Nobody seems to know what happened to October, but November showed up this morning so we must keep the line moving. The good thing is that it’s traditionally a beautiful month, full of plans and anticipation for many, a time to start the pre-hibernation ritual for most. The clock returns to its rightful setting (and oh that “they” would LEAVE it there), while darkness falls like a theatre curtain by 5:30 and earlier. Messes with my head all the way to my toes every time “they” tweak reality, so Greenwich Mean Time year ’round would be super-great, thanks.
As we streak toward the end of a year that feels three months long, everything in our nation and elsewhere is in a state of flux. Our entire way of life is under assault, with wildly disturbing things happening every day without fail, and there’s not a damn thing any of us can do about it. It’s heartbreaking to think there are still people who watch what’s going on and say, “Yes, this is exactly what I wanted,” or at the least, “Nope, not a dealbreaker yet.” I wish I had answers. I wish SOMEbody did.
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Most everything gets better eventually so let’s all keep on keeping on.
Abundant August rains have brought us to a lush September, and fall should be a show of color. I love all of autumn but I may be prejudiced toward the month of September since it contains my birth date (today) so just know I’m doing some extra thinking. I staggered into a Facebook site last week called WDNC, populated by women WhoDoNotCare, and it’s as therapeutic as you might already imagine. In that vein and a spirit of celebration:
IDNC that I’ve never, in all these years, managed to fit the mold. Full disclosure, I still don’t even know where and what it is, so I guess that gives us the pertinent information right there, hm.
IDNC that on the little things I’m wrong more often than right, that’s just bad luck. On the BIG things I’m far more often right.
IDNC that I alone can say what qualifies as large or small in life.
There are many things I genuinely no longer care about and most of them are things I should never have cared about at all, so passing birthdays are good for perspective and a few other concepts like longevity, which reminds me… I’m not old. Not yet. Both of my grandmothers saw 96 with their minds in working order and I call that incentive. My mom had me in the same September in which she turned 20, so I always knew exactly how old she was. This year she would be 98 and likely still wouldn’t be “old,” so there’s some more perspective.
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The state of human existence being what it is, I offer one piece of advice from this vantage point: Whatever it is, do it NOW.
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And everybody still gets one special birthday wish, right?
Opinion | Pardon our devastation. Millions of you put a criminal in the White House.
Pardon our devastation. More than 75 million of our fellow citizens put a malevolent, criminal madman in the White House. We’ve watched you embrace him as he destroys your faith in science, education, and our government. You stuck with him after he lied and incited a deadly insurrection. You champion him as he demonizes and endangers nonwhite immigrants. You swallow his ridiculous lies about our public schools doing “sex change” surgeries. You ignore his plans to reverse the rights of our LGBTQ brothers and sisters, even when you have loved ones that this will profoundly affect. You numbly nod as he repeatedly speaks of black jobs. Not a flicker of alarm when he stated immigrants were “poisoning the blood of our country.” You support his promises to destroy families with immigrant camps and mass deportations. You cheer for him as he promises revenge on his political opponents. You excused him when he demeaned our dead war heroes. You ignore that he is a convicted felon, found liable for rape.
For eight years, the rest of America has made excuses for you. You’re brainwashed. Misinformed by Fox commentary. But that no longer tracks. You heard the words straight from his mouth. Even low information voters know he was convicted of 34 felony counts. That he was found liable for rape. His vile words and behavior don’t matter to you. You’re either in it for the promised tax break or the lawlessness or the hate. But you’re all in.
Decent Americans can no longer ignore or navigate our moral incompatibility with you. That is why so many people were devastated last week. We didn’t just lose an election. We lost friends and family and neighbors to a vision of America that is corrupt and dishonorable and cruel. We’re grappling with the reality that everything we ever learned about kindness, decency, honesty, respect, patriotism, fairness, and democracy has been relinquished by half of our citizens. We optimistically hoped that deep down, you were better than this. We learned you weren’t.
So what you now see aren’t liberal tears over a lost election. It’s brutal grief over our losses of friends and family who no longer share our understanding of right and wrong and what it means to be a decent citizen. And it’s fear for our daughters and our minority friends and neighbors who now have targets on their backs. We won’t expect you to feel shame. Our new clarity assures us you’ll laugh or shrug this off, turn on Fox News, and continue to gorge yourselves on immigrant crime, hate porn, and the evils of feeding school children a free lunch. You’ll consume more nonsense about how men supporting women turns them into women. Your hate and fear control you.
