The Trouble with Living in the Moment

If you have heard, over and over, how important it is to "Live in the Moment" and have employed various techniques and practices to bring you toward that goal, perhaps you've already discovered the basic flaw in that approach to life. I'm only discovering it now.

Living in the now moment can truly suck!

I know all the reasons I don't want to dwell on the past or worry about the future, and they all make sense. I've even embraced the quasi-religious notion that all of creation dwells in the present moment, there is nothing else. The trouble is, it just opens a whole new dimension of anxiety for me to try to Be Here Now.

Like this? Like this moment right now? Or how about this one? Did I miss it? It's gone and I didn't fully experience it. Oh damn. Now I'll never get it back. Ok this one. How's that?

For those of us brought up to look for the right answer, to try to perfect performance, living in the NOW is pretty intolerable. How will I know if I did it right? Can I open my eyes and peek?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not whining. My now moments are, by and large, pretty awesome these days. I wake up when I'm done sleeping. I'm in a great relationship with someone who doesn't want to change me, I'm surrounded by all the comforts of life --- heat, running water, electricity, internet ---- so there's nothing to whine or complain about. It's just this "living in the moment" thing that's got my panties in a wad. That, and the prospect that time is running out.

I get to worrying about whether I'm missing my moments, which pushes me out into the future, which takes me out of the moment, which means I miss some more --- you get the idea. It's HARD to just be. (Okay, that sounded like a whine.)

My mom, now, she's in the moment. All she's got left is the very right now. That's totally what I DO NOT want! I can't know what's going on in her Alzheimer Diseased mind, but it doesn't look like there are very many connections left. She perseverates on whatever is under her fingers, usually her pants leg, which she folds and rolls constantly. She smiles sometimes, and seems to recognize for a brief moment that somebody familiar is in front of her. But much of the time, her eyes are turned inward, as though the physical world around her doesn't exist. Is that "living in the moment?" Actually, I think it's dying in the moment, or at best, existing in the moment.

I overthink everything, because I can. I have always been afraid I would miss my life, and now that my memory sometimes frays around the edges, I'm even more afraid that I'll miss it. I think way too much about people who have gone before, what kinds of experiences they had, what it would have been like to be them. We have so many images available now, that it's easier than ever to recreate in imagination the world as it appeared in times past. Not so easy is replicating the sounds, smells, textures, voices that are gone. 

It must be endemic in the brain of a novelist, or archivist, or historian, or depressive, to even want to bring to life that which is gone, in order to validate the present moment. Or maybe . . . maybe . . . it's past lives. Wooooooooooooo. 

See what happens when I've got too much time on my hands and not enough motivation to clean house?

Just show up and breathe

To say the past couple months have been difficult is like saying congressfolk aren't playing well with others ---- it's a monumental understatement. It is imperative though, that I keep moving forward, even if it is only by inches. 

I've never actually experienced quicksand, but I remember being fascinated by the thought of it when I was a child. One of my favorite books was "Girl of the Limberlost" and another was "Gone Away Lake" --- both featured quicksand as a terrible menace to unsuspecting children who could be lost forever without a trace. It gave rise to more than one nighmare during those elementary school years.

Now, as I do battle yet again with depression, that's one of the images that arises --- being sucked into darkness and never able to escape. Movies and books have taught my impressionable mind that when someone falls into the quicksand or through the ice, the rescuer must lie flat and hold out a strong stick for the kid to grab onto. Somehow, that's supposed to do the trick, though when I think about it, it doesn't seem likely to work very well.

Right now, I've got people holding out sticks and tossing me lines from several directions. I'm so glad they're there, even when I don't believe it will be effective. From my floundering perspective, the sticks look pretty flimsy and it seems more likely that they'll break off or I'll pull others into the muck with me. Terra firma can be elusive from where I am.

The advantage is that I've been through it before and can even get a leg up on it now that I recognize some of the warnings. Depression seems so trite, so tiresome --- so depressing. Everybody and their grandmother has depression these days. You're not going to see any signs up in the grocery store to raise money for poor Aunt Myrtle who suffers from depression and can't work, even though she probably could use the help. Far better to have something rare and exotic that excites sympathy and dread in other people, than to admit to a condition that almost everybody thinks is actually just a cop-out.

And that, perhaps, is what I'm learning this time around. WHAT-HO! It's actually an illness? A disease? It's not me trying to get away with something? It's not a character flaw or just wimping out on life? What a novel idea.

My knee-jerk response to situations I'm unfamiliar with, has always been to "look it up" --- it's not for nothing that my father sold World Book encyclopedias, and we kids used to have "look it up" challenges. But I've avoided learning about depression; that would make it too real. Now, finally, I've undertaken the look it up challenge, and have checked a tome from the library that will either teach me about depression, or crush my facial features when I fall asleep while reading.

There are things I can do to ameliorate this illness. Things I must do. One of them, it seems, is to say it out loud. When I skirt around it and pretend it's not there, it only gets worse and more shameful. There's an inexorable circularity to that, which can be deadly. 

So this is me, letting the sunshine in. From time to time, I snatch up all the rugs in the house and take them outside and shake the dirt out and then let them hang in the air and sunshine, believing that somehow that will make them fresher. I hope it works the same way for depression. 

Scrooge and Marley, I Presume

Today is December 1. It happens every year.

There was a time when I looked upon the winter holidays with excitement and anticipation. That was back when presents really mattered because I didn't have an independent income so I couldn't buy the things I wanted. You know, the early years.

Even the decade or so after my unseemly early marriage, at the tender age of eighteen, there were college and baby and low wage jobs, but Christmas was still pretty magical. It was when I could justify spending a little more than we could afford and figure out a way to make it up later. It was often a time when my parents swooped in from Europe, bearing good cheer, good beer, and interesting gifts.

It wasn't until I was well into the second marriage, and sober, that I started taking responsibility for creating magic myself. I was a late bloomer; for decades I thought Santa Claus was real, and I was still awaiting his arrival. There comes a time, though, when you have to start making your own Christmas or it'll sneak up on about the 24th of December and bite you on the ass. Having little kids around helps.

During my forties, I was so busy creating Christmas Memories for the world at large, that I sometimes had trouble finding the time to be with my own family. When you are in the living history biz, in whatever capacity, the holidays are a busy time of year. People who wouldn't dream of cooking over a fireplace themselves, or hanging out in an unheated log house, will pay good money to watch someone else do it. Nostalgia reigns.

The teaching decade, in my fifties, was interesting when it came to Christmas. I finally had a little something extra leftover at the end of every month --- kids grown, steady work, actual paychecks, an employed spouse, ---- and that took a lot of the fun out of getting presents, but increased the fun of giving them. I also met my match when it came to creating magic. You can hardly imagine what it's like in December, to live with someone who used to own a Christmas store. Really. Have you ever wondered where that merchandise goes when it's not in season?

By the time I retired, at sixty, I was ready to dial it back to cookies baked by someone else, decorations put in place by someone else (thank you, Jill), and dispense with the presents, already. This house is full up, and don't tip off the folks at Hoarders. No, it's not that bad, but it is hard to think of things besides food and underwear that we actually need to shop for.

So here I am in the kitchen, December 1, the first Sunday in Advent, ready for company. As per 55-year family tradition, those of us who are still in an upright position will gather around the Advent Wreath with the well worn volume of "A Christmas Carol" and whoever draws the short straw will read the first stave aloud. We used to do it in the evenings, but now night driving is much more difficult for some of us. We used to gorge on the traditional foods ---- pearl tapioca pudding made from scratch, party mix made from scratch, popcorn, sodas or cider, and whatever cookies anybody had been baking for the holidays. Now, everyone needs to lose the pounds, some don't eat gluten, some avoid dairy, nobody drinks sodas and the coffee is decaf. Temperance applies (except to the pudding!).

Change happens. We four were little kids when our parents devised this amalgam of traditions from each of their families, and applied it to the family they had created. We, in turn, have spread it to our own spouses, children and some to grandchildren as well. Older generations have passed on, crucial people are passionately missed, but this afternoon the candles will be lit, the popcorn popped, the pudding dished up and along about 3:30, as the sun begins to sink lower into the afternoon sky, a shiver will run down my spine as the familiar words are read:

"Marley was dead: to begin with."

