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.
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.
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.
“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
i have spent the last two weeks gathering selfies from My Girl’s friends and family with birthday signs and wishes. today is her 30th birthday and, with the pandemic restrictions, i can’t be there, out in those high mountains, to be the “return-to” information written on her bar-hopping balloons like i was on her 21st birthday or make her a special ariel or pocahontas or ballet slipper or happy face cake like i did every year she grew up. like many of you, i feel sad and challenged by the inability to celebrate or be with each other.
so i decided to throw her a surprise party. from all walks of life family and friends showed up and sent me selfies with signs they created or videos or photos they brilliantly photoshopped with greetings. i facebook messaged and texted and talked with people i had never met, all generous and kind and wanting to help; every one of them a valued person in The Girl’s life and now in mine. love at its best, i cried over and over receiving these and, after spending the entire day yesterday formatting all of it into a video, watched it again and again, tears streaming down my face. it is an amazing thing to see how loved your child is.
so, today, i woke up refreshed. my heart was full and i couldn’t wait to share this video and a gift video i made as well with kirsten. i wish i was hiking with her this morning or having gnocchi and wine with her tonight. but…
yes, it’s a virtual birthday – all of it.
but it is virtually impossible to not feel some peace in all this love. and i know that tonight, when i lay my head on my pillow, i will rest easy.
i woke in the middle of the night to discover i was spooning the cat. he jumps up on the bed and, pretty much like a sack of concrete, settles in for a long night’s nap, mostly because, well, clearly, the other 23 hours he slept in the day were not ample enough sleep. he snugs in and prevents movement of most sorts: there will be no blanket adjustments, no leg adjustments, little rolling over. my hot flashes necessitate much wrestling to find cooler air as he has permanently planted his sweet large body and is down for the count. and so, you must adjust. granted, his sleep-apnea-style-snoring would be cause for plucking-and-moving (to another room) but we love him and suffer his sleeping-sovereignty; the benefits outweigh the costs.
sally told me that there is a machine that duplicates the frequency of a cat’s purring vibration. i did not know that cat purring is healing and restorative – to broken or fractured bones, tendons, joints, muscles, infections. we would rent out babycat but i am trying to figure out how to make him lay on my broken-and-in-the-ridiculously-slow-process-of-healing wrists. once again, the benefits outweigh the costs.
i hadn’t ever had a cat before b-cat, but now it’s been almost eleven years. he is in some ways more of a dog than a cat, having tolerated a parent who knows dogs and was too busy at the time to read ‘kittens for idiots’ all the way through. so he sits when asked and speaks when asked and does dog-like things. however, he rides the fence and takes advantage of cat-like things at will, like claws. and he is fickle as fickle can be. jen explained that cats will patiently ‘allow’ you to stroke them and pet them and fondle them, all seemingly appreciated, until the doll flips and it suddenly reaches out with both front paws and pulls your hand up to its razor teeth. ahh, but those moments preceding the bite…the benefits outweigh the costs.
in this time of other-worldliness and alternate-reality these creatures of ours – dogdog and babycat – are companions unlike any other. they will not argue politics or policy. they don’t strategize or scheme. they are not semantics-nuts or particularly immersed in propaganda-hunts. they will not roll their eyes at our rants nor will they feed them or egg us on. instead, they comfort when they suspect we need it. they are quiet when there’s been too much noise. they are entertaining when we need funny. they are warm in the cold pandemic plane.
and they curl up with us in solidarity. benefits always outweighing the costs.
we stopped there every time we rode our bikes past on the way to the beach or the harbor. north shore outdoor recreation center & school of skindiving was a shop downtown east northport, a couple blocks from the railroad tracks and across the street from the old auto parts store. our high school biology teacher jim owned it and we’d stop in and visit, looking around at gear and flirting with the just-slightly-older-than-us-guys who worked there.
when i was 17 i started working there after school and on weekends. i’d do office work, the newsletter, and sell scuba, archery and other outdoor-related sporting equipment. the fill tank, a pool of water in which oxygen tanks are immersed in order to fill them for use while diving, was just outside the office and i can’t tell you how many times i ended up sitting in it. until i got smart and carried extra clothes to work with me in the car, i had to drive home to change, sopping wet and glorying in it. i was the only girl there and these boys were brutal teasers.
the basement of the shop was formidable, dungeon-like; at the top of the stairs were a sliding chain lock and the light switch. the gestetner machine (a copy machine that invariably spewed purple stuff all over you during use) was in that basement which meant i spent some good time down there wrangling this obstinate office contraption. from way down in the depths of this concrete cavern, i could hear the chain sliding and the click of the light switch, leaving me in the dark to feel my way back up the steps and stand at the door, pounding to be released from yet another prank. yes, brutal stuff.