In my view, you are now inextricably connected to the man you support. When the next Asian woman is assaulted, you will be one of the attackers. When families are ripped apart and put in camps, you will be one of their guards. When another woman dies from a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, you’re one of the people barring the door to her doctor. When the next trans woman or gay man is beaten up, your foot is on their throat. You voted to hurt people and that is unacceptable.
What your guy refers to as the Lunatic Left, Communist Left, Radical Left, will still be here. We won’t don cult gear, denigrate our flag or corrupt the term “patriot.” We won’t grab our guns and bear spray and storm the Capitol. We’ll organize locally in an effort to protect the targets of your cruelty. We’ll push back against the destruction of our public schools. We’ll stand between racist and target; misogynist and our daughters. We’ll teach our children and grandchildren the difference between tolerance of people’s differences and tolerance of hate. We’ll work our jobs, pay our bills and our taxes, and love our families. We just won’t be doing it in relationship with you anymore than is absolutely necessary.
Jan Scherrer is a speech language pathologist and mother of two who lives in Versailles, Ky., and I’m honored to reprint her here.
Here we are, kids, facing trauma of a sort that hasn’t been seen within our shores until now. It’s a heavy thing, watching night close in, knowing our way of life is more than likely ending in favor of a terrifying unknown. But as the numbness and DENIAL start to wear off a bit our psyches move into other stages of grief, and next up is ANGER. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross taught us that the five primary grief levels are DENIAL, ANGER, BARGAINING, DEPRESSION, and ACCEPTANCE, but also that those levels don’t remain in a nice neat order or follow an easy progression, and let me just say that ANGER feels like it’s setting in for the longterm. I mean, who the hell would I BARGAIN with anyway… I’ve had quite enough of DEPRESSION over the last decade… and ACCEPTANCE? Seriously?
There’s no accepting that my Black and Brown friends’ lives will become infinitely more fraught with danger, my trans friends will be exposed to unspeakable jeopardy, my gay friends and family will have to make decisions about safe places to live, somewhere on the planet, anyone who is different will be subject to scrutiny requiring them to justify their own existence. Lives will be in a state of upheaval for the foreseeable future so I can find no form of acceptance in my heart for the fact that people I once trusted have bowed the knee to a madman filled with hatred for the world and everything in it.
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The people who voted in favor of fascism seem to think we’ve simply had another transition from one political party to another, when what we’ve done is shifted into an entirely new way of being, and we don’t know yet what that will look like. Those same people believe they’re the favored ones and what happens to us won’t happen to them.
They know not what they’ve done.
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Nothing about the next four years and the ones thereafter will be easy, so we’ll all definitely know what we’re made of if we survive intact. There are things to keep in mind as dusk approaches:
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The world we wanted, the one where everybody gets to be who they are, is still a bridge too far and we see that now, don’t we. I’ve unbelieved a lot of things, but I’ll always believe that beautiful world exists… if only we knew how to live in it.
It’s officially fall and the weather has been changing for a while now, by which I mean every day into something different from the day before. Apparently we’ve just emerged from a season called False Fall and are now into Second Summer. We’ll see where it goes from here, observing as spectators while Weather does what it will do.
Fall is always a melancholy reflective season, and true to form my thoughts have been a concoction of things heavy and light, happy and sad, profound and sublimely ridiculous. In the midst of all that I started a list the other day of personal do’s and don’ts in life’s third trimester. There’s no place I yearn to return to, so life has just one direction… forward. And I needed a little self-help with that, thus the list. The points are for me, not for advice, but if something resonates with you don’t hesitate to claim it for yourself.
So, in no special order, as they popped into my head:
I’ve stopped going to funerals, for all the reasons. My all-time personal hero oncology nurse showed me I’m not a bad person for skipping out. Do life while it’s here, no regrets, because if you’re not careful the ceremonies will overwhelm actual living.
I don’t give money to politicians unless they’re running at grassroots level and don’t have big resources. The rest start with kajillions and then ask ME for money? And then for MORE, repeatedly??
