“it never occurs to us to wonder how the earth sees us. is it not possible that a place could have huge affection for those who dwell there? … could it be possible that a landscape might have a deep friendship with you? that it could sense your presence and feel the care you extend towards it? … perhaps each day our lives undertake unknown tasks on behalf of the silent mind and vast soul of nature. during its millions of years of presence perhaps it was also waiting for us, for our eyes and our words.” john o’donohue’s continued writing in this passage from beautyso reinforces personal responsibility for our good earth.
have you stood in a place, grounded into the dirt, unable to step away? have you hiked in, willing the trail to never-end, to not enter back into the sphere of bustling humanity? have you laid in the grass, your eyes on the clouds, pushing sleep just a bit to the side, creating words and shapes and animals in the sky, laden with sun-color, untouched by crayons or paint? have you touched the bark of a tree that whispered to you wise words with deep roots? have you cradled the petals of a flower gently in the palm of your hand, silenced by its fragility, its complexity?
and what has the good earth felt about us? have we offered the same solace to its soul? has it been moved by our tenderness? is it listening to our carefully-chosen words to each other or is it reeling, dumbstruck, at words thrown willy-nilly, demeaning phrases, curses and mean-spiritedness uttered in its place? does the earth trust we will do the right thing, that we will preserve its goodness for centuries to come? can it feel the love we have for it or is it begging us to notice the litter strewn on the ground or yet another person who throws trash out the car window? do places we go miss us when we leave or is there a sigh of relief as we pass through to the next place? does this soul wait for our soul to return?
the feeling you get when you arrive somewhere you have never been and yet you know you have been there before. the exhilaration of feeling the invisible source of serenity, the tethers of strength. the freedom you feel at the edge of the canyon, your heart beating wildly, a connection to all that has gone before you and all that comes after you.
how can we ever know the difference we make to the soul of the earth?
beaky thought greg norman was pretty, well, handsome, shall we say? she was taken with his tall blondness and, though she didn’t follow golf much back then, she kept an eye on him. she would be proud of him these days as he cautions us all not to take covid-19 lightly. stricken with coronavirus, he urges, “do what is right, not just for you, but your family, friends, co-workers and other people around.” he adds, “i wouldn’t want anyone to experience this hideous virus. please take care.” i imagine she’d write him a letter.
the headlines say it all – a surge upon a surge. choices made during this holiday season will deliver blowback to people’s health and well-being, their very lives, decimating the healthcare system, and there is no one to blame for that but ourselves. every single choice impacts us all in the time of this shared pandemic. disney world and large family gatherings and traveling trips to other parts of the country all play a role; there is no escaping accountability.
i recently read of a discussion about authority and accountability. the open question was this: who has authority and who has accountability? wow. really? this seems, without any undue thought, a no-duh. those who have authority to make decisions are the same as those who are accountable for them. escaping from responsibility-taking is off the table. if you make a decision then you must support that by taking responsibility for it. in any arena. if you travel on an airplane or a train or a car to a different part of our country and you bring covid as luggage, you must take responsibility. if you gather and covid is a silent guest at the long dining table laden with treats, you must take responsibility. if you don’t wear a mask and you are with others who become infected, particularly those at high risk, you must take responsibility. and i wonder – is it worth it? we each have the authority, the liberty, the freedom to make decisions. but that also makes us responsible. it makes us accountable. in any arena.
dogdog, as we rapidly approach the end of 2020, just asks this one thing. with this two-ply cotton fabric mask on his head, he looks up at us and queries, “this? this is what all the hubbub is about? this tiny cloth mask? it can literally save lives?? pshaw!!”
as we watch him looking at us out of the corner of his eye, i imagine him adding, “just WEAR the freaking thing!”
i’m guessing greg norman and my sweet momma agree.
the little river band sings it, “time for a cool change….i know that it’s time for a cool change.”
that’s for sure. on so many fronts.
the horizon looks promising…the sun setting on the toxic, the sun rising – now, tomorrow, soon – on a deep cleansing breath of new.
