We can see the top of one tiny head, and I’m surmising from its heavy fuzz cover that both eggs hatched a couple of days ago. For the first four days they’re fed crop-milk and then graduate to seeds, so we’ll see increased activity to and fro keeping them satisfied.
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Only a mother’s love, amirite?
DISCLAIMER: We have not touched the babies. We will not touch the babies. These are pics of mourning doves being raised by experts.
We’re loving our front-row seat at the Nature Table, and we’re glad David & Darleen Dove tolerate us so graciously. Okay, baby names? Let’s do this!
Since you’re no doubt wondering, I’m happy to tell you that our new balcony residents are figuring things out quite nicely and adapting to their chosen surroundings. David seems to be made of good stuff and ready for fatherhood, and I found out yesterday that although he stays out all night every. single. night, he’s out there with his ride-or-dies, feeding as a gang for reasons of personal safety, not being drunk and disorderly and annoying the single chicks. He contentedly sleeps all day until Darleen comes home from her own breakfast, lunch, and dinner out, presumably with equally-safe friends, so I’ve stopped cooing at him in English and simply leave him to his rest. They picked us for their own set of reasons and likely the first was for protection. They individually listen to our conversations as we’re in and out, and have never shown the least uneasiness. They stay perfectly still and calm when we speak to them in quiet tones, never ruffling a feather or twitching an eye. Several days in, I’m fairly sure I could pet Darleen and she wouldn’t flinch, but I’m not about to disturb her vigil. If all goes according to plan and they do become parents, David will probably get a little feisty toward approaching landlords/grandparents. He’ll stomp his feet and exercise his wings and no doubt fix us with the evil eye… so we’ll not intrude. Or maybe just a quick look at the baby/babies. The only peek we’ve had inside the nest showed one egg, but the book says there are probably two by now.
It feels excellent that they’re here of their own volition, and David’s drowsy presence behind my chair on warm afternoons is utterly peace-giving. I can hardly remember a day in the past three years when my heart wasn’t in an uproar over something or other, so this little couple’s insistence upon moving in with us is incredibly sweet and timely. To encourage them to rent from us again next spring, we’re considering one of these, placed near this season’s nest, and maybe we’ll even have it up in time for this season’s second brood. They’d customize it in a heartbeat.
It humbles us that David and Darleen observed us for a day or two, decided we were trustworthy, and moved right on in. We know, especially this girl right here, that any given morning could bring heartache because of a ransacked nest, but you have to care about something and for the next month at least, it’s the Dove family.
David and Darleen and their pending family are already making a nicer person of me, so add your “thank-you,” world, you’re the better for it.
David and Darlene Dove blew into town last week on a wing and a prayer. Short on funds and pressed for time, they were experiencing a housing crisis, and having just discovered that Darlene was pregnant, suitable accommodations were an urgent necessity. After checking out one spot after another with no success, Darlene was exhausted and ready to give up when they saw one more place that held promise. It turned out the available space was small but could be made to work under the circumstances, so they met briefly with the landlord and his wife and moved in, hoping for the best. And not a moment too soon, because by the next morning a small white bundle had made its appearance in the new love nest and a clear routine was in place.
David, whose impending fatherhood induced him to settle for less than ideal living conditions, takes the day shift with the bundle, while Darlene gets out of the house, does the shopping, runs errands, maybe makes new friends as things are tough in unfamiliar surroundings. When Darleen gets home around 5:30, she and David exchange information about the preceding hours, and then she settles in while he takes off for points unknown until morning. Believe me, the landlord’s wife notices these things, but it’s none of her business so she doesn’t say anything. Except privately to David on sunny afternoons when he’s trying to sleep, but he never bats an eye so she’s wasting her breath.
The landlord and wifey aren’t bad sorts and they worry about the young couple and their circumstances. They also suspect there’s not one but two small bundles in the new household and wonder if it will all work out. The apartment they’ve let to the couple is truly a fixer-upper, with room for only natural growth, but it IS fully air-conditioned and solar heated and boasts a spectacular view. The landlords, in all honesty, tried to steer them in a better direction, but they were desperate and determined, so… here we all are, making the best of it.