I try not to schedule morning appointments because they’re an unnecessary assault on my senses. There’s a window between lunch and dinner when I’m fully awake and human, so life outside my door is best if it happens during the afternoon hours. You know, if possible.
I don’t take advice from people whose moral code I can’t respect. People say lots of words, but when they give legs to their coldheartedness I walk away.
I don’t chase people. If you’re my friend you just are, end of story, and we always pick up where we left off.
I don’t argue online or anywhere else except for the shit I give Kim. Arguing is a demeaning process and rarely produces anything positive. People think what they think, me included.
To save misunderstandings and exhausting back & forths, I spare most people my presence most of the time. This Pollyanna has gotten over the delusion that we’re going to land on the same page and feel comfortable together again, if we ever were.
After being around older people forever, and taking care of six of them for twelve years, I had a pretty clear idea what aging would involve. Ha, ya’ think? Every day brings a surprise you weren’t waiting for, every year new challenges, things aren’t static, they change constantly, your body betrays you and so does your head. You can experience these things second-hand without absolutely KNOWING them, so expect the unexpected.
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9. Very little anymore requires my complete and undivided attention. I can still pull it up when necessary and I take it out for the occasional walk to keep it in shape. It’s on reserve, just behind the lala-life I prefer. But since complete and undivided usually denotes a problem of some sort I avoid it every way possible.
10. Mail is the bane of my existence. Doesn’t matter, snail mail or online, I can’t stick to my resolve to open every piece of information every single day, so I’m left with bulk mail that means nothing to anybody… except for THAT ONE PIECE that can’t be discarded on penalty of law!!!
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11. I have no energy for trying to convert people to a life outlook that begins with kindness. Those are the people who will talk their hair down trying to convince me how Christian they’ve always been, while fearing and despising everyone and everything not like them.
12. I’ve loved people all my life who have silently hated everything I care about while also finding me an entertaining source of gossip. That’s okay, Karma knows. The true challenges come when people I care about hate people I love. Simply a bridge too far, so adjustments have to be made.
13. If everyone suddenly liked learning new things and putting new ideas to work, the world would look shinier overnight.
There. A baker’s dozen, take or leave.
And one more: Everyone who doesn’t want fascism to replace democracy on American soil should have a current passport at the ready because we can’t see the immediate nor long-term future. The German population, right about now, thought everything was going to be okay. It wasn’t. Things are changing rapidly across our nation, which has been instantly reflected on social media, but all optimism has to be tempered with the memory of past horrifying October surprises and other killing disappointments.
The United States may continue as an intact entity or it may not. Either way, the election will be over someday, we must assume, and I’ll revert to Ms. Nice Person Who Doesn’t Talk About Things We Simply Don’t Talk About. And if the good guys win I’ll be a more accessible, less irritated old girl, more inclined to entertain the lighter side of living. What I will never be able to do is forget what so many people showed me and the rest of the world about themselves, people we once thought we knew and identified with.
It’s been an unnerving era, with ugliness abounding and hate winning out a lot of the time. I’ll open the door to my 80s in three years… how many of the wounds, how much of the heartbreak, do you think we could heal in that time frame, just for starters? I so hope the world won’t feel as cold and lonesome as it has over the past ten years and more. I’ve learned this much: being a nice person doesn’t cut it anymore, the world has changed. I’ve changed too… but I was raised to be nice and it feels okay as long as I don’t forget what truth looks like. Does America remember?
Favorite kind of Saturday. Soft, quiet… rain showers moving through. Muted conversations below us as people go back and forth to Farmers Market all morning. We sat on the balcony with our coffee at 6:30, counting the seconds between spectacular lightning flashes and their answering thunder, guessing how close we were to getting fried. I mean, if you’re not livin’ on the edge you’re takin’ up too much space, amirite?
Kim went over to the Market at the crack of 7:30, which is opening time, so he could be first in line for the flowers. So competitive this man, which is reassuring. He’d save me from any oncoming threat, no hesitation, so I’ll take it. He said the lady hadn’t unpacked yet because of the rain, but out of three or four crates of flowers there was only one bouquet with a sunflower in it, which of course had his name on it. Mission accomplished, home to make breakfast. It’s been twenty years of the same old Saturday morning breakfast, same old incredible flavors, same blessed comfort food, every single week, thank you Universe! I’ve signed up for another twenty, with option to renew at any point in time.