Walking in Mama's Shoes -- Redux

While I was out of town, Jill undertook cleaning our bedroom closet. I only wish I had before and after pictures, because the results are spectacular.

One of the improvements concerns the organization of shoes. Despite the recent thinning of my collection due to a young dog who loves to chew footwear, I am still the fortunate owner of a gracious plenty of shoes, boots, slippers, flip-flops, heels, moccasins, and even an ancient pair of tap-dancing shoes and some bedraggled black ballet slippers. Among this extravaganza are many pairs that formerly belonged to my mother.

If you read a previous post Walking in Mama's Shoes, you'll remember that she was convinced that her shoe size was 2 sizes smaller than it actually was. This was not entirely due to dementia --- small feet are highly prized in our family. My mother's father owned a shoe store. Back in the 50s he even had one of those x-ray thingies, I think. I definitely remember the slide rule foot measurer and the slanted footstools. We bought our fall school shoes at Grandpa's store. I especially remember the red leather first grade shoes, the ones with the buckle across the top.

I'm not entirely immune to the small-foot fetish, and I have to admit that I've often thought that my pretty little feet are one of my best features. Yes, they're smaller than those of the other women in the family ---- except my teensy daughter. Even my sister teases me that my feet look like they've never been used. They haven't. I screw them off and put them in a satin lined, climate-controlled box every night when I go to bed.

In the interest of organizing our shoes, Jill purchased a fancy-dancy round, hanging shoe holder, with spaces for everything ---- quite amazing. Now that Mama's shoes were no longer tumbled on the dark floor among the suitcases, old gift boxes, and discarded t-shirts waiting to go to the thrift shop, I could see and wear them. Yesterday, I donned a pair of slip-ons, black loafers like I have never bought in my life, but since they were free.... The were too small, especially with warm socks on a cold day. But I was only going out for an hour. They would be ok.

By the time I got home, the toes that were not altogether numb from being squooshed, ached. I gratefully slipped the loafers from my feet and started to return them to the shoe bag, when I stopped myself. What in the world? Was I going to keep these shoes, and the other pair like them only a different color, just because they were free? Because they were Mom's? Because they have a lot of wear left in them?

That's what I've always done. That's why my closet it stuffed to the gills with things I rarely or never wear. They used to fit, but they don't anymore. They used to be my favorites, but they're old and outdated. They used to belong to someone I love. They were given to me free. They're vintage. They're soooooo cute (or I used to be cute in them, 30 years ago!). Not one of those is a good reason to keep clothes I don't use, but perhaps the worst is the "someday it may fit me" reason.

What if I simply got rid of everything that doesn't fit me right now? Even if it almost fits. Even if it's just a little too tight around the waist or across the toes. Even if the skirt hangs just a little funny, or the pants aren't exactly the length I like or I got it on a great sale, but never liked the color. What if I only had clothes and shoes I actually wanted to put on and wear, instead of waiting till that magical time when I lose weight, or have more money to shop, or go back to work, or have to go to a funeral. Well, ok. I'll keep the funeral outfit. Sooner or later I'll need it.

I have lived too much of my life making do and waiting for something to change. I don't have to wear Mama's shoes just because they're in my closet. They're too small to be comfortable. They were too small for her, but she wore them anyway. I don't have to do that ---- I don't have dementia.

What did you say your name was?

The other day I was in a gathering of women, some of whom I know well and many who are relative strangers. As part of the opening, we went around the room saying our names. There were a few repeats, as you would expect in a group of 35 or 40, but since the ages ranged from about 20 to 70, there was also quite a variety.

When my mind began to wander during the meeting, I spent some time examining individual people and trying to imagine them as babies or youngsters. It's one of the ways I entertain myself. It made me think about the names. They didn't pick their own, most likely. That's not how it's done. When they were born, their parents decided on a name and pasted it onto the new little person without a clue whether it would fit or not. And some names don't fit at all.

As I looked around and paired names and faces, I could imagine the parents full of hopes for their new little babies. There were Melissas and Lisas and Katherines and Susans, and even two Natashas. The older names sound so solid, and a little intimidating, like Mary Margaret or Nora or Dolores. Some have been shortened or altered by their owners --- Toni for Antoinette, Pat for Patricia, Jill for Julia. I was struck by the simplicity of Jane. You don't run into a lot of Janes anymore. Some of the more foreign or ethnic sounding names I can't even remember, but they definitely convey a cultural message.

I wonder what effect a name has on the developing child. Some names can be a definite hindrance, others can make the difference between fitting in or not. Some have associations that are thrust upon them by popular culture or famous figures. Do we live up to (or down to) our names? Do we take on characteristics of family members we're named after?

When I was a storyteller, I usually made sure that the villain had an unusual name that would not likely be shared by any of the children in the audience, while the hero usually had a fairly common name like Tom or Mary. I could always tell when I hit on a name in the group; all the other kids would turn to that child and giggle or point. By the end of the story, the heroic exploits of the character would be attributed to that child, who would often be beaming with pride. I always wondered how long that carried over.

One of the things I enjoy about being a novelist is that I get to come up with names. After all, you can only have so many babies in a lifetime. You wind up with a drawer full of unused names, perfectly good ones that would look so cute on a little kid.

That's one of the troubles though, isn't it? Halfway through the pregnancy the naming conversation begins. Everybody has an opinion. There are family names, traditions, customs and religion that can influence a child's name. And, of course, the trend factor. Everybody named Jennifer who was born in the 70s and 80s please stand up.

I collect names from live people, from books and news articles, baby name lists, cemeteries, movie credits, and my own genealogy. I just found a good one when I was looking through my mother's high school photo album. One of her friends was named Clella.

I guess I'm going to have to keep writing fiction until I run out of names. That's ok. At least it keeps me off the streets and well caffeinated.

Book Friends

I am a congenital saver. By some estimations, that could qualify me as a junior-grade hoarder, but I prefer to think of myself as a preservationist. I have been very fortunate to receive many beautiful pieces of furniture and material culture from parents, grandparents and great-grandparents and even great-greats. I love being surrounded with history, my history, my family's history. I continue to learn more about it all the time. 

There is a downside, though. Where do you put everything? As Jill's creative wings continue to spread, she needs ALL the space in her studio. Considering that my stuff is filling the rest of the house, it's not unreasonable for her to have one room that is totally her own. Until this week, she's had to put up with 4 bookcases of my books.

Understand, we have bookcases in every room except the bathrooms. Hmmmmmm..... 

The bookcases in question are laden with books that I do use from time to time --- history, reference, poetry. It's mainly the non-fiction collection. Plus photo albums dating back to the 1940s. She has had them covered with a brightly colored sheet, to make them look like a wall. Whenever I need to look for a book, I endanger her decor. So now, we're moving the books. 

This morning, I started putting books in boxes for the move and discovered a volume I didn't know I had. It's a 1900 edition of Collier's Cyclopaedia with an inscription indicating that it belonged to my great-grandfather Cramer. I don't know when I acquired it, nor why it is not shelved with the other antique books in my collection. I was happy to hold it in my hand, though.

Many of these books I have moved repeatedly over the years. I still have favorite books from childhood. I have books that were always on my parents' and grandparents' shelves, books whose bindings and titles became so familiar to me that I am instantly carried back to comfort and safety from seeing them on the shelf. Combine the visual image with the smell of an old book as I open it, and it is indeed like greeting an old friend. If it's a book I've read, often more than once, as with the Maida books or Alcott, I am transported into an inner world that is mine alone.

When I was a child, books were my friends. I wasn't a loner, misfit kid. I had friends as well as 3 younger siblings. We played inside and outside, often elaborate pretend games involving witches, fairies, pirates, orphans and royalty. The plots and characters were loosley drawn from the rich tapestry of stories and fairy tales we had been exposed to in books. Our parents read to us nearly every night, and we were surrounded with books and encouraged to read on our own. My brother and I turned out to be the biggest readers, though the other girls took it up later in life. Often, when sent outside to "get some fresh air" (that's mother for leave me alone), I would take Nancy Drew, the Bobbsey Twins, Maida or Jo March outside to play with me under a tree or in my hut. The slanted outside doors to the basement were a good place to read, but you needed a blanket to keep from getting splinters of wood or paint. Likewise, the little hill in the front yard, when it was in the sun, was a good place to spread out the old picnic blanket for a read. And when you were done, you could roll down it!

