Since I spend way too much time online these days, I'm exposed to ideas, beliefs, and conspiracy theories that I never would encounter anyplace else. It's nearly enough to make me put the computer away, but then I'd have to do something constructive and that sounds way too tiring. I've been building a mental list of things that strike me as I poke around. See if it sounds familiar.
There are lots of words being spilled over the rampant fear that's charging over the land --- everything is scary. Terrorists. Guns. Opiates. Vaccines. Textbooks. Drug-resistant Disease. People of all kinds, colors, and nationalities: religious fanatics, invasive immigrants, big government, lying politicians, giant corporations, and on and on and on.
I wonder what people scared themselves with before the rise of mass communication. Death, of course, is the bottom line. There was a time, not so long ago, when infectious diseases were the the big fear. Anybody, anytime, could be struck down. You only have to walk around an old cemetery to begin to understand the precariousness of life just two generations ago. It's still like that in many parts of the world.
Right now, we live in a country with amazing public health measures in place. Instead of open sewers in the middle of the street, we have waste treatment plants. The water in our sinks, for most people (sorry, Flint Michigan) is safe; you're not risking typhoid every time you get a drink. Yet, millions of people don't trust the water and buy bottled water in plastic containers. Not based on warnings or having been sickened by it, just because....something.
Food supply. Yes, there are plenty of glitches, and problems do arise. Food poisoning, mainly from not following proper storage guidelines, is not uncommon. But we have nearly 330,000,000 people in this country and the vast majority of them eat well and safely, every single day. That's remarkable. And still there are entire corners of the internet scaring people witless about how poisonous their food is.
Crime! Guns! Crazy Criminals! It's almost too frightening to leave the house. To be absolutely safe, you can fortify your home with security systems, never let children out of sight, stay home and watch tv instead of going out in public places. You can even arrange to have almost everything you need delivered to your house. Just don't open the door when the delivery truck pulls up --- it could be a ruse.
Was it always this scary? I remember panics from years ago --- polio, communists, child snatchers --- so maybe it's just selective memory that makes it seem worse now. The thing is, living as though on the brink of disaster is no way to find happiness or satisfaction. So I just don't believe it.
I don't believe we're all headed to hell in a handbasket.
I don't believe everyone in any particular political party is terrible and out to ruin the country.
I don't believe any particular religion spells doom for the entire world.
I don't believe Big Business is scheming to create products and an economy which will leave everyone but the most elite to die in the streets.
I do believe that change is hard and sometimes frightening, and we are in a time of dizzying change.
People still have babies. Sometimes that surprises me, since mine were born so long ago. People still invent things --- amazing things --- that will help humankind. People still love each other, work together, laugh, show kindness for no reason other than kindness itself.
It's not all bad and scary. Yup, we're all going to die. It doesn't matter how much you pray to your favorite deity, it's still going to happen. It also doesn't matter how many times you go to the gym, how many ice cream sundaes you forego, whether you ever finish stitching that quilt or writing that book. It's still going to happen, and you can't stop it.
So if that's the scariest thing in the playbook, and it's inevitable, lighten up! It's just not that serious. Do what you like, love the people around you, and don't take yourself so seriously. Remember that graveyard with all the kids we talked about earlier? Destination vacation. You really can't take it with you --- there's just not room.
Every day is a new one, brand spanking new, and I, for one, don't believe it's all that bad.
Showing posts with label life and death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life and death. Show all posts
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Friday, October 21, 2011
How much are we worth?
I've noticed that we have many ways to speak about money without really doing so. We say that people are well off or comfortable, that they have fallen on hard times or are struggling.There is a reticence about money and finances that belies the overall emphasis which equates worth as a person with financial status.
Somehow, the belief is afoot that the richer you are in bank account and material assets, the better a person you are. If you are worth your salt, you have "stuff" to show for it. And God loves you more.
The schizy thing about that is the reverse: if you are poor, there is something wrong with you. If you were a moral, "good" person, you would be blessed by wealth. So obviously, being poor means that you're not in God's good graces. You're an unrepentant sinner.
Now I know that such thinking, in most circles, is not openly espoused, and is often denied outright. In fact, since it's not polite to talk about money -- or at least it didn't used to be -- most such judgments are silent, or whispered among friends. Aloud, we often hear of the nobility of character that comes with poverty: "Her house was shabby, but sparkling clean." "He had mended clothes, but worked hard to overcome his difficulties." Of course, the assumption behind such statements is that with hard work and good character, the reward will be . . . riches!
What leads me to think about such things right now is the dismantling of my mother's material world. As she prepares to move in with us, she has to pare down her belongings once again. Five years ago she owned a beautiful four bedroom home on a wooded acre. It was filled with a limetime's worth of things, collected from living in Europe for 31 years. She took only the most precious things with her to the Independent Living Community, distributing much of the antique furniture and family pieces among children and grandchildren. Now even those will have to go. She's moving into one bedroom. We already have all the dishes and furniture we can handle and then some. Many things will wind up in my sister's new house. Mom's actual belongings will be reduced to the clothes, furniture, papers, pictures and knick-knacks that will fit in her room.