crunch was in charge which left jimmy and ollie and i under his thumb. much more a rule-follower, crunch was a task-master and was the one who turned down the blasting stereo of ‘heart’ singing ‘barracuda’ in the workroom. he wagged his fingers at us to sweep or organize regulators, but he was right-in-there, shortchanging me with the growing-boy deli orders they sent me on, leaving notes on my little vw about town-noon-whistle-blowing-timeliness, not setting me free from the front sidewalk window when i, during christmas-eve-day last-minute-shopping-hours, dressed as an elf and, coerced to fix something in our christmas display, was locked in, forcing me to grin and bear it and stand with plastic-santa, waving at people walking by and the crowd that gathered at the auto parts store. but we all did good work together, the dives were organized, people had the right gear and the shop was a place customers loved to come and linger in.
an older italian couple lived above the shop and luigi was not as loud as his wife. without the benefit of air conditioning, the windows and lack of thick insulation in the walls made it easy for us to hear her rapid-fire italian admonishments of her husband, always punctuated by a shrill “luigi!” in our first-hand innocence of marriage-challenges we’d voice, “poor luigi.” i don’t think i ever knew his wife’s name. i wonder about their lives. where did they go? their rows weren’t nearly as loud as ‘barracuda’ or the sounds of boisterous laughter coming from the back storage/workroom of the shop. they were simply a part of the story, a part of the history of that place, a sound-artifact i can still hear.
during one of his college classes, crunch, who ended up one of my very best friends, for a psych class project, decided to glue a a few coins onto the sidewalk out front and hide in the tent displayed in the front window, capturing passersby reactions to money-for-free. they always went for the quarter and it was predictable how earnestly they would try to pry this off this sidewalk, invariably stopping to rub at their fingertips, digging in backpacks or purses for pens or keys to pry with. nevertheless, the superglue held and the coins remained on the sidewalk for a long time to come. i don’t know when they finally disappeared.
for those of us who actually think coins count as money, it’s natural to stop and pick up coins when you see them, the whole find-a-penny-pick-it-up-thing. the little jar at home fills up and is, surprisingly, a good sum of money when it’s up to the tippy-top. so when we passed the two pennies in the UPS parking lot, david bent down to pick them up. one heads-up, one tails-up. i immediately yelled, “no! don’t touch them!” it was the very beginning of the pandemic and touching ANYthing without sanitizer nearby was a formidable act. it was too late; david had picked them up. so he brought them over to the sidewalk by the UPS store and laid them on the window ledge. i wonder if they are still there.
the quarter was on the trail when we were hiking last week. it made me stop; it’s a quarter, after all! i looked at david, pondered, then shrugged, and, against every reflex, left it there and hiked on. the not-picking-up-free-money-guilt set in but not enough to break the don’t-touch-it-pandemic-rule. i wonder if it is still there.
in this time of so-much-change and the use of so-much-technology, i find myself thinking of those times, over four decades ago now, when things seemed simpler. coins counted, ink-laden-copy-machines slowed us down. i think about the relics that were left behind.
and i wonder, forty years from now, when i am 101, what will those relics from this time, this time of pandemic sweeping our world, look like? what will they be?
in the wee hours of the dark night, long island sound is quiet. crunch and i would sit in his boat, inky skies punctuated by a million stars and the lights of the shore, our fishing together comfortable, a thermos of coffee to share, some conversation. treasured memories now, i was adrift with one of my best friends and completely at ease.
we were probably 12 or 13 when the sunfish sailboat we were in became becalmed. sue and i sat out in the middle of the big pennsylvania lake and, with no wind from any direction, started laughing. we were in no danger; we had already capsized a couple times and had survived that. but we were a distance from the shore and i don’t remember there being any paddles in that little sailboat. at some point my uncle must have realized our predicament and came out in his speedboat with a towrope. the sunburn decades-faded, i was adrift in that lake with one of my best friends and completely at ease.
as we sit in the middle of this pandemic, this time of change and this time of no-change, we feel motionless, even stranded. we are learning patience, we are learning to slow down; we are learning. we are changing our expectations and our measurements of success. we are marooned in a vast water, drifting, unsure, way out in the deep. but all around us are others who are generously sitting with us, sharing, nurturing us, also drifting. our sails are buoyed with winds of kindness, our anchors a steadfast dedication to the well-being of all. we are grateful for the goodness of brilliant minds, the commitment and sacrifice of front-liners, the respect and honoring of that which keeps us all safer and healthier.
and one day, as we look back at this time, for surely it will someday be a memory, we will see that we were adrift with our best friends and, though trusting and in the care of each other, it truly was a time of unease, the shoreline was not visible and the fathomless water in which we were stranded was way bigger than us.