I don't look forward to the arduous task of lifting and tugging bookcases and boxes of books over the next few days. Makes me tired just to think about it. But handling, sorting, browsing, sniffing and delighting in my books while listening to Bach and Handel on vinyl (I just rediscovered those boxed sets!) will be a perfect way to spend the hours. And, at the end, I'll have three of the four bookcases in my writing/sewing/reading room where they belong, and Jill will be able to reclaim her own space. It's a win-win all around. 

Snout Pits and other Ephemera

 

If you look closely above, you will notice that there are many small, cone-shaped holes all around this young Magnolia tree. Those are snout pits.

Snout pits? I had never heard of them until recently, either. Oh, the things you learn when you get a new puppy! We've had diggers before. Tori was determined to dig to China. No matter what Jill filled the deep hole with, it wasn't long before she had it dug out again. Fortunately, it was not in the ordinary path for walking, so there was no danger of falling in, but it was right beside the deck and threatened to undermine one of the supporting posts. Jill-the-Builder finally filled it with cement, which effectively stopped the digging. Whatever Tori was after must not have been available in any other part of the yard.

For awhile, both Buddy and Lucky were digging beneath the maple tree, one hole that they took turns on. Buddy liked to drop toys in it. Lucky had started the hole, and didn't seem to appreciate his contributions, which sometimes caused hierarchical disputes. Lucky won.

But now we have snout pits because we've lucked into having a "Dixie Dingo", aka Carolina Dog. It is one of their most enduring, defining characteristics, this digging of shallow nose holes in which they snuffle around and eat some unknown bug or mineral out of the dirt. Unlike the other dogs, it's not the gravitational pull of one or two holes for burying toys or digging for fun. We have snout pits all over the yard. She digs them side by side sometimes, effectively creating a trench, or more often in a large circle which gradually becomes a maze of little holes. There's no walking in the backyard after dark, if you value your ankles.

Besides my amazement at this built-in behavior, it makes me think about myself and other humans I know. She's born that way --- sound familiar? She can no more stop digging snout pits than any of the other inbred behaviors that were adaptive to the native environment of South Carolina coastal wetland life, which is where these dogs originate. And humans? Well, we seem to have some built-ins as well.

I've been watching the pissing contest in Washington with dismay and some amusement. Sometimes, a depressive bent of mind is helpful: all these clowns will be dead sooner or later, some much sooner than others. Somehow, I find that reassuring. Even though there is no shortage of others to take their place, this particular political setpiece will become another chapter of history, has already moved in that direction. And people who learn about it later will shake their heads in wonder, just as we do when reading about the South Carolina senator who, in 1856, beat fellow senator Charles Sumner with his cane, on the Senate floor, over the issue of slavery. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Preston_Brooks

Are these things immutable human behavior? Is this kind of posturing, power seeking, and aggression simply bred into the human psyche? Part of our DNA? Our other dog, Buddy, is a runner and a climber. He has climbed up the fallen willow, several feet off the ground, to chase a squirrel. In order to keep him from climbing over the fence and running the neighborhood, we had to run an electric wire around the top of the fence. He didn't decide not to climb over the fence anymore, he learned it wasn't worth getting his little nose zapped by a shock (very small, I assure you. I've felt it myself, most recently this morning when I accidentally leaned against it.)

Are they teachable, these politicians and corporate power/money mongers? Can they be curbed? They seem determined to pursue their self-selected goals unto the death, which, to me, does not seem adaptive in the long run. I guess these questions have been around as long as there have been people. We teach small children prosocial behaviors in order to make them fit into the prevailing culture. We shape their natural instincts by demanding that, over time and when it's developmentally appropriate, they start toileting in the accepted manner for their society.  It differs by location and culture, but I don't know if there are any communities in which toileting is not circumscribed in some manner. We're not born using the bathroom, but we sure do learn it. As far as I know, all these Congress and Wall Street folk are toilet trained, so they must be teachable, to some degree.

So where do aggression and violence fall on the continuum of social behaviors? Make no mistake about it, verbal aggression is simply a precursor to violence. It's no accident that verbal debate led to Senator Sumner being beaten so badly that he was unable to work for three years afterward. And yet, Preston Brooks, after resigning his seat, was later re-elected --- a seal of approval for his violent behavior.

Our doggy companions want nothing more than to please us. Perhaps, through positive and/or negative reinforcement, I could make Nanalu quit digging treacherous snout pits all over the yard. Maybe I could train her to only do it in certain parts of the yard, if I really cared that much. She is, after all, housebroken, so I know she can learn to modify her natural inclinations.

I believe this tension between instinctual and learned behavior is one of the most fascinating topics there is, and undoubtedly a major reason I was a career educator. Why humans and animals do what they do and learn what they learn is endlessly interesting to me.

You think we could get up an army of preschool teachers and go to Washington and do some intensive work with these guys? Sharing, taking turns, being kind, compromise, using your words and your inside voice. Or maybe just sideline them and show them how it's done. That's the ticket!

The Sky Is Falling! Run For Your Life!!

I'm old enough to remember the Sixties. Whether I do or not, is a horse of another color ---- oooo looky, green! pink! orange swirls! But I digress.

This morning I jumped out of bed like a kid on Christmas, running to the kitchen to see if the government had shut down while I slept. IT DID!

Now what? The tree outside the kitchen window is raucous with birdsongs. The sky is lightening up into a smoky blue. No sirens. No heavy trucks rumbling by. I haven't seen a single black helicopter. Might as well go back to bed.

If the sky is about to fall, you couldn't tell by me. But look on facebook, look on news sites, look on twitter, and it sure does seem as though civilization, as we know it, is about to collapse. It's breathless! It's exciting! It's NEWS!

I'm not belittling the effect it will have on individual people, lots of them. Years ago, when I was a lowly GS-3 in the Department of Labor, Congress had a spate of budget arguments that resulted in short term CRs. On again, off again, with rumors constantly flying. I was a single mother living in a basement apartment with a table, a chair, a mattress on the floor and no refrigerator. I wasn't making much to begin with. So yes, I know how painful it can be for your run-of-the-mill government worker to lose out on paychecks.

The thing is, who remembers that? Only the people involved. An entire generation has grown up and taken positions of power, who have no recollection of the budget wars of the 70s and early 80s. Even the more recent, highly publicized Clinton-era shutdown times are fuzzy in memory. Somehow, as urgent and important as they were at the time, we got through them, the "leaders" involved somehow solved their differences, and the country lurched on to the next crisis.

Will that happen again? Probably. I'm sure, for every failed state there is a time to look back and see the moment it happened --- the single, final straw that took down the whole bloomin' ship. But we're not likely to recognize it at the time. So this will get resolved somehow, and we'll all turn back to jobs and kids and getting sick and getting born and dying and living, just like people always do. Will it be the same? Mostly. There will probably even be people who don't realize our government has just come through a crisis so deep that it had to shut down for awhile. But there will also be change.

Here's what changes: teenagers and young adults who believed in something, will get cynical and turn away. People who thought that reason would always prevail, will be disillusioned and drop out of politics altogether. Some will be radicalized, energized by the fight, the drama, the life-or-death competition, and they will jump in with all barrels blazing. Some people will use the divisions that are so stark right now as a reason to leave the country, to fight with their families and friends, to dig into the problems in their own communities, to strengthen their own faith or bludgeon others with religion, to deepen their commitment to
their own pursuits of love, art, literature, camping, roller derby, four-wheeling or football.

As a matter of fact, what with all of this happening right around time for the World Series and during football season, there's a sizeable chunk of the population who probably aren't tuned into it at all!