Their roof leaks like it wasn’t even there, but there’s relative safety next to the bricks, and the planter affords shelter from the wind. They’re very tolerant of our presence… I sit six inches from their makeshift home and neither has tried to peck my eyes out yet.
MeetDavid & Darleen Dove
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Darleen preparing to take the overnight watch
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David’s fat little self trying to sleep while the landlady speaks sweet nothings to him
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What we think the nest contains
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Our new renters are American mourning doves, or rain doves, colloquially known as the turtle dove. It is one of the most abundant and widespread of all North American birds and a popular gamebird. Its ability to sustain its population under such pressure is due to its prolific breeding; in warm areas, one pair may raise up to six broods of two young each in a single year. The wings make an unusual whistling sound upon take-off and landing, a form of sonation. The bird is a strong flier, capable of speeds up to 88 km/h (55 mph).
Mourning doves are light gray and brown and generally muted in color. Males and females are similar in appearance. The species is generally monogamous, with two squabs (young) per brood. Both parents incubate and care for the young. Mourning doves eat almost exclusively seeds, but the young are fed crop milk by their parents.
Wikipedia says: A Huron/Wyandot legend tells of a maiden named Ayu’ra (probably more accurately spelled Iohara, a common Iroquois girl’s name today) who used to care for a mourning dove, who came to love her a great deal. One day, the maiden became sick and died. As her spirit traveled across the land to the entrance to the Underworld, all the doves followed her and tried to gain entrance into the Underworld alongside her. Sky Woman, the deity who guards this door, refused them entry, eventually creating smoke to blind them and take Ayu’ra’s spirit away without their knowledge. The smoke stained their feathers gray and they have been in mourning for the maiden’s loss ever since. The logic behind the story is a play on words—the sound many Native Americans attributed to the bird was “howe howe,” and this is also the sound the Iroquoian peoples used to chant over the dead at funerary events.
The above notwithstanding, it’s believed to be good luck when a mourning dove pair chooses you, so we’re going with that and feeling grateful.
I change my desktop wallpaper the way some people change underwear, which is to say at least once a week. I like interesting, energizing change, while generally hating change I didn’t ask for, and the scenery on my toys is an easy fix for boredom and ennui… sometimes. So there’s that.
Easter weekend was quiet here and was also the first Saturday for Farmers’ Market this spring. They always set up a half-block south of us and it was packed over there. I love to see it… the early-morning chatter below our windows, kids running ahead of parents, lots of happy interaction. It’s been going on every year since we moved here, spring through fall, and the stability represents something important to me.
We’ve all been living in a stop-and-start world for enough years now that some of us are almost getting used to the periodic upheaval. I’m in favor of flexibility and adjustment to circumstances, but there are things in life we can’t quietly acquiesce to and tell ourselves to “keep moving, nothing to see here.” The last five years before my spinal surgery in 2021 were almost a write-off, with me spending more than 99% of my time within these walls, so coming out of that I’ve been gung-ho to do a few things to celebrate and respect being able to get around on my own. My timing may be a little off… sometimes you get there too early or just a hair too late, dang the luck… but I’m used to two steps forward followed by one in reverse, so I know the drill. Life has the power to be deadly discouraging, but I hope all the lessons it’s taught me will prove helpful at some point in the imagined future. That would be super cool. I mean, I know the foregoing sounds obscure, but how much patience does an old crone like me really need? A hell of a lot as it turns out. Same with acceptance, serenity, and a lack of dependence on the outside world in general. Life does what it will and we mostly follow like lemmings because we aren’t particularly quick studies in that sense, and whaddaya gonna do? Full disclosure: What we’re gonna do is behave and do what LIFE says, because she’s in charge. (I pledged long ago to tell you the truth in all things.)
In my ongoing quest to learn something new every day that I can take with me, I’m liking this simple graphic. Seems helpful:
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Also this one, which reminds me there are lots of ways to be proactive:
I plead guilty on fully half of these, so okay, challenge accepted.