we could feel it in the air on saturday. we wondered if it was our imagination. there was something. something kinder. something more generous. something hopeful.
we felt it at the gas station, pulling in just as a pickup pulled in from the other direction. the pickup stopped, backed up and pulled around to the other side, the driver waving as i called my thanks out the open window. we felt it at the corner, turning to head to the park, the trucker waving us on instead of taking his turn. we felt it on the trail, people wearing masks, allowing distance, eyes smiling above their masks, hands waving. something was different.
time for a cool change. time for healing. time for unity. time for responsibility. time for leadership.
yet, the next day, in the wake of this deep breath, in the wake of a called election, in the wake of inspiring victory speeches, i could sense the waves of anger rushing to the shore. the grace of the day before was a little less pronounced, the relief a little less relieved. the pulse of the nation had quickened and there was a bit of uneasy quaking.
i sat this morning for a bit, reading the narratives of the angry. i read the fights that people were picking with others. i read both intelligent debate and angry spew, baseless rhetoric. i read attacks on people of the populace, people fuming at an election loss, verbally going after other voters, some barely acquaintances, ugly, threatening words of vitriol splashed across social media and the news. my brilliant son put it well when he wrote of the harmful mean-spiritedness of conservatives toward anyone who voted blue. he wrote of the marked difference between that and the reactions of the left, who have specifically directed their dismay to those committing the heinous and not to everyday people. he pointed to the difference in the celebratory reactions of the left vs the right. his words ring true. and, devastatingly, this violence, whether verbal, emotional or physical, is incited by this president, his administration and the party that sits there, silent, complicit. it is indeed time for a cool change.
it is unfortunate, but not really mind-blowing, that this current administration continues to dial up the temperature on this. it’s consistent. compassion and kindness, honesty and the democratic principles of this country are not part of the equation for a president who is still coddling his own agenda rather than seeking peace and health for this nation.
this country is exhausted and, while 71 million people voted for this president, 75 million voted for a new administration and new light. because it is *most definitely* *way past* time for a cool change. it’s time to move on.
yes, little river band, “you KNOW it’s time for a cool change.”
so we stand outside, our faces to the wind and take a deep breath.
parental controls on computers and tv and phones evolved as my children grew up. were i to have small children right now i would block their access – any and all – to the standing president of the united states. and isn’t that an incredible thing to say?
“character counts” week – your proclamation, mr. president, a virtuous statement of goodness, words you have never spoken aloud to the populace, obviously penned by a talented staff writer.
yes, mr. “president”, character does count. and i submit that subjecting vulnerable children, nonetheless any living and breathing human, to the grotesque character of your twisted psyche is dangerous and will afflict damage in more ways than can be counted. even for a person who adores words, i am having a difficult time wrapping words around the hideous ways you have treated people, the vulgar things you have said, the threatening things you have done, the divisive rhetoric and policy – thwarting any progress toward truth and equality of this nation, the vicious menace you are on this country.
“character counts” week – perfect timing, oh self-absorbed leader of the free world. perhaps your proclamation will bring your miscreance to the forefront as people ponder a week celebrating “character”.
for i cannot think of a stronger antonym than “character” as the opposite of who you are. in your own words, “character is a learned attribute acquired through consistent, purposeful action, not an inherent trait.” thanks to you, it is absolutely clear that it is not an inherent trait.
we, the american people, continue to aspire to have actual character – character as “you” so eloquently described.
my niece and her husband have a newborn baby. this tiny little boy entered the world and their lives and has turned everything upside down in every good way. like all of us, i suspect, who have had experience with newborns, they are discovering that, despite all the mechanical and high-tech devices that have been invented to aid in caring for a newborn at the very-very beginning, the most prized is simply holding that baby. and they have gone all in, loving him, snuggling him and, i’m guessing, kissing the top of his sweet-baby-smelling head over and over and over while dreaming of all the moments in life as a family to come. all in.