As for me, I consider myself a historian and a world citizen. I try to take the long view. I look back, tease out common threads, try to extrapolate the future from what has come before. I take a further step back and realize that everything passes, even the 'exceptional' USA. Babylon's not a world power now. The Cold War is already 60 years old. Remember how long ago the Mayans were a power in governance and knowledge? Remember how the sun never set on the English Empire? It's been like that as long as there have been people (Ahem, -- men) trying to subdue others and grab power.

I'm an optimist. In my own life, I have learned that even the most dispiriting circumstances hold lessons I need to learn. I think we can learn as a society, as a country. I think we CAN. Whether we will or not is a horse of another color ----- oooooo pretty, painted purple horsey.

Push through the Pain

As I've stated before, I'm no athlete. Never was, never will be. I have not, however, been exempt from athletic endeavors over the years, either by coercion or misguided attempts to stray from my natural path. So I have been on the recieving end of exhortions to: 

"Push through the pain!"                                                          "No pain, no gain!"

Not being a fan of pain either, this never made any sense to me. As far as I could see, pain was a big, red STOP sign, to be ignored at one's peril. Perhaps, in our more enlightened age, these urgings to brush aside body cues are not as prevelant as they once were, but I don't imagine they've disappeared ----- not by a long shot.

For folks like me, who were looking for a good reason to be sidelined in the first place, pain seemed a logical stopping point. 

"It hurts. I quit." 

"I'll just sit over here and watch . . . or read my book . . . or write a poem . . . or hum to myself . . . or talk to my equally sports-challenged friend."

"I'll just stroll around the track and stop to pick some flowers to make a necklace and look for four-leaf clovers. Ya'll go right on ahead with your game. I'm fine."

Of course, there are other kinds of pain. 

It seems that my pain specialty is internal. I've been pretty lucky about injuries and illnesses --- I haven't had too many. But ask me about depression. Or addiction. Or relentlessly poor self-esteem. Therapists were invented just for me.

I don't actually think I have a lot more psychological angst than many other people. I simply seem wired to be more aware of it ---- and fascinated by it. You know how sports enthusiasts collect statistics about their favorite games and players? Sometimes they can recount, in painful detail, every play from a game fifteen years earlier. That's how I am with therapy.

I have kept a journal for more than fifty years. One would think that it would contain all sorts of interesting tidbits about life in the 'olden days'. Fifty years is a long time. Some of you don't even remember when gas was 20 cents a gallon and candy bars were a nickel. But my journals are not troves of obscure facts about life in Europe in the Sixties, or groovin' through the Seventies. They're me, processing, long before I knew the word or its meaning. Me, figuring out life, or bitching about life, or thinking about thinking and feeling. As a record of the times, even the major events of my own, they're pretty much a bust. But they trace emotional ups and downs with excruciating attention.

I have been endlessly curious about, not just my own interior life, but other people's as well. I want to know what makes people act the way they do. I read terrible news clippings and try to imagine what was going through the minds of the people involved. I take something I've done or said, and try to roll it back, unravel it, looking for antecedents, try to predict outcomes. People say I listen well, and that's probably true, because I'm forever in search of answers. I've never understood the folks who espouse "Ignorance is bliss" as a philosophy of life.

So yes, I look to the past, especially my own past. I watch for patterns, unpack delusional thinking, confront painful illusions. I do it on my own and with professional help. I do it, when necessary, with friends and especially with my wife, Jill. Because if I don't go through the pain of this sort of growth, I'll be doomed to tread the same turf over and over, and that, my friends, really is painful.

Aging in Never-Never Land

I'm a Baby Boomer. In some circles that's a pejorative term. There is no way to calculate the impact of the Baby Boom generation on our country and our society, but we all know it's been significant.

Some people assert that "youth culture" originated with the BBs. I expect there's some truth to that. But we're far from young now, and the youthful orientation of everything from fashion to music to food and shelter still predominates, especially in the media. What does it mean that the vast majority of images, entertainment, and even news are directed toward young people, with elders shunted to the side or relegated to the wrong end of jokes? And has it always been this way? I suspect it has. After all, Wallis Simpson was saying "A woman can never be too rich or too thin" long before World War II.

What's missing, for me, is a positive template for aging in the midst of youth culture. My mom, who has modeled many positive behaviors for me throughout my life, completely missed the boat on this one. She never actually reconciled herself to being old, which played out bizarrely in the years when dementia was setting in. No help there.

The archetypes we're all familiar with provide glimpses, but don't pertain well to the 21st century. We're not going to be little white-haired ladies in long skirts and aprons, feeding the chickens and up to our elbows in bread dough. We're not going to retire to the front porch with the rocking chair at the tender age of 65, surrounded by our brood of perfectly attentive, adoring grandchildren. And nobody wants to be the lady with dyed red hair and bright pink lipstick whose matching polyester pantsuit was all the rage in 1978.

Who do we model ourselves after, if anybody? Gloria Steinem has served for a long time, and continues to be a vital woman. Nothing seems to be slowing Hillary Clinton down. But if you're like me, and you've spent your life going along, doing what needs to be done, with no acclaim or celebrity, how do you hold onto the feeling that life is still interesting, there are more things to learn, it's still important to get up in the morning and keep on going?

I do much better when I shut out most of the media noise. I choose my information content and limit it to what I think is important. Who the hell cares what's styling this year? Why would I ever feel like I have to spend money I don't have on things I don't need? I don't go shopping. I don't watch tv. When I start to feel like there's something wrong with me ---- I'm not good enough! I'm not thin enough! I'm not smart enough! I'm not successful! ---- I back it up a notch or two. 

Life is not a competition. We're all heading toward the same end --- I'd like to pace myself and reach it, as a friend on facebook recently said, with a smile on my face. There's so much ambient noise these days, too many ways to be thrown off track and into doubt. Forgiveness is the watchword for me right now. Forgiveness of the foibles of the people around me, and forgiveness of myself. 

So bring it! I can stay up playing games and listening to TED talks till all hours if I want to. And I can sleep late with my doggies, as well. Because who's going to tell me I can't? I'm a Baby Boomer and, at 63, I'm a little bit tired and a little bit grumbly and that will just have to be enough.

Walking in Mama's Shoes

I took the dogs out to the Neuse River Greenway, one of our favorite walking trails. It's new and in the far reaches of Raleigh, so it isn't heavily trafficked. On this particular morning, I donned my mother's Adidas.

When Mom came to live with us nearly two years ago, one of the first things we did was go shoe shopping. She had foot problems, brought on in part by her insistance that her shoe size was 5, as it had been since she was 20. Small feet rise nearly to the level of fetish in her shoe-loving family.

Shoe shopping with a person who suffers from dementia can be a trying experience. After what seemed like hundreds of try-ons, she plucked a walking shoe from the display and determined that THIS WAS IT! Adidas. White with pink trim. Pink shoelaces. Size 7.

Adidas it was, and she wore those shoes nearly every day. I gradually spirited away almost all of the other shoes from her closet, especially anything with heels or little straps. At that point, she was still conscious of her appearance, still spun and preened in front of her full length mirror every day, but those shoes accompanied nearly every outfit. I think it was the first time her feet weren't squooshed, and she felt secure about walking.

When she became wheelchair bound, a few months ago, the people at her memory care unit tucked those shoes into the corner of the closet. She only wears slip-on deck shoes now. She doesn't miss them. She's not aware of her appearance. I'm not sure she distinguishes between herself and the environment around her anymore. I decided to appropriate those very wearable shoes for myself a couple of weeks ago.

The first thing I noticed was a funky smell. It filled my car, it filled the closet. It took me a day to figure out it was the shoes, and not something to do with the dogs I carry around in my car so much. Another aspect of Alzheimer's, that was well underway before she left our home, is urinary incontinence. Apparently, these shoes had suffered the consequences at some point.

I threw away the laces, tossed the shoes in the washing machine, and set them in the sunshine to dry ---- for a week! New laces (not pink) and I have a fine pair of walking shoes for my treks into the wilderness with Buddy and Nanalu.

