crown (noun): a circular ornamental headdress worn by a monarch as a symbol of authority
and in this country, not one among us – no one – has any right to a crown. that’s what democracy is – we the people for the people – no monarch, no one above the law.
until now.
when suddenly, the supreme court has crowned the presidency – granted immunity to the position of president of the united states by declaring that presidents cannot be held criminally liable for laws broken as part of their official duties – incentivizing the unconscionable.
and suddenly, it’s no longer about democracy – where the rule of law applies to every person…every single person.
the last weeks have been mind-bogglingly distressing.
and where do we go from here?
we – the people – have some big decisions to make.
but the biggest one – the biggest decision – is simple:
america-the-democracy or maga-america.
it really boils down to: THIS AMERICA or THAT.
because the voting in of THAT would mean that THIS – this united states of america – would never look the same and THAT – the voting in of THAT – would be one of those profoundly devastating moments in history you look back upon where you can see that every single thing changed.
and we will – regrettably – be able to point to before and after. it will be unbelievably simple to plot the map that got us there.
for there is a very detailed plan for the demise of our democracy. it’s not secret. it is in plain view and every single person – who cares – has access to it. step by step it will strip away freedoms, respect for human rights and government by the people for the people.
we are in jeopardy.
THIS democracy is in jeopardy.
the crown is coming if we do not pay attention, if we do not raise awareness, if we do not talk about this, if we do not vote against it.
crowns do not belong here. except perched on the heads of little children blowing out birthday candles, young women celebrating quinceanera, drag queens or people at burger king.
“do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.”(my sweet momma, but originally, john wesley)
my sweet momma would have loved his friends. like i mentioned in blogs last week, they – and strangers – surrounded us at PRIDE with hugs and conversation, bottles of water and gatorade. they laughed and danced and applauded and volleyed the beach ball. solicitous, they paid attention to those around them, even us. they made us feel like it mattered to them that we were there. it was fitting that one of our son’s friends wore this hat. doing good – being kind – choosing kindness without hesitation – seemed the theme.
it is surprising – with all the touting of goodness that is preached in various places on our globe, the pontificating about generosity that permeates, the statements of mission written and proclaimed in mighty boardrooms – that it is in the simplest of places that you find goodness. it is in the humblest of people you find generosity. it is in the groups – marginalized and demeaned – you find mission. it is sometimes just absolutely missing in those other places – the places where you would expect all of that. irony is alive and well. or would that be hypocrisy?
they weren’t tryyying to do good. they just were.
it takes just seconds to decide how to respond to someone else’s question, comment, action, behavior. in that moment – just before responding – i would hope – if at all possible – to choose to be kind, to do good.
my sweet momma loved to whoop it up at parades and concerts and sporting games. any chance to be boisterous and she’d take it. i can just imagine her at PRIDE – putting on a rainbow lei and a “do good” hat, waving her arms in the air yelling, “wowee!! wowee!!”
i inherited two pairs of big binoculars from my sweet poppo. at the time i probably never-woulda-thought that i’d be studying birds with them. but…you know what they say!
and here we are – with these powerful binoculars always at the ready, on the table in the sunroom, so that we can grab them and watch the crows in the nest or the finches at the grape jelly or the hummers at the feeder or search for the origin of the beautiful birdcall. we have a tiny pair as well, to take with us on trails, though we would be waaay better served with the good ones. it’s amazing how up-close-and-personal they get us.
and then there’s the merlin app. what an extraordinary tool that is! you record birdcalls and it instantly identifies the bird for you! utterly amazing, we are grateful to cornell lab of ornithology for this. we have used this app innumerable times, always relishing the quick id it gives us. because we don’t always commit it all to memory – ahem! – we rely on the (non-judgmental) app to tell us again and again. so cool!
i think about what my momma and poppo would have done with the merlin app on their iphone. they would have had a field day! they spent hours watching the birds back home, on long island, and in florida – where they looked out on a lake. i wish they could have played with it. they missed its development by just a smidge.
but every time we grab the binoculars or open the app to record a birdsong, clean the birdbath or fill the feeders, i know. they – momma, poppo, columbus – are aware and are nodding at each other, smiles on their faces, maybe even laughing a little or rolling their eyes at our earlier-in-life bird-watch-disregard.
we took shelter in the east-side parking lot of a brick building in a town a half hour from home. the intense storm was coming from the west. there were tornado warnings and the winds were gusting over 70mph. a deluge of rain fell from the sky – sideways.
debris had hit littlebabyscion as we were driving so when i finally got out of the big treed area on the backroad, i saw the brick building and an empty parking lot. i pulled in, drove away from the giant metal signage and the telephone poles out front and on the side and pulled into the lot on the east side, parking in the middle.
that’s when the wind attempted to pick up littlebabyscion. i started shaking then – and didn’t really stop until much later when we were finally home.