my mother-in-law is in the middle of taking care of my father-in-law as he slips quietly deeper into dementia. she patiently explains to him where he is, who she is. she reassures him when he is worried or frightened. she shares pictures and stories, in soft tones explaining to him, at 87, that his parents are no longer present on this earth. she spoons out masses of his favorite ice cream in bowls each night. she makes him laugh. she makes sure he has everything he needs; she watches after his safety. she has sacrificed her own activities to defer to those that speak to him, those that he might be able to still partake in. his repeated stories elicit interest and open-ended questions from her, despite the redundancy. she makes sure that they play bingo each day to keep him thinking and engaged. she has deep compassion and deep commitment to caring for this very kind, sweet man, her husband, even in the midst of the hardest of days. all in.
we approach a time in our country that will necessitate all its citizens to go all in. so much is on the line. the freedom and equality of race, gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation, economic status, religion – the ability for people to be who they are and to be supported by a country that embraces them. we simply cannot ignore the direction in which the current leadership is sinking. we simply cannot strip rights from the populace, cannot empower this soulless extremism, cannot allow all the complicit, standing by clutching their elite wallets and positions of power without conscience, to be the rule-makers, to further divide this nation. we simply cannot stand by silently while conspiracy theories radicalize this country, while leadership without compassion or heart or honesty tends to its own narcissistic agenda. we simply cannot sit back while being catapulted backwards, rewinding decade upon decade, defining this country with ideologies of nationalism, of anti-feminism, anti-LGBTQ, no recognition of drastic racial bias devouring equalities, instead of stories of a country holding its citizens with deep love, reassurance, compassion and commitment.
we simply must concern ourselves – absolutely right now – with racial disparity, with LGBTQ rights, with healthcare, with this ongoing, raging global pandemic, with education and work and housing equality for all, with climate change threatening this earth, with the violence committed by people with guns of mass destruction, with recognizing our collaborative place in the world, with truth, with justice, with the welfare of every single citizen.
we all must go all in. we all must vote. every one of the 328 million of us who is of voting age. every last one of us. all in.
“and into the woods i go to lose my mind and find my soul.” john muir
the green makes me breathe differently. the scent of the underbrush, of towering pine trees, of the breeze brushing by me, whispering sweet nothings. the sounds of rustling leaves, of birdcalls, of the crunch of my feet. the green.
entering a different space entirely, i succumb to the green. my mind slows down a bit, my pulse in tandem. my steps are less frantic; frenzy is left at the side of the gravel, at the side of the dirt worn down by the tread of other soul-quenching-seekers. this is the lure of the trail.
“in the woods we return to reason and faith.” ralph waldo emerson
the green makes me think differently. we are silent. we talk. we review. we ponder. mostly, we take one step after another. in beauty. we remember this place, this earth, this universe. we remember it is simply on loan to us. just for the briefest of times. our tiny flash of star is ephemeral. and, simultaneously, it is on loan to billions of other people, all just as deserving of the green as we are.
“each and every one of us can make changes in the way we live our lives and become part of the solution to climate change.” al gore
we simply cannot deny climate change any longer. the apocalyptic weather events across our nation point their – rightfully – accusing fingers at this nation, a nation financing the denial of this climate crisis. this place, victim to colossal weather events, massive wildfires, eroding shorelines, calving glaciers and shrinking arctic, human-contaminated air and water, disregard for the preservation of natural resources, big-money-agenda-ized lands. we have a responsibility to this good earth, which has nurtured and fed and watered us throughout our lives. we need preserve it. there will be those who follow. they will need the green.