It's odd to wear my Mama's shoes. It's not the first time I've gotten clothing from her. I started out snitching things from her closet while I was still in high school. It's not even the first pair of shoes. But pairing these shoes ---- her last real shoes ---- with the time I spend discovering the natural world around me, is unsettling. At first, it made me sad. As we walk along, I often talk to the dogs, pointing out things that I see or hear or smell. This time, it was as though Mama were walking along beside me. She loved to go for walks. She walked every day, answering bird calls, stopping to watch squirrels, greeting neighbors, noting flowers and trees and the changing seasons.

When I wear Mama's shoes, the world is new again for both of us, and life is wondrous once more.

Shhhhhhhh.....I'm thinking

 It's a beautiful day in central North Carolina, one of those sweet, late August days when bright skies and a cool breeze are harbingers of Autumn. It's a good day to work outdoors. I was just reading a piece from the New York Times that dovetails what I was already thinking.(http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/25/opinion/sunday/im-thinking-please-be-quiet.html?pagewanted=2&_r=0&smid=fb-share)

Before I gathered up my coffee and computer to move to the deck, I was reflecting on how peaceful it was in the house. The TV is not turned on, there is no music playing. Jill is in her studio drawing, the dogs are napping on the couch. The kitties are curled in their favorite chairs. Even the parakeet seems to be enjoying the peace of Sunday morning, without chirping his opinion.

I moved outside because I wanted to increase my sensual engagement with the day. Out here, I can smell the earth, the grass, the clover. The wind is brisk and the wind chimes are dancing, belting out an orchestral arrangement for the day. As I listened more deeply, I realized that there is a mower running somewhere, a faint car alarm in the distance, cicadas buzzing, traffic running by. The neighbor's makeshift plastic greenhouse fills and collapses with the wind, like a choir of plastic grocery bags in full voice. Leaves rustle, breeze whistles, birds chirp, chitter, and audibly flap their wings as they pass through the yard. I thought it was quiet out here, but I was wrong.

The part of this article that caught my attention was the physiological response to sound, and especially its effect on sleep. Of course you can become accustomed to sleeping through familiar noises, even trains or planes. We have striking clocks in our house. Depending on how diligent I've been at keeping them wound, anywhere from 2 to 4 antique clocks strike out the hour and half-hour, 24 hours a day. One hangs on the wall a few feet from the head of the bed. I rarely am aware of either the hollow tick-tock of the pendulum or the periodic chimes. Do they rouse my resting nervous system all night long, shortening both my attention span and my life? I find them comforting, reassuring when I wake in the dark and listen for the regular tick, as if for my own heartbeat.

In utero, they tell us, the fetus is awash in sound ---- the internal, organic noises produced by mother's bodily functions, as well as the environmental noise of engines, voices, footsteps, work. I remember, years ago, taking my three-month-old son to a bluegrass bar in Nashville. We sat down front in the small venue, and placed his baby carrier beside the stage, where he slept soundly through the entire set. Shhhhh . . . the baby is sleeping?

I find I need varying levels and types of sound when I write. Like many authors, I frequently listen to music while writing, but I carefully choose what kind. It has to either match the time period and personality of the piece, or it has to be my go-to writing music, the all-purpose album whose first notes set off a Pavlovian writing response in my brain. Headphones allow me to co-exist with my better half while the muse is in gear; Jill can watch a movie or listen to music without distracting me or drawing me in.

On my bucket list, is participation in a silent retreat. I've never done that, but I will. I seek silence, crave cessation of ambient noise, even though it's actually impossible. I walk on the greenways and bring my consciousness into the present moment as nearly as I can. I sit upstairs in my reading nook, as far away from the household as possible, so I can concentrate. I read in bed with my head wrapped in my favorite feather pillow to block out distracting noises. Quiet time is as necessary to me as any other basic need.

It took me a long time to acknowledge this, and honor it. My life is richer for the time I spend in silence.

What I did Right

I defer to no one when it comes to self-criticism. Not satisfied merely with my own negative judgments, I have assembled a formidable Committee in my brain that pursues me like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse in the effort to shred any amount of satisfaction I might gain. And so it has been, for as long as I can remember.

The key to carrying out that level of self-immolation in public is a sense of humor. I know intellectually that it is all nonsense. With some acerbic wit and irony, I can convey that to others without actually believing it myself. So you might think I have it together, and even have a high level of insight, but the truth is, the Committee has the upper hand.

The rightest thing I've done is raise two children who know their own minds and follow their own light. When I look at them now, both in their thirties (though one is perilously close to forty), I see two adults who are able to love their spouses without delusional fairy tales. They function in society, but are not bowed down trying to meet the demands and expectations of others. How in the world did that happen?

Even though I've had a streak of rebellion running through me all along, most of the time it expressed itself in self-destructive ways. That balance between doing what I was "supposed" to do and following my own inclinations was always treacherous. It still can bite me on the ass.

I came out of the closet, loud and proud, when I was 27, after one marriage and one baby. Scared myself silly in the process, though I don't remember encountering pushback from anybody I cared about. I just couldn't imagine being able to live my life the way I wanted to, so I scurried back in with all the shoes, hats, and dusty old coats, but left the door cracked just a titch. 

Getting sober at 30 was something I did right. I had a lot of flesh-and-blood folks to counter the Committee and bolster me up. I think it's interesting that I never went back to my old ways after that. I'm sure it's because of all the outside support. But I did have to take another hostage and up the ante to two kids, witnesses to the highs and lows of dishonest living. 

It took me 20 years to come out again, and do it right. But I didn't have the same level of help as with staying sober. I had convinced myself over the years that I was destined for a life of longing, without realizing that I was the one who created that story. I told myself I was supposed to be married for life, and didn't deserve to be happy since I had been so very, very naughty in the past.

It wasn't until I was in my fifties that I allowed for the possibility that love was something that included me --- I could not only experience it, but I deserved it. I always blew up relationships before that. POW! BAM! Then I met Jill, slowed down, didn't sabotage it, and found out that people weren't lying after all. There really is such a thing as being happy with someone else, and I could do it, too.

My birthday is coming up in a few days. I tend to get reflective in August, not only because I get to mark off another year, but it feels like the time when changes occur. I'm fortunate that the Committee is probably getting old and tired ---- sixty years of saying the same things over and over will do that. It doesn't seem to be as loud and relentless anymore, which is not to say they've folded up the tent and moved on. I'm just a little more likely to interrupt the harrangue before I fall into the pit of despair. And occasionally I can prevent it in the first place.

Are happiness and fulfillment a choice? Probably so, to some degree. I tell the women I mentor that the good news is that thoughts are your own, and that means you can change them. You might not be able to do anything about circumstances (I think of my friend Joanna, in jail) but you do have the power to change how you think about your situation. I say that so frequently because it's exactly what I need to hear. And every time it works for someone else, I know it can work for me.

A Mouse by any other name...

I used to think about the changes my grandparents had seen over their lifetimes. They were born in 1901 and 1903, always lived in the same town and lived into ripe old age (89 and 98) so they spanned the twentieth century.

I knew my great-grandparents also, who were born in the 1870s and 80s and were alive until I was an adult. There are some long livers in my maternal family ---- why some of them are THIS long! Never mind. Old joke.

But here's the thing. My own experience with being about a week shy of 63 years old ---- which would have been old age, statistically, when my grandparents were born ----- is that it's difficult to acknowledge the changes that have occurred since August of 1950. Of course, it took a few years for me to wake up to the world at large. I wasn't that precocious. But objectively, I know from looking at photographs and watching movies from that era, that the world looked different in 1950 than it does in 2013. Material culture has changed a lot. Cars, clothing, tools, farm equipment, electronics ---- just the stuff of everyday life is very different.

Expectations are different, too. The way that people interact has changed significantly. Measures of acceptable behavior and appearance ---- just think, T-shirts then were always white and were underwear. That alone is a revolution.

I've been considering going back to work, at least part time. I've done a lot of jobs in my life, but education is the consistent theme. I don't want to return to the madness of public school teaching, but maybe pre-school would work. Yesterday I was listening to an NPR program about "screen time" for kids, and how addictive it can be, and how it tends to crowd out other activities, including human interaction. I thought about recent conversations with current teachers in the system, and the amount of technology that is involved, both with the kids and for paperwork, and it made me realize that I've dinosaured out of that world.