When Mom's father died in 2000, at the age of 98, we took his belongings back to my aunt's house to look at and give to people who wanted them. By that time, all that was left were a couple of cardboard boxes of things and some map cases with old maps. We found his weather diary where he recorded the weather every day for years, often along with one sentence about what happened that day. There was a wooden box with various mementos --- love letters to Grandma from before they were married, his mother's wedding ring, small tools and a few pictures. His life had been full. He'd owned houses and cars and a business. But in the end, he had a box with precious reminders and little else.
I've been thinking a lot about the conditions of life and of death. I picture a baby sliding into the world, all slippery and naked and helpless --- and unknown. As that baby grows into a child and then an adult, many things come along and stick around, but in the end, no matter how the end comes about, there's not one single thing that can make the trip over. We go out with the same thing we had when we arrived. Nothing. You really and truly can't take it with you. No matter how much you accumulate, no matter how awesome your house is, or your clothes or your car, regardless of who you marry or what a great musician you are, in the end it all goes by the wayside. We slip out as we slipped in.
At that point, I hope somebody remembers me kindly. I hope there will be little reminders of my having been here --- at least for a little while. We have my Great-Grandmother Mimi's parlor chairs in our front room. They probably belonged to her father first. They're just chairs --- nice, carved, needlepoint, mid-19th century chairs, really, just furniture. What makes them special is the story of who owned them, who passed them down, the family that preserved them, the people who sat in them, the love and continuity that they represent. They could be any old chairs, but they're not. They're Mimi's chairs, and I remember Mimi.
Somehow, the belief is afoot that the richer you are in bank account and material assets, the better a person you are. If you are worth your salt, you have "stuff" to show for it. And God loves you more.
The schizy thing about that is the reverse: if you are poor, there is something wrong with you. If you were a moral, "good" person, you would be blessed by wealth. So obviously, being poor means that you're not in God's good graces. You're an unrepentant sinner.
Now I know that such thinking, in most circles, is not openly espoused, and is often denied outright. In fact, since it's not polite to talk about money -- or at least it didn't used to be -- most such judgments are silent, or whispered among friends. Aloud, we often hear of the nobility of character that comes with poverty: "Her house was shabby, but sparkling clean." "He had mended clothes, but worked hard to overcome his difficulties." Of course, the assumption behind such statements is that with hard work and good character, the reward will be . . . riches!
What leads me to think about such things right now is the dismantling of my mother's material world. As she prepares to move in with us, she has to pare down her belongings once again. Five years ago she owned a beautiful four bedroom home on a wooded acre. It was filled with a limetime's worth of things, collected from living in Europe for 31 years. She took only the most precious things with her to the Independent Living Community, distributing much of the antique furniture and family pieces among children and grandchildren. Now even those will have to go. She's moving into one bedroom. We already have all the dishes and furniture we can handle and then some. Many things will wind up in my sister's new house. Mom's actual belongings will be reduced to the clothes, furniture, papers, pictures and knick-knacks that will fit in her room.
When Mom's father died in 2000, at the age of 98, we took his belongings back to my aunt's house to look at and give to people who wanted them. By that time, all that was left were a couple of cardboard boxes of things and some map cases with old maps. We found his weather diary where he recorded the weather every day for years, often along with one sentence about what happened that day. There was a wooden box with various mementos --- love letters to Grandma from before they were married, his mother's wedding ring, small tools and a few pictures. His life had been full. He'd owned houses and cars and a business. But in the end, he had a box with precious reminders and little else.
I've been thinking a lot about the conditions of life and of death. I picture a baby sliding into the world, all slippery and naked and helpless --- and unknown. As that baby grows into a child and then an adult, many things come along and stick around, but in the end, no matter how the end comes about, there's not one single thing that can make the trip over. We go out with the same thing we had when we arrived. Nothing. You really and truly can't take it with you. No matter how much you accumulate, no matter how awesome your house is, or your clothes or your car, regardless of who you marry or what a great musician you are, in the end it all goes by the wayside. We slip out as we slipped in.
At that point, I hope somebody remembers me kindly. I hope there will be little reminders of my having been here --- at least for a little while. We have my Great-Grandmother Mimi's parlor chairs in our front room. They probably belonged to her father first. They're just chairs --- nice, carved, needlepoint, mid-19th century chairs, really, just furniture. What makes them special is the story of who owned them, who passed them down, the family that preserved them, the people who sat in them, the love and continuity that they represent. They could be any old chairs, but they're not. They're Mimi's chairs, and I remember Mimi.
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