coronavirus, is not the pandemic, but, rather, the malignancy in this current administration. in this country of hats, can we please wear the ‘what’s best for ALL of us?’ hats?
the wooden stage waits ad nauseam for all of us to have conversation, to ask questions, to work together, to agree to agree; it waits while we heal, while we ensure people can be well, while we take steps forward-thinking, while we leave personal agenda at the door, escape from the grasp of this viral pandemic and, maybe even more, from this corrupt nation-destructing contagion.
and then, bathed in a spotlight aimed at our ‘what’s best for ALL?’ hats, we will flourish.
when you watch extreme mountain climbing videos every night you are bound to find morsels of wisdom and inspiration. chris, one of the denali climbers, tossed us this one: “i think it’s important to learn how to suffer gloriously.” he added he “tries to put a positive spin on all his suffering.” chosen suffering, that is, for who would doubt that there would be suffering on a climb up the highest peak on the continent. alternatively, his suffering yields reward, a summit, or, at the least, an attempted summit, traversing in elevations few have scaled.
in the early 1980s i taught music in the poorest school of a small county in florida. z was one of my students – he was in first grade. i know he suffered. his home was not far from the school campus with buildings attached by covered walkways, my music shed tucked into a swampy corner, complete with 3″ banana spiders.
z was a student who needed a lot of extra attention. he craved it. given his grave family situation, i know his heart had to be heavy, but his smile was light-itself and he loved hugs and music class. in that school, tucked into the middle of an impoverished neighborhood, where people spent days sitting on rotting porches waiting for the next day, there was much agonizing. and, clearly, a hell of a lot of surrendered acceptance. it was deeply inspiring to see children being glorious, even in the midst of hurting.
i heard somewhere along the passing years that z was in prison. i shudder to think of all who might say it was inevitable. he was truly stuck in a system that allowed very few to escape. the ‘subs’, as the area was called, was a breeding ground for glorious suffering, proud faces lined with sweat and worry, ponderous minds sorting for ways to survive.
we went back there about five years ago, drove to what-is-now a fenced-in complex and no longer a neighborhood school so i could stare for a few minutes at the old shed in the swamp. we drove around the neighborhood and stopped and got out to talk to a couple people rocking on a porch. we talked about the old school and, with shining faces, they spoke with pride about attending it. glorious faces.
when we pulled away, they went back to the chairs on the porch, under the collapsing portico away from the steamy sun and tucked into trees covered with spanish moss and yards of dry dusty dirt. still suffering.
we drove away, a few moments of silence as i took it all in. in my mind i hugged the little boy z used to be and wished for something better for him. for a summit.
the pressure. gee-willikers! you simply cannot browse through any social media platform without seeing family’s and friends’ beautifully-prepared foods or rustic breads fresh out of the oven, off the grill, sizzling on the griddle, staged and plated for photos.
the pressure. my first question is always one about wondering how, in the middle of this socially-distanced-stay-at-home-pandemic, all-these-people have all-those-ingredients in their homes at-the-ready. we must be pretty basic shoppers; our larders are not filled with the likes of these ingredients. we plan ahead; like you, we are shopping very rarely, limiting our exposure. we miss our peeps at festival; we used to see them almost daily, as we would cruise about town to get fresh fruits and veggies.
the pressure. neither of us wanted to go out to the store the other day. we had chicken out to prepare, but, low on or depleted of fresh vegetables and potatoes, a side dish escaped us. we did, however, have a multitude of pears, because you can’t purchase a normal amount of pears at costco; instead, it is assumed you have an army of pear-eaters and you will all devour them before the dreaded brown spots form on the outside of its smooth green-pear-skin.
the pressure. what to do with pears, other than just, say, slice and eat them. we googled. every pear recipe has goat cheese in it, for good reason. i love goat cheese and wish we could eat goat cheese, but a dairy free diet precludes that. so we had to move on.