When I went back into the classroom for the final stint in 2002, I was issued a laptop, I had four bulky computers for the students, and for the most part, it was all optional. I was scared of the laptop ---- I figured I would break it or lose it ---- so I left it in the case all year. There were "paperwork" tasks I had to do on the computer, everything from taking attendance to recording grades, but most of my recordkeeping was still confined to a loose leaf notebook liberally sprinkled with sticky notes. The children had about three places they could go on the computer, learning games, no internet, and were allotted 20 minute slots twice a week.

By the time I left teaching in 2011 the technology was an important part of student learning, all of my recordkeeping was electronic, and we were on the cusp of an explosion of even more involvement for both students and teachers. Would I even be able to keep up if I were still in the classroom? If I had to. Would it add to the already overburdening and stressful environment? Undoubtedly.

So what effect is all this having on child development? Do the brains of children who are given Mom's ipad to play with at 12 months get wired differently than mine was? The most oft-told story of my infancy was how I killed a mouse with a beer bottle in our apartment when I was 9 months old. No electronic killing on the screen for me --- I had the real thing!

The narrator on the NPR program lamented that children don't play outside like they once did. They don't engage in deep pretend games much anymore. In many homes, one screen or another (or many at once) are operating during all activities, including mealtimes, car rides and bedtimes. I can hear the sigh of relief from overstressed parents who love the DVD in the back seat instead of listening to "Mo - om, he touched me!" But I do wonder. If they don't fight in the back seat, when do they practice problem solving?

I do not want to sound curmudgeonly --- "Well, in MY day. . . " because I think that every generation is born into one world, develops in another, and grows old in another. Hasn't it always been so? And yet, it seems that change happens so quickly, too quickly  I'm afraid, for me to keep up.  Whether I want to or not, I find myself not just sidelined, but actually perplexed by things that must be quite ordinary for people a generation or more behind me. And the most perplexing thing of all is that inside I still feel so young, so with-it, so ME!

Happy New Year!!

I've got the itch. It happens every year about this time. I've lived on an academic calendar for most of my life, so I'm sure it's inevitable. When the mornings start to be cool and store aisles bloom with "Back to School", I've got to have it ----- School Supplies!

A brand new box of 64 crayons, soldier straight, points perfect, an array of alluring colors.

Elmers Glue with a clean, smooth twisting orange cap, no drips down the side, just a full, heavy bottle of snow white goo.

Yellow, #2 pencils with flexible erasers that will rub out mistakes without leaving a mark.

Colored pencils, sharpened to perfection, ready to draw pictures, maps, graphs and charts.

A brand new ruler, no nicks to leave a dent in the line, no old ink marks that measure out forgotten projects.

Notebook paper, yes, the old-fashioned, three hole punch paper ready to find its place in a clean three ring binder, preferably with pockets front and back. 

Those are the essentials. Add in some multi-colored pens and highlighters, a protractor, markers and sharpies in varying colors, a jar of rubber cement with the little brush and strong smell, sharp pointed scissors, and a rainbow of paperclips, and life is good.

Setting up the classroom was one of my favorite parts of teaching. All summer long, I made random notes in a journal as ideas occurred to me --- teaching units, new book titles, art projects. I haunted the teacher store for ideas and some purchases, hit the yard sales for containers and interesting miniatures. I begged, borrowed and bartered for materials from friends and colleagues, storing them all away on shelves and in cupboards, certain that I would find just the right reason to use them.

This time of year breathes anticipation. What will the new year bring? Much more than January 1, the start of a new school year brings excitement and expectation, anxiety and new confidence. This year will be different ----- new ----- the best one yet!

I'm not returning to school this fall, though I confess that I've perused the job openings more than once. I don't really want to go back to the reality of teaching, not as I experienced it before and not as I hear it is today. I like what I do now, taking care of the family and the house, writing, reading, thinking, growing. These are all the things that were compromised when I was deep in the whirlwind of work. There was no time for anything I wanted to do ---- and not enough time for the things I had to do. 

Perhaps that's why this is the best time --- the breath before diving in. Even as a kid, starting a new grade, I appreciated this pause when everything seemed possible and nothing was certain. New clothes, new pencils, and the promise that by the end of the year I would be a new me, in many crucial ways. That is what the end of summer still portends for me.

All that and an August birthday, too. Good choice, Mom.

GOOOOOO ---- TEAM!

There was a time, back in the Dark Ages, when I was young and limber and relatively fit. But never was I athletic. I'm very short, have stubby little arms and legs and a center of gravity somewhere near my knees. I'm the opposite of a "natural athlete".

Nonetheless, looking over the possibilities of the social structure in High School, I decided that I needed to be a cheerleader. They were happy, bouncy, wore cute clothes and had all the best boyfriends. They were the top of the heap. So every morning I would roll out of bed early and stretch and jump, practice cartwheels and try oh, so hard, to do the splits. Think about the tightest rubber band you've ever come across. That was me, trying to do splits.

Needless to say, I was eliminated in the first round of tryouts. My humiliation was tempered only by the thought that at least I could run for class president now. That was actually a relief.

You see, I had skills and talents of my own. After years of herding and coaxing three younger siblings, leadership ran in my blood. (Some would call it bossiness.) I read voraciously and understood most of what I was reading, even the hard stuff. I wrote, made good grades, could talk my way out of nearly any trouble. I was a performer ---- acting, singing, playing in band. It was disappointing not to be able to break into the top echelon of high school society, but in the end I realized I never would have fit in anyway.

And that's what got me thinking about politicians this morning. I'm pretty horrified about what's been happening in my state of North Carolina. I don't see any way to interpret much of the new legislation aside from being a slide into a Lord of the Flies state of "every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost." You know, kind of like High School.

It's easy to paint with a broad brush, to target the most obvious figures, the loudest voices, the gaffes and blatant ignorance. But what about the people who came to the General Assembly wanting to do good for the folks back home? Surely there must be legislators in their first or second term who don't hold positions of power, don't have the microphones, and are not idealogues wedded to the good of Party above the good of anything else. I have to believe there are people of conscience in both parties who want to improve things for their constituents and for the good of the state. What are they thinking now?

Do they wish they'd never gotten into this? In the middle of the night, do they question the wisdom of legislation that cuts people off unemployment, people they probably have talked to face to face, knowing that in their district there are no jobs to be had? Do they worry about the children who will be crowded into large classes without access to the tools and books they need? Do they wonder if party discipline is worth more than voting their conscience? Do they ever feel like they're stuck in a nightmare?

I know that it's possible for something to look shiny and wonderful on the outside, but when you open it up it's hollow, or even disgusting --- nothing like what you imagined. We've all experienced that at one time or another, whether it's sending off for the "printing press" on the back of a cereal box and finding out it was a cheap piece of plastic with leaky ink, or whether it's getting a coveted job, only to discover that you're expected to sell defective merchandise or stretch the truth about what you're doing. Have any of our elected officials, here in NC or up in DC, found out that the shiny job is far more tarnished than they thought? And what do you do when that happens?

I have a remarkable belief in the basic, inborn goodness of people. I understand that there are venal, cruel, power-hungry control freaks out there. My good fortune is that I've rarely come across one close up. But I still do believe in the inherent worth and dignity of everyone and that, given the opportunity to live without fear, most people will be peaceable toward others.

What is the fear level in the chambers of government right now? It seems it must be very high.  I'm glad I don't have to live like that. I'm glad I'm in the concert band instead of on the football field. And my hope is that those with the power to impact people's lives, actually to ruin the lives of so many, will listen to the voices that may come in the night. None of us is here for long. The glories on the playing field are quickly gone, no matter how mighty they seem at the time. And in the end we're only left with the voice that asks:

Was I kind?  Did I do more good than harm?

There but for the grace of God...

In the circles I travel, that saying is frequently quoted. Or misquoted.

Oh, they get the words right. "There, but for the grace of God, go I." Sounds real good. Right up there with some of the other shibboleths --- "Live and Let Live"    "Keep it Simple"

What I hear frequently is a sincere paean to the great good fortune of being on the right side of a capricious diety. If it weren't for me and my best bud, God, I'd be just like that poor slob over there. Whew, dodged that bullet. And as long as I keep being good, doing all the right stuff, keep my buddy God happy, I'll be ok.