i backed up the car and pulled over right next to the brick building to shield us from the wind. it helped but the storm was incessant and the warnings – actual warnings – were ominous.
our dear friend jen checked in on us – knowing we were driving home from chicago’s pridefest – and we also checked in with our dear westneighbors to see how our ‘hood was faring. and we kept pulling up the weather app – though the tornado alerts blaring on our phones were information enough. it was bad out.
it’s odd, you think, that the only reason you are dealing with what you are dealing with is because you happen to be in what-could-be-interpreted-as the wrong place in what-could-be-interpreted-as the wrong time. it’s bracing.
as we drove through the little towns on our way back from chicago, we passed through highland park. each time we drive through that town – with “highland park strong” signs – i think about the hideous active shooter at the 4th of july parade a couple years ago. wrong place, wrong time. but how can that be? you are taking your sweet children to watch a parade celebrating our country! how can that be the wrong place? how can that be the wrong time? it’s beyond bracing.
and what about the people at the grocery store in arkansas? and the people at the concert in las vegas? and the people at the sikh temple or at church? and the people at the mall? and the people at the club? and the people at the protest? and the people at school and school and school and…?
i whispered a prayer to the universe as we sat in littlebabyscion in that east-side parking lot next to the brick building in the middle of that treacherous storm. it was harrowing and i knew we were in danger. i asked for the wisdom to know what to do and to keep us safe. i knew that when the storm passed and if we were fine i would have immense gratitude.
no different than the highland park paradegoers, i thought, though nature and evil are two distinctly different causes of terror. and wrong place, wrong time is on a continuum between lack of intent and intent.
and, with all respect and honor to each of those too-many-people who have experienced evil’s intentional wrong place, wrong time – in those moments of wrong place, wrong time is one strangely-wrapped gift.
it is to take note of all the right places and right times. we are not guaranteed these yet we pass through them without paying attention. we take them for granted. we slide through moments – exquisite and plain – with no heed to our good fortune to have been in them.
as LBS protected us yet once again – that little car is intrepid – i, shaking with clenched hands on the wheel, also told the universe “thank you” for the rest of that day – all the good places and good times. for, though there were more than i could count, i wish to remember each and every one.
when we sit on the deck – which we so often do – we look out onto our backyard. it is serene most of the time, a sanctuary for us – like a cozy private courtyard.
breck is growing by leaps and bounds. once again, we are surprised by this aspen tree’s response to spring. it is the happiest little aspen, filling out and getting taller. it practices quaking every day in the breezes that come off the lake or come in from the south or west. but sometimes, there are winds that are coming out of the plains states with much more power. and this young resilient aspen bends in its path. it worries us as we watch, wondering if we need to somehow stake this sapling, to help support it. we will likely go ask the good people at schwartz nursery – because they know. in the meanwhile, breck bends to the east when the gales come. we sit on the deck and, from that vantage, see it point to the right, nodding its trunk – “ahead, ahead,” it seems to say.
the almost-monochromatic of this photo appeals to me. there is more than meets the eye – these tones, movement in the background. i stopped to take a picture off-trail. i found the small green meadow strikingly beautiful. and there it was again – the response to the wind – bending, listing. “ahead, ahead.”
the messages come whether or not we notice them. they are all around us, tiny universe sticky-notes that flutter and attempt to attract our attention. we can ignore them if we wish. we can be too busy, too distracted, too engrossed, too stubborn, too riddled with our own schtuff.
or we can look at all the ways we are offered wisdoms. we can listen carefully as the sun rises or sets. we can see the greens in the green, the movement in the steady. we can rustle around in the world – aware of the air we breathe, the sun on the top of our heads, the cottonwood as it passes on the draft.
we can nod our heads in response to the wind – whatever the wind is for us – and whisper, “yes. ahead, ahead.”
and the daisy turned skyward – cup-full. and as i passed, it reminded me of abundance and plenty.
for the measure of both abundance and plenty is not rigid. it is variable. my plenty is different than yours. and different expectations apply to abundance. it does not serve me well to gauge mine – my plenty, my abundance – by your standards. no, that comparison is not right. there are similarities. there are dissimilarities.
instead, i’ll look at the daisycup. i’ll set my face to the sun. i’ll count the times the dogga runs around the pond. i’ll gaze at the pussywillows on the white bathroom windowsill. i’ll savor the creak of old floors under my bare feet. i’ll tighten the back screen door handle. i’ll watch the house finches dine on grape jelly. i’ll feel his hand wrapped around mine.
we’ll go look for turtles from the bridge. we’ll clink glasses on the deck. we’ll listen to the wind in the chimes. we’ll paint rocks, write words and create big pots of soup. we’ll walk in sync on the sidewalk. we’ll make leftovers and serve them with happy napkins. we’ll relish time with family, with friends. we’ll make plans; we’ll revise plans. we’ll kiss goodnight.
