Observations from the Invisibility Cloak

When I was 28 and writing poetry, I wrote a poem lamenting the feeling that I was invisible because I was no longer the youngest, cutest thing on the block --- and I had become a mother. Now I'm in my sixties and really invisible. And I like it!

Friday, June 28, 2013

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.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

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.