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Every day of my life so far has been a result of the positive outweighing the negative, and so has yours or you wouldn’t be here. It’s okay to keep believing that things will get better, because they do tend in that direction.
Three mornings from now it will be a new year. We make such a thing about restarts and clean slates that it tends to crank up the pressure right off the top, making the crispy-clean observance something less than joyful, so this time I’m proceeding on the basis that 2023 is NOBODY’S year, we’re all simply going to stroll nonchalantly to the door, peek through the peephole, open the barrier a crack, read the room, and hang around the coffee machine until the convo starts to sort itself out.
For me, 2023 says less is more. My plan, goal, thought, intent is that if and when the year 2024 shows its face, every drawer, shelf, cabinet, closet, space will have been scrutinized severely and lightened of its load. I feel guilty and heavy-laden if I’m harboring goods of the world for which I have no legit use, especially when I can envision others getting the benefit instead. Excess only adds to my anxiety, and one place that’s due for a purge is the desktop I’m typing on at the moment. Thousands of images, files, and folders must go in the name of mental health. It could happen… bit by bit, step by step.
Random thoughts and admonishments, curated to take us into the immediate future…
Alternatively, I might assign myself the task of adopting more freedom and flexibility.
Mid week. Hump day. We’ve almost made it to Santa’s birthday, when an angel comes down the chimney and passes judgement on the snacks provided, taking notes for next year. But first… a special weekend with friends… a bit of family time… and then 2023 shows up all shiny and hopeful. The cycle has faithfully renewed itself each year of my existence so I’m going to assume protocol will be followed once again and we’ll be here for it.
Christmas is a Zen affair in our household. No kiddos around to awe and impress, so after our first two extravagant holiday seasons together we’ve foregone the fuss, skipped the middleman, and celebrated in our hearts without need of trappings. TRANSLATION: We’re lazy heathens no longer full of piss and vinegar for every project. We do, however, have a beautiful poinsettia brought to us by friends which is performing a quite admirable solo gig. There are a few people who know to look out for us a little, and I love it so much because here’s the background: farm kids are trusted with responsibility and expected to sink or swim. Same with farm wives. After all that, when I met Kim I’d been looking after six older people… and then two… and then one. He showed up saying “You’re okay, I got you,” and for the first time in memory my personal safety and future didn’t hinge on my own brave efforts. It feels amazing to realize that someone stronger is taking care of the details. And in that vein, I’m grateful to the friends who “see” us and subtly prop us up as things change. That’s an art because WE ARE NOT GETTING OLD, DAMMIT! so it takes a soupçon of tact.
Current outlook encapsulated:
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So here’s to everyone who takes up the slack… all you real people we depend on in one way or another…
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In every season of life, I feel an urgency to know things, to understand how it all works, to relate my existence to something meaningful… and that’s why I write. My thanks to Caryn Mirriam Goldberg, a past Kansas Poet Laureate, for sharing this quote.
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Whatever the days between Halloween and the New Year mean to you, observe them consciously, absorbing their value, and make good memories.
Look at the time, it’s the next-to-last day of summer already! We have a nice cool morning ahead of our 100º high… the sun’s shining, the mowers are mowing, the fresh-cut grass smells like a benediction… and I enjoyed my morning walk before 7:30. We’re supposed to be in the mid-80s tomorrow, and then autumn greets us on Thursday with a high of 61º and rain, wouldn’t that be perfection. Seemed like kind of a short summer, but they all do now, and we’re ready for the loveliness fall brings.
It’s been a week since I sat here and wrote anything, but not for lack of opportunity and effort. I learned early on that my muse does not reward effort… she values only my trust. First and foremost: coffee, preferably Kim’s, which is steeped in love and not tainted by Starry-eyed capitalism. 😊 Next, quiet and focus, which might not be exactly what you envision. I can stare at a leaf outside my window while I write a whole paragraph without glancing at the keyboard. Is that a marketable talent? SPOILER: No. No, it is not. But it’s a good exercise when it works.