This week was the “time to pay the piper” kind. Had my sixth MOHS procedure yesterday and am waiting to get a look at my surgeon’s handiwork after enough hours have passed. They’re all the result of childhood sunburns and each is a unique challenge. This one will likely leave a decent pirate-slash scar, but it’s where I’d have to call someone’s attention to it or they’ll never notice it. Likely. Hopefully. Doesn’t matter. Slings and arrows are proof that we’ve lived. Stickin’ to that story.
Since most of life involves zigzagging between the whizzing arrows and tossing off the slings, I’m sending kudos, hugs, love, and respect to all the brave women of every age, wherever you are, who are doing just that. Don’t stop, girls, we’re earning our stripes with this one.
We’re in mid-winter thaw here, false spring, whatever description fits. It’s a gray rainy morning in the 50s, all our snow gone, a few people actually walking around in shirtsleeves. We’ll no doubt pay for this nice little hiatus but it’s sweet for now.
We have Jayhawk men’s basketball in the Fieldhouse this afternoon. Houston, new to the Big 12, is favored over us by a hair, so we’ll hope DaJuan, KJ, Kevin, Johnny, Hunter, Elmarko, and the rest of the force have more than a hair’s worth of difference in reserve today.
It’s been a good week here, in spite of a few mitigating circumstances. Monday was stitch-removal for the Mohs surgery on my nose and I walked out no homelier than when I walked in last week so I’m counting that as a win.
Speaking of wins, we got another one in the Fieldhouse on Tuesday night against OSU. Needed that.
Wednesday I had a consult with a doctor Kim sees and for whom he has tremendous respect. The medical part of the visit turned out to be a mere sideline, but what struck me all over again is how fortunate we are to live in the midst of the KU Med Center community. The professional level of care we’ve received here and the innate kindness we encounter in every office can’t be acknowledged enough. The dedicated and talented medical personnel we deal with month by month add a crucial layer to our quality of life that can’t be bought.
Wednesday evening brought something I’ve waited years to see… my husband not just playing guitar with other people, but singing with them. Out loud. I’ve been a little mouse behind the amp over the years as he’s steadily gotten better through hours of playing every day… but he’s always said he can’t sing. Welp, as God is my witness, if you pair his voice with one or two others that hit the right marks, I’ll listen all night. He can sing. On his own terms. It was a sweet evening.
The interesting thing about the foregoing is that it all took place under a blanket of depression that dropped onto me before I woke up Monday morning. Happens often enough that I’m used to the drill: cry first thing and get it over with; set that soul-suck package back and to the left where I can’t see it; proceed with living. I’ve learned that there’s no way to explain depression to people who’ve never really been there. They want it to be ABOUT something because that sounds fixable. There are contributing factors, but mostly depression just IS and for me the best cure is to wait it out and never let it win. I like a challenge, so don’t tell the person doing it that it can’t be done.
Three hours until game time and I’m seeing the overflow from Mass Street. Lots of cars, more than the usual number of people coming in on foot from East Lawrence dressed in KU colors, a certain buzz you can feel here even on overcast days. I love it so much, and what I tell depression is “But look how happy I feel underneath all the unwelcome angst. Look how grateful I am for life. You can go away now and save us both a lot of time and trouble.”
And if you think that incantation works like magic I still have a little bit of swampland left to sell.
How was your Thanksgiving, or is it still ongoing? Was there pumpkin pie for breakfast this morning? It was a sweet time here, just Kim, me, and Rita, all the good food you could want, and a deep spirit of gratefulness.
Since slipping into the rarified air of a new age level this year, with 80 only four years down the road, I’ve been more acutely aware of some of the changes that accompany the process. One is that holidays, more than ever, show up as opportunities for reflection, whether we like it or not. From the Kids’ Table, to supreme kitchen duties, to the chair where the eldest in the family sits, everything… absolutely everything… changes. By this point everything that matters has made itself known, choices are clear and obvious, and life just IS.
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My 76th year has been supremely challenging in ways I couldn’t have foreseen, causing me to rethink this “getting older” idea. The sudden realization that after you finally get all the stuff stowed and redistributed from your last move ten years ago, along with other pending projects, there’s really not that much to do… has been a shock to my system. It left me berating myself for not having planned better for my “Golden Years,” because NOW WHAT? Little challenges handled, life okay for my loved ones, who am I NOW?