“i don’t want your hope. i don’t want you to be hopeful. i want you to panic and act as if the house was on fire.” greta thunberg
shall we all participate in the evanescence of the green? or shall we all fight for the sustenance of this mother earth?
i was trying to catch up my calendar – the dollar version – where i write things we’ve done, thoughts, ideas, hikes. on new year’s day i usually take out the calendar and read the whole thing, a review of the year, so to speak. post-broken-wrists, not being able to write with my right hand, i kept my calendar on the computer. somewhere along the way i stopped jotting things down.
now, with pencil in hand, i am trying to catch up. not only is that impossible, but it’s shocking to see the story-arc of the year. time flies. it occurred to me this morning that on new year’s day 2021 i will likely look back and see a year with a vast there-wasn’t-much-we-could-do theme. it’s consistent. the pandemic has altered the freedom of moving-at-will, the freedom of easily-gathering-together, the freedom of travel, of ranging around, and any real normal-summer adventures. a time that, painfully, just isn’t the same as all other summers. it doesn’t feel the same; it doesn’t look the same. it doesn’t live the same way. the impotent months, a time of self-sacrifice-for-the-whole, would seem like a common story for all.
only it’s not.
“i like your mask,” commented the cashier at the home improvement store. things you never thought you would hear. our masks are all handsewn; a variety of fabrics, after washing they hang on a hook on the refrigerator, ready. her mask was solid black and so i, in we-wear-black-all-the-time predictability, actually liked hers. “what am i doing?” i wondered. we are comparing masks. MASKS. surely this will go down as a 2020 commonality for people.
only it won’t.
with windows open allowing in the moist rain-cooled air of the night, over coffee this morning we talked about common narratives. it would seem that, of all years, of all times past and, hopefully, times to come, this year would have the most common narrative for all people. parallel experiences, somewhat indistinguishable in the limitations of a global pandemic, a time of everyone-coming-together, a time of doing-the-right-thing, a time of protecting-each-other, a time of relinquishing selfishness and adopting consideration, even altruism, a time of caring. to everything there is a season. a season of commonality.
only that’s not the case.
instead, any perusal through social media will show you that summer is summer and americans are out and about. according to AAA, nearly 700 million people will take roadtrips this summer. they are vacationing. photographs of smiling faces in parks, at beaches, on docks, in boats, by pools, at picnic tables, at parties, in backyards, in restaurants, around campfires – maskless. the weighing of calculated risk, the weighing of safety. hopefully, this will not yield drastic results as we each live our lives – the lack of forfeit a contributing factor to more sickness, more proliferation of virus, more death.
we can only hope.
so is it different? is this summer any different for you than last? or is it pretty much the same? what mask are you wearing when you are out and about? is it all black? (if so, would you recommend it? what company did you order it from?) is it fabric? is it an n95?
or is it invisible? instead, a mask of indifference, a mask of push-back, a mask of conspiracy theory, a mask of you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do, a mask of entitlement, a mask of deservedness, a mask of personal-freedom-infringement, a mask of determined independence in a world where actually-everyone-depends-on-the-symbiotic-sharing-and-movement-of-resources, where actually-everyone-desperately-relies-on-healthcare-workers-who-are-watching-people-scorn-that-which-might-help, where actually-everyone-depends-on-each-other-to-get-this-pandemic-under-control-so-that-some-stability-of-life-and-work-and-school-and-economic-security-and-good-health-might-resume. is it a mask of apathy?
masks. we all wear them. not just this summer. people-masks are situational, circumstantial. masks often depend on who we are with; the narratives we state often depend on who is near. it’s human. consistent inconsistency.
it makes me wonder. in this very human-ness, in this time and any other, if, standing at the checkout at the store, all masks of truth were visible, all narratives open for critique, would the cashier say, “i like your mask”?
i was trying to catch up my calendar – the dollar version – where i write things we’ve done, thoughts, ideas, hikes. on new year’s day i usually take out the calendar and read the whole thing, a review of the year, so to speak. post-broken-wrists, not being able to write with my right hand, i kept my calendar on the computer. somewhere along the way i stopped jotting things down.
now, with pencil in hand, i am trying to catch up. not only is that impossible, but it’s shocking to see the story-arc of the year. time flies. it occurred to me this morning that on new year’s day 2021 i will likely look back and see a year with a vast there-wasn’t-much-we-could-do theme. it’s consistent. the pandemic has altered the freedom of moving-at-will, the freedom of easily-gathering-together, the freedom of travel, of ranging around, and any real normal-summer adventures. a time that, painfully, just isn’t the same as all other summers. it doesn’t feel the same; it doesn’t look the same. it doesn’t live the same way. the impotent months, a time of self-sacrifice-for-the-whole, would seem like a common story for all.
only it’s not.