And then, when the quiet settles down around me, we talk, my elusive muse and I. She brooks no untruth, no dissembling, no dancing around the real stuff, and sometimes she simply goes away until I’m ready for it. She knows the world is a hard place to be right now if you possess awareness… that double-edged sword of knowledge. She knows other species don’t have to deal with this aspect of life on earth, so she tries extra hard to be kind while tormenting me with things I could maybe think about.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about loneliness… what it is and what sort of power we hold over it… and as with all of life, it comes down to balance. Kim gets twitchy-butt if he stays indoors for too long, whereas it’s pretty okay with me in here most of the time. It does get really quiet, though, especially without the talking heads on TV news who used to babysit me. What I’ve realized is that often all I crave is the murmur, the presence of other people, and I don’t even need to be part of the conversation. Times when I’m happy to sit in the corner of a coffee shop with my iPad, on the periphery, listening to the ebb and flow of communal existence while bearing no responsibility for decisions being made around me, simply benefitting from the nearness of others who resemble me. And then I toddle back home, thankful for the grace of peace and silence.
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I think about what it means to be an introvert, an empath, a peacemaker, and a relentless advocate for truth and justice, all wrapped up in one neat little neurotic bundle… and mostly it means that at any given time somebody’s really pissed at me and would love to tell me so, and that my spirit is basically conflicted nonstop… but whaddaya gonna do. Refer to description in this paragraph… by the stars, I never had a chance.
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Life is an endless puzzle, but a bit of awareness and longevity go a long way, and eventually, over years of paying attention, a pattern emerges. Humans are selfish and lazy; therefore, life has only a partial shot at running smoothly at any point in time, and given free reign we will screw things up past all fixing. Are we there yet? Feels like we’re there. I saw this yesterday. It’s real. Feel free to google it.
Dealing with the day-to-day is a contact sport not suited for the faint of heart nor the easily discouraged, and that’s without assholery like the above. Ya’ll can have Orange Jesus 100% to yourselves, thx.
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I plan to do the same. Hope it works out that way for you, too.
Got up early, possibly because I was asleep before 9pm last night, or maybe because the barometric pressure sent a wake-up call. Stepped onto the balcony into a wall of humidity that took my breath away. Within minutes the sky lost its budding sunrise, there was jagged lightning in its place, we heard delicious crashes of thunder… and then the deluge hit. For a while it was positively monsoon-like, with trees whipping in all directions, and I see there’s a pot or two tumped over outside. The streetlights are back on for the third time and the rain is again coming down in windblown sheets… meanwhile, I’m being a mouse while Kim sleeps off his second COVID booster. I love a dark, stormy morning… perfect for sleeping babes.
A lot of people in East Lawrence don’t own personal transportation, so there are always walkers out year-round. As the rain gushes from the sky, soaking flora and fauna and sending out wicked flashes of lightning, I’m glad I wasn’t wandering around outside when it hit, and that I put extra effort into yesterday’s walk. When the first steps out of the gate are an easy stroll, it’s time to make it all ache again so I did, and on the homeward lap I thought of the goals that have been at the bottom of my medical assessment sheet for the past five years or more:
Be able to walk for at least an hour without nerve pain
Spend more time with my sister, and finish things I’ve started
Wow, done and done… and starting a few new ones. Amazing how that works, and it’s a real gift to be able to use my time constructively since those hours will pass one way or another anyway and be gone!
This morning under dark skies that somehow feel promising, I’m proud of my state for once again leading the nation in a moral human issue just as we did with slavery, and for not buying into a desperate last-ditch lie. It gives me crazy hope for a future.
When in doubt, ask “What Would John Brown Do??“
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And now I shall spend the remainder of my morning here… please enjoy yours fully.
If writing is one of your best emotional outlets, you know it doesn’t take much to plant the seed of a thought. I was out for my walk just now, in the early morning cool, and in that relatively brief span of time my senses were stirred in more ways than one.
I’m still opting for flat sidewalks ’til the spine says move on again, so that keeps me within the general downtown area, where early mornings are quiet, with mostly dog walkers and food delivery trucks for company. The route I picked out of the hat this time took me past the Salvation Army building, whose yard is currently hosting a tatty old recliner that must be holding onto several gallons of ammonia. Somebody haul that thing off, ‘k? My senses were definitely awake from that point on.