knowing that you must be sitting on the edge of your seat as you (maybe) read this, i’ll tell you what happened: we looked in the freezer to see what else was there. bacon! now, i really love bacon. i probably shouldn’t, but i do. thinking we were being brilliant, we googled what you could make with pears and bacon. those of you out there in perfect cooking/baking/inspired feasting social media land will say ‘no duh’ when i tell you we found -drumroll, please- bacon-wrapped pears! simple! you slice a pear into quarters and wrap bacon around the slices. place in 400 degree oven and bake. that’s it! they were freaking amazing!
the pressure. so then the pressure was to NOT post this pear-bacon-pairing-extravaganza on social media. we sent a picture to a couple friends who knew of our facebook-meal-snack-drink ogling and we sent a picture to The Girl and The Boy.
our friends responded enthusiastically but our more recipe-savvy children did not. i suppose they just thought to themselves: yup. pears. bacon. pears + bacon = bacon-wrapped pears. yup. the pressure.
it’s a wave. and, like the tide, we ride it out to sea and back in to shore. we grab handfuls of sand when we hit the beach, to remind ourselves that we are indeed of this earth and this is real. and then we read or watch the news and see the charts and the numbers-who-are-people-not-numbers and we are back out to sea, on precarious standup boards.
it’s almost a mantra “staying more or less sane.” we wake in the morning and, for the first few delicious seconds, we don’t remember. but as we share dreams – the dreams we can remember – we know that even our subconscious are trying to process all this.
we compare notes with others: what is acceptable to do in these restricted times, what is not. we are aghast at the impropriety of the suggestion of large gatherings, no matter where they are. even small gatherings of people not isolating together are questionable. we wonder if we will all be agoraphobic when it’s time to cease restrictions. we worry that this decision will be made irresponsibly, skewed in the direction of the ever-important dollar and not in the interest of people being healthy, getting better, staying alive. we are afraid.
we do whatever we can, whatever works; we are all in different places on the what-works-for-you continuum. outside of working we struggle to fill in time. we take on new projects; we sit quietly. we bake loaves and loaves of bread and test new recipes; we cook just whatever is necessary. we obsessively deep clean the closets, the cabinets, the basement; we pick up around ourselves and disinfect what needs disinfecting. we organize, organize, organize; we have trouble paying attention, finishing going through the piles. we watch movies and binge on sitcoms; we look out the window and get lost in thought. we spend time on our muse; we stay away from that which makes us feel more deeply. we spend vast amounts of time on social media and video-conferencing apps; we desperately miss those we love and yearn for them. we get impatient; we wait.
we are a world of people-people, broken and reeling, and we are all trying to stay more or less sane.
as a person who is at severe risk, our dear 20 is isolating alone. it is unusual for us not to see him a couple or three times a week. our visits are now just audio by telephone or perhaps a facetime here or there. he has much to look forward to and, in preparing for all that, he is taking all precautions, sacrificing now for later. he texted us this message the other day. it was after a call the night before – a call during which we all shared the middle-of-the-night-wakefulness that is scary-as-all-get-out.
it was a text of wisdom. a text that conveyed a message that there is always a measure of blind belief necessary. a text i read more than once.
i know that my beloved big sister and i don’t agree on everything. but this morning she texted me that she had gone to the post office in the wee hours last night to send a small package to us. inside are four masks, to protect us, to protect others, to walk into tomorrow prepared. and i am grateful. we will wear these masks because we believe in tomorrow and because we want to protect all we can in getting there.
we stay home because we believe in tomorrow and because we want to protect all we can in getting there.
we social distance; we cross to the other side of the road on a getting-fresh-air-walk because we believe in tomorrow and because we want to protect all we can in getting there.
we wash our hands. we wash our groceries. we disinfect. we let mail, packages, newspapers sit untouched for days. we wipe everything down. we are conscious. we try to protect.
lettuce will grow if you plant it. if you prepare the soil. if you water it, if you protect it from deluge or too much arid sun.
so, like 20 suggested, we’ll bring out the wood boxes, prepare the soil and plant lettuce. and we’ll protect it. because we believe in tomorrow.
reverse threading 