But that's not it. Take out the clause in the middle and what are you left with?

"There go I."

And that, my friends, is the message. That person, the one I've formed a judgment about because of how she looks or what he says or how he smells or how unfortunate her circumstances of birth, that person IS me. We are the same.

It's odd to me that one would invoke the image of some sort of chess-playing Being to separate us from people we don't want to claim relationship to. Wouldn't it logically seem that any God who keeps me from being (fill in the blank) could just as easily change his mind and throw me overboard on a whim? Or is it, indeed, my placating behavior, my attempts to be perfect in this system of dos and don'ts, that keeps me in the Diety's good graces?

"There go I."

Not thank goodness I'm not her. Thank goodness I know better than to break the law, do drugs, quit my job or yell at a cop. Thank my lucky stars I don't have cancer, my children are good citizens, I was born in the USA, I'm not poor or black or an immigrant or living with AIDS. Whew. God must love me.

 "There go I."

I AM the poor woman with diabetes and three children and no more unemployment. I AM the child soldier, kidnapped into fighting for people who don't care about me. I AM the wife of the CEO who is married to his money.

It's good to be grateful for what I have. It keeps the wants and desires under control and introduces humility into my consciousness. But gratitude tainted with entitlement, with arrogance ---- especially spiritual arrogance --- is not gratitude at all. I'll even cite some of those scriptures people love to trot out to prove a point, (See, I can do it too!) They  have poetically captured it: I am as the lily of the field. The air, sun, soil and rain bless me freely, and all other life as well. I am a lily among lilies. A person among persons. And when I see or hear or touch another person, there go I.

Handmaids, anyone?

I have been trying to keep historical perspective and an inquiring mind when it comes to the so-called culture wars over the past few years. In particular, I'm curious about what seems to be a significant noose-tightening for women. I have a stake in that one!

Does anybody remember Margaret Atwood's book, The Handmaid's Tale? It made quite an impression on me when I first read it 25 years ago. (Could it be that long already?) It was a shivery piece of speculative fiction about the theocratic takeover of the country. It was sobering, but seemed unlikely. If you missed it, give it a read. Not the movie, the book.

Now I have to wonder how just unlikely it is.

Why ARE these self-proclaimed conservatives so hellbent on controlling women's reproductive lives? Rest assured, it's not just abortion. Contraception and even regular gynecological services are on the chopping block as well. If Planned Parenthood were to divest itself of all abortion related activities this minute, I hardly think there would be a change of rhetoric from their opponents. Control of women's lives?

For awhile I thought that men, who are often put off by the ick-factor of women's reproductive health, were simply putting it into the category of "woman problems" that didn't concern them. Sooner or later, I thought, they'd wake up to the fact that it was their wives, girlfriends, daughters and mothers who were affected. Sometime, it would have to occur to them that unwanted pregnancies didn't really begin in the cabbage patch, and would certainly have an effect on their own life plans. Then they would join the women in their lives and rise up to tell the politicos to knock it off. But that hasn't happened. Why not?

I'm not saying all men --- heavens no. I know men personally who are concerned and outspoken. But where are the rest of them? Which makes me wonder more.

Those other famous books about men being from Mars and women from Venus provided popular commentary about the age-old "battle of the sexes" --- grist for the talk shows and loud rhetoric, but how many people, even those who never read them, nodded sagely and agreed that men and women do seem to come from different planets? 

Historical perspective: Among the class of people in the US who spoke for public opinion and set cultural norms during the mid-to-late 19th Century, separation of the sexes became paramount. The "Cult of Domesticity" defined the sphere of women to be the home, while men populated the public sphere. By no means was this universal, especially among the class of people who, by necessity, occupied tenements and isolated farms. But it was the ideal, and it was justified by "Nature" and by the Bible. God proclaimed it, with all the verses trotted out to support that structure. 

Female modesty decreed that while motherhood was the highest attainment for any woman, the means of achieving it were taboo in public and often private discourse. Pregnancy was to be hidden and unmentionable. Women died of childbirth related conditions, but often also of undiagnosed gynelogical diseases because of the shame of seeing a physician about anything so immodest. It was better to suffer and die than endure the shame of a physical examination. Where were the men? Their husbands and fathers? Working. At the club. Fighting in wars. Hunting. Manly pursuits, all, far from the mysterious, somewhat sinister chambers occupied by women and their leaky, messy, unclean bodies. 

It took nearly a century for actively engaged women to achieve the vote. Today, we think that is such a bedrock freedom, guaranteed by the Constitution and innumerable laws, that it cannot be altered. But really? Could not a coordinated effort by determined lawmakers overturn those rights? Laws that are made by man can be unmade as well. Prohibition went away. How about women's rights? Minority rights? Is that the ultimate aim, the hidden agenda of those who now flail away at abortions and healthcare, unions and voting rights, education of the next generation? 

I hope I'm not falling into some sort of conspiracy haze. Anybody got another explanation? 

My Ever Shrinking World

About a month ago, we terminated our TV service and sent back all the devices that made it work. The decision was driven mainly by a need to cut the budget, but also the need to reduce stress. And boy, has it ever!

With my penchant for straddling two or more centuries at at time as I write, I often consider what someone's worldview would have been in byegone days. It doesn't even have to be that long ago. When I was born, television was just beginning, and a little too pricey for many families. One car was sufficient for a household. Radio and newspapers spread the news.

How about one hundred years before that, 1850? It could take awhile for word to spread about politics, natural disasters, far away family. There was no expectation of up-to-the-minute communication, especially among those who lived away from the cities.

How long did it take for you to find out about the DOMA decision on Wednesday? I was driving at 10AM, and listening to NPR. I heard it within a few minutes, just like untold numbers of others who were anxiously waiting. How long would it have taken for a SCOTUS decision to reach saturation in 1950? 1850? How many people would have been well enough informed to be on tenterhooks the day it was handed down?

Even without television, I have no trouble following whatever news I would like to learn about. I have the internet, I see posts on facebook, I hear it on the radio. But I feel like my world is smaller now, because I have to make more effort to seek it out. And I like that.

Jill and I made the decision to go cold turkey from our coterie of Rachel Maddow, Melissa Harris-Perry, Laurence O'Donnell, et al. There were a few rough days in the beginning. I also found myself haunting the local news websites, looking for weather updates more frequently. But as time goes on, I miss it less and less. All right, I can't get all the answers on "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me". But my Saturdays tend to be spent with live people now. Jill and I sit and talk over the dinner table. We listen to music. We share what we're doing in our creative endeavors. Yes, I still spend too much time on facebook --- I'm not espousing a tech-free world. But the stress level in our house has diminished as strident media voices have been silenced.

And really, what are we missing? I get wound up about one thing or another, but what am I going to do about it? If I show up at Moral Monday Protests, sign some petitions, pass along reasonable articles, write to my reps and publish the occasional letter to the editor, isn't that what I can do? I can't vote every day, but you can be sure I'll be at the polls when the time comes ---- I always have been. In between, do I need to spend every day in a state of outrage and frustration? Or would it be more productive for me to love the people I'm with, share myself at heart level within my own sphere? I think, based on no scientific research whatsoever, that living love to the best of my capability, listening and speaking carefully, laughing frequently and heartily, and holding a sense of wonder and gratitude, are the best agents of change I can muster.

So my world has shrunk down to human size, and I'm glad about that. I can smile at the Food Lion cashier, hug the other residents at my mother's Alzheimers unit, and treat myself and the people around me with kindness. Human size is about all I want to deal with. That and blueberries, anyway.

Post Mortem

My friend, Joanna Madonna, is in jail. She's accused of killing her husband. I can think of little else.

She's easy to like; I felt an instant rapport when I met her. We haven't been talk-on-the-phone-everyday friends, more like go-out-for-coffee-sometimes friends, text and facebook friends, warm hugs coming and going, and plenty of laughter, punctuated with AHA! revelation friends.