Once normal breathing returned, I started picking up the breakfast aromas along Mass Street and was ready to make the return loop toward home. Just outside our building I met a neighbor out walking a very beautiful, gentle dog with eyes that looked almost human. My neighbor introduced her as Rosie and said that she’s just recently rescued her from a puppy mill where Rosie was a breeder bitch. After successful pregnancies, Rosie exhibited a false one and was kicked out of the facility. No babies, no eat. No shelter, no care, no love, no survive. Beautiful sweet Rosie is clearly one of the lucky ones… she got out. And she’s sleek and healthy and not broken down… because she got out. But Rosie’s lonely. She misses her babies and her sisters. So my neighbor is on the list to get a puppy from one of Rosie’s sisters, who is due to deliver any day. And I hope Rosie’s sadness will turn to healing. I know, still breeders, but we fix one thing and then work on the rest. My heightened senses (thx, pee-soaked chair) are still rolling it around between heart and brain… and that spot inside that says “You see more than you understand.”
A sweet scenario would have been for a good girl like Rosie to meet a nice baby-daddy and settle in with him to raise however many litters of puppies they were blessed with… to be well cared-for… and to die at a peaceful old dog age without ever having been forced into any of it. That’s what my eyes see… my heart will work on the understanding. And already it’s saying “Every girl’s a good girl ’til life happens. And then she’s still a good girl, it’s just public perception that changes.”
Tomorrow will be the coolest day this week at 89º, then mid to upper 90s after that for the foreseeable. Mornings are prime and on this one I managed to kick myself out the door after doing less than nothing all day yesterday. I love wandering around East Lawrence… there are no two houses alike, and I see something new every morning. There’s art everywhere… on the porches and in yards… not for sale, but because artists on this end of town are crawling out of the woodwork and then carving it into fantastical shapes. I’ve been staying on good sidewalks for a little while… just a stage in the process… but I’m about ready for all-out hiking with Rita again when it isn’t dangerously stifling outside.
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The fallout from the Supremes’ ill-advised meltdown continues, and it affects every one of us who values herself as a person, especially since it takes some of us a lifetime to get there after being “groomed” to believe we’re weak, ineffective, wrong, and less-than. I was close to 60 before I started really getting to know and appreciate myself, and this official smackdown feels personal despite the fact that I turned in my baby-making equipment decades ago. It was never about babies anyway… it’s always been about power and control. For all the reasons, I have a problem with that approach, and I know I’m not the only one. Millions of women are still consistently voting against their own safety and well-being, but millions more know we’ve been had from the beginning, and I doubt your run-of-the-mill man-on-the-street has a clue how deep that current runs. We can’t please everyone, nor is that our reason for existing.
Why would I care… I’m old, right? Why do I even harbor an opinion? What if half my fellow Americans want me to fade out and shut up about all of it? Sorry, not that old yet. I go on Twitter in the mornings and wave my freak flag around for a while, happily giving a heart to everything I agree with, mouthing off, venting, picking up a few laughs… then wander away to Facebook with my adult face on (sometimes). I’m harmless, if annoying, and people should be grateful I don’t have the piss & vinegar to be an actual problem, which is true of most “old” people I know. Word of advice: Don’t turn your back on us.
I say we purposely go about changing the perception that we’re accessories who are better seen but not heard in public…
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General male wisdom** holds that feelings and emotions interfere with real life, but Mansi and I say…
**My personal husband Kim Smith is exempt from all such aspersions.
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Apropos of nothing, and reflecting only a mood of fond reminiscence…
Good morning, fellow conspirators, I hope your day’s spooling out in proper order so far. In my own little world, I was gently awakened with the words “There’s a bagel waiting for you,” and indeed there was. Everything… toasted… still warm…with veggie schmear… after which I was ready for anything, so I walked to Massachusetts… and from there to the Kaw to watch it roar and tumble. I stay close to the head-high railing because lots of bicyclists go back and forth on the walkway and I can’t always hear their shouted “On your right” or “on your left.” This morning I waited for someone on a bright yellow bike to pass, but instead the rider slowed and pulled to a stop. He turned out to be a very cheerful skinny old man my age who immediately struck up a conversation about how much water continues to sluice through town from the west. Turns out he’s a retired professor from Baker University by way of Atlanta, lives not far from downtown, loves to ride the bridge, and has a knack for making somebody’s day. Old people are so precious… if you make eye contact we’ll talk to you, so watch yourself, but we do know shit and we feel seen when somebody acts marginally interested.