“i like your mask,” commented the cashier at the home improvement store. things you never thought you would hear. our masks are all handsewn; a variety of fabrics, after washing they hang on a hook on the refrigerator, ready. her mask was solid black and so i, in we-wear-black-all-the-time predictability, actually liked hers. “what am i doing?” i wondered. we are comparing masks. MASKS. surely this will go down as a 2020 commonality for people.
only it won’t.
with windows open allowing in the moist rain-cooled air of the night, over coffee this morning we talked about common narratives. it would seem that, of all years, of all times past and, hopefully, times to come, this year would have the most common narrative for all people. parallel experiences, somewhat indistinguishable in the limitations of a global pandemic, a time of everyone-coming-together, a time of doing-the-right-thing, a time of protecting-each-other, a time of relinquishing selfishness and adopting consideration, even altruism, a time of caring. to everything there is a season. a season of commonality.
only that’s not the case.
instead, any perusal through social media will show you that summer is summer and americans are out and about. according to AAA, nearly 700 million people will take roadtrips this summer. they are vacationing. photographs of smiling faces in parks, at beaches, on docks, in boats, by pools, at picnic tables, at parties, in backyards, in restaurants, around campfires – maskless. the weighing of calculated risk, the weighing of safety. hopefully, this will not yield drastic results as we each live our lives – the lack of forfeit a contributing factor to more sickness, more proliferation of virus, more death.
we can only hope.
so is it different? is this summer any different for you than last? or is it pretty much the same? what mask are you wearing when you are out and about? is it all black? (if so, would you recommend it? what company did you order it from?) is it fabric? is it an n95?
or is it invisible? instead, a mask of indifference, a mask of push-back, a mask of conspiracy theory, a mask of you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do, a mask of entitlement, a mask of deservedness, a mask of personal-freedom-infringement, a mask of determined independence in a world where actually-everyone-depends-on-the-symbiotic-sharing-and-movement-of-resources, where actually-everyone-desperately-relies-on-healthcare-workers-who-are-watching-people-scorn-that-which-might-help, where actually-everyone-depends-on-each-other-to-get-this-pandemic-under-control-so-that-some-stability-of-life-and-work-and-school-and-economic-security-and-good-health-might-resume. is it a mask of apathy?
masks. we all wear them. not just this summer. people-masks are situational, circumstantial. masks often depend on who we are with; the narratives we state often depend on who is near. it’s human. consistent inconsistency.
it makes me wonder. in this very human-ness, in this time and any other, if, standing at the checkout at the store, all masks of truth were visible, all narratives open for critique, would the cashier say, “i like your mask”?
…this global pandemic is just that – global- and is not discerning of your privilege (or lack thereof). it does not care. it can take anyone. and so we weep.
if there is a painting that depicts the face-holding grief and prayerful yearning for hope, it is this painting WEEPING MAN.
i wonder if he weeps for those who have fallen ill, those who have died. i wonder if he weeps for those who refuse to acknowledge the seriousness of this pandemic. i wonder if he weeps for those on the front lines, helping. i wonder if he weeps for those who have hidden in extravagant bunkers underground in far away countries. i wonder if he weeps for our isolation. i wonder if he weeps watching people intolerant of the isolation that will protect others, people who are selfishly and arrogantly protesting stay-at-home orders. i wonder if he weeps for the unrelenting non-discrimination of this contagion or if he weeps for the divisiveness of responsibility-taking, the it-doesn’t-affect-me attitude. i wonder if he weeps for the continuance of humanity. or if he weeps for the loss of humankind. or, if he weeps for the lack of humaneness. i wonder if he weeps because, in the middle of this trying and profound now, Next will come. i wonder if this painting is tomorrow’s tomorrow and he weeps with relief and hope.