I found the news story of her husband's death first, and felt my heart sink. He was friendly, expansive, chatty with me on the occassions that I saw him. He helped me unload the car. He offered me food and drink. He told me sadly about the death of his adult son. We were both of the Viet Nam generation, he a combat vet, I a college student at the time, both with a generational viewpoint. The article said he was found by the lake. Oh no. Suicide, I thought.

The next story on the website had her mugshot and an account of her arrest. I stared at the face of this woman I know and my hands shook, my heart thumped wildly. How was that even possible? Arrested for murder? Murder is on tv, not here. Murder is other people, not my people. Not someone who advocates fiercely for her autistic child, whose older daughters are beautiful and going places in life, who lives in a house I wish I could afford, who sings with a band and creates jewelry and rescues dogs and listens when you need to talk. That's not someone who kills.

Did she do it? Did she do what they say she did? It is an act that is so far at odds with how I experience her, that it's nearly impossible to believe. It's always the spouse, is the common wisdom. And far too often, that's true. But surely not this time. It has to be a mistake.

I attended her first court appearance. Reality set in when she shuffled into the courtroom in the black and white jumpsuit, head bowed, hands bound, never looking up except at the judge. Reality fell like a blow at the jurist's words. First Degree Murder. Capitol Crime. Death Penalty or Life Imprisonment without parole. Public Defender. Television words, applied to someone I know and care for. Someone real.

I sit right now in my favorite spot, out on the deck in the morning. Birds chatter and dart about, grubbing up their breakfast. A sprinkle of rain falls from heavy, gray clouds and the earth gives up its damp, fertile smell. The dogs play at tug-o-war with a towel Nanalu snitched from Jill's tool chest. They posture and growl, sounding like fierce, wild beasts. The gardenias, though fading, release their cloying scent, which wafts onto the deck on a breeze you can nearly take a bite of, it's so heavy with summer smells and humidity.

All I can think is that neither of them will ever experience something like this again. My heart aches for Joanna and Jose.

Money grows from trees

This morning, I found about one-fourth of a dollar bill by the doggy door, out on the deck. I know how much Nanalu likes to chew up paper, so there's no question who left it there. I was just glad it wasn't a 20.

It made me think, though. It's just a scrap of paper, like every other scrap of paper she leaves lying around. She had no idea what she was eating. And really, what was it? I put it in my pocket, even though it's not spendable. I'll throw it away later. And it feels like no great loss --- what can you buy for a buck?

But that's it? What CAN you buy --- and really, why can you buy anything? It's nothing but a social agreement. It holds no inherent worth. If I have a dollar bill and I want to use it to buy something from you, we have to agree about the value of the item in question. Since it is formalized at a store, there's rarely a dispute. But if you are a person who patronizes  the underground marketplace known as yard sales (garage sales, tag sales, jumble sales --- call it what you will) you know that the agreement part is always in question.

"Five bucks for that set of dishes? There aren't even any bowls. I'll give you $2.50"
"How 'bout if I throw in the glasses and that frying pan?"
"Sold!"

I'm out writing on the back deck this morning. Looking around, I notice the solar garden/patio lights we have illuminating the corners of the deck. They cost a buck apiece. How was that arrived at? It looks to me like there are more materials than that, let alone manufacturing and transportation. One dollar? I'd love to have a solar-powered house, but the cost is prohibitive. Why is that?

I guess I'm considering money and value in a different light these days. I can sit out on my deck and enjoy everything that nature has to offer --- birds, breeze, sunshine, greenery, dogs chasing mice,the scent of flowers ---- no charge. There aren't a lot of things I get more value from than this. What about paying the power bill ---- how do I calculate the value of air conditioning and heating, lights, refrigeration, stove, appliances, computer, and hot water? Considering how much value I get for all of that, the cost in money is miniscule. Yesterday we spent $300 in cash at 2 doctor offices, for check-backs. Worth it? How do you set a monetary value on monitoring health conditions?

Last night we made the decision to cancel our television service that provided a ridiculous number of channels, out of which we only watched 4. Good decision? Depends on how you value the entertainment of those four channels against the other things we will do instead. We both decided we valued our time writing, making art, and talking, much more than the dubious pleasures provided by TV. And anyway, you can always find stuff on the internet.

I don't know if it's old age, or wisdom creeping up on me, or simply the way life in the 21st century is unfolding, but I don't take things for granted as much anymore, not even pieces of paper that I can trade for more "stuff" I think I need. Those pieces of paper, or the worth they represent, are much more scarce now that I'm retired. That makes each one more worthy of consideration before I trade it for goods or services, or let it fall out of my freshly washed shorts onto the ground when hanging out the laundry, only to wind up being eaten by a dog.

It doesn't feel like deprivation. It feels like presence.

Where does my moral compass point?

People who know me would never describe me as being interested in style or fashion --- not in clothes or anything else. I don't know why that is. Once upon a time I cared a little bit, but I never quite caught on to how you do it, so I gave up. (See post entitled "The Old Lady with Purple Socks")

This morning I was mopping the kitchen floor and the thought popped into my head that we need to replace this floor. That was followed immediately by "This is looking out of style" and "It's a perfectly usable floor". And there you have it. That's how conversation goes inside my head these days.

Style? In kitchen floor tiles? That is so off the wall I laughed at myself. I'm the gal who would just as soon live in a 150 year old house. Our house was built in 2002 and we're the only people who have ever lived here. So where in the world did that idea come from? I couldn't tell you what anybody else's kitchen floor looks like, so why would I think we need to "update" ours? Consumerism, pure and simple.

That's where the interrupting, reproving voice of Aunty Ann comes in. "What? That's a perfectly good floor and it's only ten years old. It's got a few nicks, but that's nothing. Get down there and scrub it properly and it will be good as new."

I read an article in the paper today about the Tesla electric luxury car. What an amazing vehicle it sounds like. But who pays 100 grand for a car? Is there ever any reason to do something like that? Couldn't you spend $6,000 on a used car and get around just as well? Sure there are a couple of nicks in it, but that's nothing. And just think what good that other $94,000 could do for people who are hungry or hurting.

I joined several hundred other people in front of our state government building two nights ago, to participate in a Moral Monday protest. I think of myself as a kind of lackadasical activist. I have the will. I write to my state and federal reps, publish letters to the editor, pass along informative articles on social media, talk to friends. And several times a year I go to the streets for collective action. Whether or not it does any measurable good, it is good for me to use my voice in person rather than behind the cover of a computer.

When I was a student in the late 60s-early 70s, I was in the streets against the war and speaking out for abortion and women's rights. When I was at the protest on Monday, I looked around and it seemed like the same people, only 40 years later. There were young people there, thank goodness, but a huge number of the placard carrying, slogan chanting, gospel singing protesters were elders. And many of the people who chose civil disobedience and arrest are older, as well.

I don't know if this is because it's in our social DNA --- we just can't help ourselves. I think there are many of us, people born in the 40s and 50s, who remember a time when "liberty and justice for all" meant only if you were white, middle or upper class, and male. We remember when Jim Crow was not just the law, but seemed the natural order of things to many people. We remember when male privilege meant virtually all positions of power were in the hands of white men, when many occupations were closed to women and people of color, when the land of opportunity did not offer opportunity for millions of marginalized folks.

Those are the overtones, and in some cases the outright aims, of legislation being enacted here in North Carolina and all over this country. That is the reason that people who have tried contacting their legislators, writing opinion pieces, and talking to friends are now taking to the streets and risking arrest to be heard.

If you doubt that it could happen here, pay attention. Check out the PBS American Experience show called "Freedom Riders". Educate yourself about the recent history of civil and political rights. It not only can happen, it's already in motion.

We've been lulled by affluence, cheap credit and trinkets. When you're feeling blue, there's a ready cure --- go buy something. Wants become needs. Other people become invisible. What's mine is mine because I earned it and I deserve it, up to and including $100,000 automobiles. And where, in all that acquisitiveness, is community? Who are our brothers and sisters, our elders, our children? What is our responsibility to the bountiful world we inhabit?

Moral Mondays are well named. And my moral compass points to Jones Street in Raleigh, these days. I hope some of you will join me there.