From the category of Unsought Information… you see me talking about walking to various states. Here’s the deal… I’ve always heard that our north/south streets were named in the order the states entered the union, so here’s what I did, I googled it. Right there’s the fraction of difference between thinking you know something and finding out. Here’s what I found…
ARE LAWRENCE’S STATE STREETS REALLY NAMED FOR STATES IN THE ORDER THEY CAME INTO THE UNION?
Great question! The answer is, sort of. Here are the states by order of entry into the Union. If you go by this list, the state streets in Lawrence are numbers 1, 2, 3, 11, 5, 13, 9, 6 (Massachusetts). Then numbers 14 (Vermont) through 27 (Florida) are in perfect order. Then it goes 32, 30, 38, 31, 29 (Iowa). It seems that after Iowa Street, the city planners pretty much gave up. Here is a great article on the reasons (or lack thereof) behind this order. It’s interesting to note many of the southern states were purposefully left out.
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Okay, there ya’ go, make of it what you will… or can. My job is to keep walking cross-country.
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Currently making the rounds online is a rant that requires a second and third look and a well-measured rebuttal, which someone has been kind enough to provide. I hope everyone on social media who reads the first installment will also read the second. The first makes one kind of statement, the second another.
From the article accompanying the quotes:
“The most interesting thing about the initial post is the sense of victimization coming from the original poster. It seems to say that having to pay attention to issues of justice and civil rights and being asked to acknowledge the ongoing impact of historical oppression and what role each of us might play in keeping others down somehow takes something away from them.
“Being asked to see and care about victims of injustice doesn’t make you a victim yourself. The logic there is so strange. And what does it mean to shove being gay down someone’s throat? Because of course it would be reasonable to push back against someone actually cramming something down your throat, but in this context ‘shove it down my throat’ usually means ‘did something publicly in my line of vision.’ Not the same thing.”
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A commenter said: “I spend so much time surrounded by straight guys who talk about nothing except women’s bodies and sex, but my pride flag bumper sticker is apparently throwing my sexuality in people’s throats.”
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See interpretation below…
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We want to believe that the divisions are many, but it’s really all one thing and nobody wants to deal with it down to a nubbin until it’s actually solved… how to survive together on a small planet.
It’s a beautiful 4th of July, but it’ll be a quiet one… nobody in this house is in the mood to celebrate the recent annulment of independence on what was a holiday in its honor. Independence is solely for straight white Christian men, so all the glorious speeches today about what it means to live free or die will ring hollow and mean little. Fireworks are a sad joke… they torture innocent animals while everything goes up in smoke and noise, truly a metaphor for the day. Women have been put firmly back in our “place” which we’re supposed to “know” and adhere to. It’s been made crystal clear that we are brood mares, entitled to room and board but tasked with every responsibility men don’t care to own. And since the Court has for the first time in its history REMOVED rights from U.S. citizens, we can realistically kiss them ALL goodbye. So far, we’ve seen the demise of women’s hard-fought right to manage our own bodies, the striking down of birth control rights and freedom even for married couples, and the right of every human to breathe clean air. Now Clarence and Company are taking a second look at Obergefell, and anyone who thinks the right to marry the person you love won’t be erased… is delusional. As the dominoes continue to fall, swerving conspicuously around Clarence’s mixed marriage, once illegal and calling for death-by-citizen, they’ll get to our right to vote, and women will truly be out on our ear. But none of this is new nor recent… Abigail Adams’ entreaties to her husband were made nearly 250 years ago.