today:
i am outraged.
where have we come since april 23 of that writing? we have been cautioned. we have been advised. we have had the benefit of science, the benefit of research, the benefit of funding, the heart-wrenching benefit of experience.
we have lost 150,000 people.
and we stand to lose many more.
the shifting quicksand of the pandemic threatens to overwhelm our nation, this country fraught with division and a dedication to entitlement. people argue for their “right” to do-what-they-want because, well, they want to. the “we-didn’t-get-to-do-this-so-we-get-to-do-that” mode of thinking. a warped sense of deservedness, i’ve heard it time and again. to hell with masks, with physical distancing. to hell with recommendations about gatherings. to hell with self-sacrifice. to hell with responsibility. to hell with leadership, with facts, with example-setting. to hell with it all. people-living-in-a-community-called-a-country are left-and-right touting their deserved-rights to live as they wish, to gather as they wish, to travel as they wish, to do what they wish. and the overwhelmingly whiny justification-among-justifications is because they didn’t get to do what they originally wished or planned or wanted. wow.
and the pandemic continues.
and the people-living-in-a-community-called-a-country live as individuals more dedicated to their own desires than to the actual good of the country. to hell with all those people dying. to hell with all those sick. to hell with the sanctity of each and every living human being. to hell with all those lasting repercussions of this disease. to hell with a spirit of helping. to hell with a spirit of community. whose idea was that anyway?
and so we continue to destroy ourselves – in so many arenas. and the weeping man watches from the sidelines as the divided people lash it out in the stadium, gladiators of precisely what?
the little red schoolhouse on cuba hill road was the place i went to kindergarten. built in 1903 it was a place of important early learnings – the stuff you learn at five and six – things this back-in-the-day first teacher, who you fall desperately in love with, would impart to you through kind, objective, steady lessons. it wasn’t that my sweet momma or poppo weren’t teaching me kindergarten-level-rules, but learning them in a place where i was surrounded by other children and could practice them immediately in-real-life i would guess had more impact. lasting lessons are often those that come through experience, through feeling and doing rather than simply hearing.
share your toys. take your turn. say please and thank you. wash your hands. do your own work. hold the door for others. keep your hands to yourself. be kind. help others. listen when others speak. be respectful of your elders. follow the rules.
i don’t specifically remember days in kindergarten but i know that i have always been a rule-follower in school and would not imperil another’s playground time by not paying attention, by disobeying, by being impervious to an adult’s directions for work that needed to be done or instructions for safe practices. i would not have ignored the be-absolutely-quiet rule during fire or duck-and-cover drills. i would not have continued talking or wreaking havoc were my teacher – or any other teacher, for that matter – to have asked for silence.
the rules seemed simple at five. we were each individually and as a group asked to follow them. those easy rules were designed to preclude chaos and our freedom to learn and have fun was never sacrificed in the process of following them. the consequences of disregarding them seemed dire – staying in during playtime. one child’s misbehavior often led to the whole class missing playground. to be THAT child was not a sought-after title. instead, we would work together – in our five-year-old beehive fashion – to clean up the classroom and desks and chairs so that we were all ready – together – to go play.
it’s the way i feel about masks. it hasn’t been recommended to us by medical and science professionals to wear masks as a lark. this recommendation comes with passionate imploring. it is a simple rule. if this, then that. conditional. if we wear masks, we will dramatically lower the transmission of this global pandemic raging through our country. it is a proven fact and other countries have shown their adherence to mask-wearing has flattened the curve of the disease. pretty simple, yes. a mask.
instead, there are those people who flagrantly ignore this simple if-this-then-that. we see them everywhere. it’s breathtaking. and their display of arrogant individualism at a time of an intense need to care-for-community means one thing: we will not get to go out to play.
reverse threading 