we waited until the really torrential rain stopped before we drove on to aspen. the forested slopes, sagebrush-dotted mountains and an amazing canyon are just too much to miss in driving rain. the marmot, the bighorn sheep and the mountain goats were all out on our way there – the reward of patience and not rushing. they grinned as we went by, slowing to gaze at them, all pretty close to the shoulder of the road.
we were gifted with a herd of elk lounging in a meadow on our way back from the ditch trail. it’s not to be underestimated – the size of an elk. they grinned at us from the field and told us that the real hulksters – the moose – wouldn’t be making an appearance that day.
and then, back a couple hours on the other side of the canyon, right in the middle of breck, this tiny family of foxes. momma fox watching over her kits, the incredibly adorable curious little babies romped around the old building, scurrying from one plaything to another, scooting under the foundation. none of them seemed fearful and we were grateful that people weren’t chasing after them like the nincompoops in national parks seem to be doing these days. they were grinning at their audience, just happy-go-lucky-living life and momma fox was watching over her brood carefully. we were enchanted.
we saw them a few times while we were there. each time we laid back, quietly watching, enthralled at their courage and delighted at their zeal.
this is always a hard place to leave – these mountains. we try to make the most of the gloriousness while we are there. every breath here counts.
and i wonder if someone is watching from some other planet or galaxy or dimension. they can see us – david and me – romping and scurrying, playing and scooting – just like the baby fox. they might think we were just happy-go-lucky-living life. they might be enchanted.
the warm morning breeze was blowing in the west window. the sun was streaming across the quilt. dogga was laying at our feet and we were sipping coffee. we could hear the slight echo of the windchimes out back and the birds were singing up a symphony.
perfection.
in-between all the other moments – the ones that are not so perfect – somehow there slips one that is.
and the axis of the earth gives a little shake-off and the flecks of yucky-dust that have accumulated from those other moments fly off.
“may you awaken to the mystery of being here.” (a blessing for presence – john o’donohue)
when my big brother died i had trouble wrapping my head around his not-being-here. at the time i was an adult, pregnant with my second child and was personally acquainted with previous loss – i had lost all my grandparents along the way. but there was something i couldn’t put my finger on, something that was so perplexing and mind-warping for me that it sat with me and sat with me and, even now, there are times i ponder it. my big universe query was: wondering how the world could go on if he could no longer feel it.
i still don’t know the answer. i do know that it just does. the universe keeps keeping-on, despite who is present – in any of its dimensions.
in the decades now that have passed since my beloved brother died, i’ve also lost my sweet momma and poppo, other relatives, dear friends. in exquisite moments of reassurance, i have experienced them – from time to time – reaching from the other side. they’re right here, i think, just over there. though i wish i could summon them when i need them, that’s not how it works. and so i just glory in the moments when they happen and try to remember.
in those very moments – and any other, really – i think about what wisdoms they might share with me from that other side, from the Next place, the Next time.
i’m pretty sure they’d agree with john o’odonohue. they might tell me, as i sit in the adirondack chair on the sun-showered patio with my husband and dog, sipping a glass of wine and watching the grass grow, “just being there should be enough.”
they might whisper to me to slow down.
they might remind me of the sacredness of each minute.
they might cajole me from my angsts. in turn, they might admonish me to let go of ludicrous overplanning.
they might point out the new buds on the aspen, the volunteer daylilies in the garden, the black-capped chickadees and house sparrows dancing by the feeder, the shadows playing across our field of vision in this small sanctuary we love.
they might tap me on the shoulder and repeat a few more words of john o’donohue’s, “enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.”
it never fails to amaze me. even the familiar turn in the trail. even the familiar trees. even the angle of the sun which has shone on us so many, many times here. even the sky, this midwest sky, sometimes ornery, sometimes brilliant. still. still, i love this curve of path. still, i love these tall pines. still, i love the tease of sun through the highest branches of needles. still, all of it.
in a world that presents unexpecteds every day – some of which are more difficult than others of which are tiny or enormous gifts – there is this. there is the still-all-of-it.
and so we go here. and we process life here. we are silent and we talk-talk-talk. this woods has kept us company through it all. this path has led us when our feet didn’t know where to go. these trees have wrapped us in scent and held us in strength, towering over us. this sky has graced us with all weather.
and we have always arrived back at the trailhead, safe. we have been freezing and sweltering. we have been covered with snow and sopping wet. we have been exhilarated and bone-achy tired. but we have always been safe.
so it shouldn’t really surprise me. this place is a haven, a sanctuary, shelter for our hearts and minds. i imagine one day – if we might live elsewhere and no longer hike in this place – we will look back, remembering and reminiscing. and we will nod our heads and agree – yes…it was all of it, all of that place. every single time.
reverse threading 