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We stand helplessly by as we watch democracy being systematically dismantled, the power of change having been removed from our hands while we weren’t watching. It’s all very sad and maddening, and in the end inevitable. Self-government requires that everybody pull their weight, contribute to the good of all, stay informed, and vote. We’ve lost much of that, along with the capacity to face truth, deal with it head on, and make the changes required to actually fix anything. Thus, the oligarchs are taking over, the Supremes are legislating from the bench, the legislature is ruling from the minority, and the presidency has been damaged and weakened. We came within a hair’s breadth of tyranny on January 6 of last year, and we are nowhere close to being out of danger as a nation. If there are American citizens left who feel an urging to help set things right, now would be the time.
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Crucial to bear in mind…
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And it contains no glee nor happiness.
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I wish everyone an honest July 4th, eyes wide open. Celebrate the wins, grieve the losses. Fully own the independent spirit that lives inside you, a force no one but you can cancel. Stay strong… Lady Liberty’s about to go through some things and she needs our support. And to quote John Prine, “I still love America, I just don’t know how to get there anymore.”
This was a ridiculous week to run out of my antidepressant and forget to pick it up… the week the Supremes decided to burn it all down. And now I’m awake early on a rainy Saturday morning, reading headlines. Just saw one alluding to Evangelical Republicans’ delight and joy at the pain they’ve managed to cause for women, for the environment, for the security of same-sex marriage, for the warp and woof of U.S. daily life. Looked at the article behind the headline and its tone was one of crowing success, disdain for human emotions and conditions, and overflowing with we-won-you-lost glee. The fact that it makes conservatives so happy when we’re sad tells me it would be a long trek back to actual relationship, and maybe that’s how they prefer it… throwing it all in our face and walking away.
Words are so freaking cheap, made that way by improper and dishonest usage. It’s a trip of the tongue to say you love someone, a trick of the brain to vote for people who will hurt them. I see younger people saying again that both parties are the same, the mindsets are identical, nobody’s to blame for anything, everybody’s to blame for everything, none of it means squat. They’re mostly young enough not to have memories of what fascism did to Germany, was allowed to do, was invited in to perpetrate, so I don’t take their declarations very seriously. There are two mindsets at work in the nation, and they have little in common. One has heart behind it, the other fear and control. One leads to life, the other death. It’s distressing to watch people cling to lies and desperation… on the other hand, I cannot help them without removing their freedoms as ours are being dismantled. One thing conservatives aren’t taking into account in their celebrations is that the Supremes’ decision to sacrifice the environment in favor of money will affect each of them in equal fashion with the liberals they want to end. Unless we have a few kabillion extra bucks lying around, we’re all eventually going to die the same suffocating death, so maybe don’t laugh too hard or too soon.
It’s always about the meanness, the cruelty, about how much butt-hurt people can cause to fellow citizens who are just trying to get through life. Where does that come from? What shapes one party of people into a given mindset, world view, automatic response? What has molded conservatives in such a way that the first thought is to PUNISH? To make people PAY for their supposed wrong-thinking. To line all the ducks up with a laser and forbid them to move. Where did they get the idea that they need to tell every individual what to do and how to live? And that by not following their edicts, we’re sinning. Clarence Thomas, having scuttled women’s right to full personhood… the right of married couples to use the birth control method of their choice… and the right-to-life of humans who need to breathe Earth’s air going forward by quashing climate change response… now wants to take another look at the case which decided same-sex marriage. He of course hasn’t mentioned Loving v Virginia, which makes his own mixed-race marriage to Ginni possible. After Clarence leaves, they’ll dump that one too, if not before. If Ginni ends up being indicted for the 1/6 insurrection, all bets are off.
In these years, with every part of life in turmoil and all of it changing, I’m okay with the fact that we’re two nations. We always have been, so we might as well accept it, deal with it, and try to live through it since our basic differences haven’t always kept us literally at war with each other. Until the major issues can be resolved, the two-nation thing keeps us from grabbing each other’s throats in any organized way, so it’s a necessary buffer, which is no doubt why we’ve built it, all of us, working together. Imagine that…
What’s left to say… after days spent digesting the Supremes’ breathtaking display of misogyny, gun mania, white supremacy, and transparent fascist yearnings, the anger only grows, deepens, and takes on a life of its own, all of which is patently unhealthy. It isn’t that we didn’t know… we’ve been well aware on some level since we realized we were the opposite sex that we’re also, by default, the inferior sex. Oh, but never mind… ask any incel, sex is sex, and women are what’s here for the taking. We’ve been shown once again that as females in our society we have no standing or input regarding our own selves, and especially as regards reproduction… you know, like livestock. Our thoughts, wants, needs, health, or well-being have no meaning to the males in charge – we exist simply as seed-bearers, the bringers of continued life on the planet, with our own humanity disregarded. Nor do they actually give a rat’s ass about the fetuses involved.
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In two months I’ll be 75 years old, so clearly the discussion doesn’t concern me. Except that it does because it’s a moral issue of the highest order. We’re not allowed to so much as harvest organs after someone dies unless they personally signed off on it pre-exit, so women officially have less control over our body parts than a corpse. Both my mom and g’ma would be dismayed to see this day… pretty sure they thought the struggle for equal humanity would have been resolved by now. We’re a family of optimists.
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I get angry… injustice is my lifelong nemesis. I vent on social media, posting a flurry of righteously indignant comments and memes until the poison starts to leach out of my system. And then I go to ground again, much to the relief of my long-suffering friends and contacts. Meanwhile, nothing has changed except that the atmosphere has grown a little more toxic everywhere.
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I wish I were less helpless to kindle positive change. I’ve felt pretty comfortable in this country for most of my life, which in itself is a clear acknowledgement of privilege, but the U.S. isn’t everything we were taught to believe it was as school children… sad but no longer shocking. We’re not all that… some days we’re not any of it. Are we even still TRYING to get it right? Honest answers only.
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A message for the power-driven …
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Reality being what it is, certain attitude adjustments are required from time to time, so I’m making a big note of this today and getting on with it.
This morning it struck me that ten years after following John’s suggestion to start a blog, I’m still here. You know the old question, “Where do you see yourself in five years… ten years?” If anyone has ever gotten that one totally right, I’d love to meet them. The past ten years have been packed with events, milestones, eruptions, and weirdness… who among us could have predicted COVID and its ongoing effects? And now someone I love is miserably ill with it for a second time, despite two shots, two boosters, and vigilance, so it’s never going away. We’re stuck in the circumstances of our own ignorance and inflexibility… twin curses of being human.
Speaking of which… the effects of ignorant inflexible human behavior are on display every few days now in the 1/6 hearings, showing us how deeply entrenched kakistocracy has become. Just as during Watergate, it’s demoralizing to hear and read the things said and done by people who were elected to work for the good of all. The money they’ve made off with. The laws they’ve broken. The lives they’ve destroyed. Apparently it’s necessary, every fifty years or so, to hold up a mirror so Miss American Pie can see if she’s done yet. The assessment from here is that she’s on life support, hemorrhaging, her coffers raided, and she’s being stripped for parts by the worst of the worst. It’s an uphill climb for people of goodwill who want her healthy and happy. More of an Everest, really.
Where we find ourselves…
Truth can shock us upon first hearing.
I have yet to meet the elephant I won’t discuss. As Kim likes to say, “I ain’t skeered,” and there’s very little that has the power to back me off of issues I care about. In this third trimester of living, it feels like there’s less to lose by simply being me. If what I say here or outside my door drives you crazy, makes you want to hurt me, beat me, make me write bad checks… that’s a you problem. For me, a diary with accountability has been just the ticket for getting through the past ten years of intense stress and change, and I owe a deep debt of gratitude to John for his discernment and wise advice. Also apologies for embarrassing him on the regular, but he did ask for it, when you think it out…
This is all coming from an old girl who cares far less about far more things than she used to… and far more about the things that actually matter.
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Welcome to my weekly blog on life's happiness. We are all human and we all deserve to smile. Click a blog title or scroll down. Thanks for stopping by.
Creative humour, satire and other bad ideas by Ross Murray, an author living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, Canada. Is it truth or fiction? Only his hairdresser knows for sure.
Playing for Time 
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