Thursday’s laid-back comfort and coziness brought a much-needed revelation sinking into my conscious mind: I did indeed plan wisely by cultivating the things I really love… reading, writing, solitude, my people. Those are the things that will never leave me, nor will I lose my need of them. The closest I ever came to being an athlete was six years as a cheerleader, but I do like to walk, and now I can, thanks to my beloved young neurologist. I live with a beautiful soul who loves me, feeds me, and tries to understand me. So it appears that life is good, I just need to ditch the guilt over no longer being very productive, and enjoy it. Steep hill for an anxiety-ridden eldest child with impossible personal standards, but here we go ’cause I’m not done yet.
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My friend Barlow is a beast at dealing with what life throws at him. And he’s right.
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As we open the door to the Christmas season and its various meanings around the world…
It’s the weekend again, with another Farmers Market underway by the time I woke up, bringing hearty breakfast aromas to my balcony. The “fallness” in the air made it all even better than usual so I took extra time to appreciate it before the first freeze takes its toll.
We have one remaining Dove chick in residence, but we expect him to take off any time now. After his sister Dinky didn’t survive, all the groceries clearly went to Dante because he’s huge for a fledgling. He sits in the nest like a junior potentate while David and Darleen leave him on his own for long stretches of time. Lately he’s been perching on the balcony rail next to his hideout, looking very ready to get the heck outta Dodge, so our hosting days may ACTUALLY be coming to an end until spring.
As our available daylight shrinks and some of us inevitably turn introspective, I’m resolving to use the resultant melancholy and reflection as building blocks this time around. Feels like a refreshing take on things so I’m here for it and I hope the “sleep and renewal” season will be just as positive for you.
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NOTE: Kim just checked the nest. Empty. Dante is either out for flying lessons or has said his goodbyes already. Godspeed, tiny Buddha.
On a pristine September morn like this, anything begins to seem possible. It’s a sweet 66°, the sky is blue and cloudless, and Farmers Market is in full swing down the block. Our parking lot is full of #lfk peeps of every age and description, and the sourdough donut kiosk is doin’ tha biz again. They’re excellent, but our loyalties are with the local Muncher’s cheesecake vanilla-frosted rolls. I’ve added one to my birthday wish-list.
Our predicted high temp is 98° with over 70% humidity, so the benign morning will slide us into a grand funk of sweat and steam, but that’s latah today and all week… high 90s. Not a problem, just a challenge, and on we go.
First headline to cross my feed this morning was the news that Jimmy Buffett has left us for that spot where “If there’s a heaven for me, I’m sure it has a beach attached.” He was my precise age and isn’t the first of our boomer rockers to go… I think immediately of Tom Petty, a true “baby” and real heartbreak… as the inevitable future absence of each icon fully registers. They changed an entire era, those people: Queen, The Who, The Stones, The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Carlos Santana, Simon and Garfunkel, Carly Simon, Stevie Nicks, a long illustrious list of influencers and sheer joy-bringers too massive to comprehend, including and especially every Black musician who birthed the genre. In a world where we can’t be sure it won’t all crumble to dust tomorrow, the goodbyes are hard. How do we let go of the people who defined our formative years when we don’t know what’s really left to us at this point? We just do. It’s how each generation survives and moves on. We do it as the ground grows spongy under our feet and the markers fade like old newsprint, we do it brokenhearted and afraid, reluctant, dragging our feet, knowing full well that this is OUR generation hanging it up and taking its leave. In a time when life in general has been nearly a bridge too far, the losses extract a toll. However, they also gird us for the road ahead, so buck up lil’ buckaroos and buckarettes, we’re not in this alone and there are miles to go before we sleep.
My somewhat saccharine but genuine ask for all of us…
Second item on my list after getting out of bed this morning was to check on the Dove family, and I had a prescient little sense that something would be different this time. My first look at the nest told me there wasn’t a parent bird in attendance, and when I peeked inside there were two little chicks, wing by wing, looking up at me totally unspooked by my presence. Kim got home from his walk in time to see the babies, and he pointed out that David and Darleen were on the next-door neighbors’ balcony railing, quietly keeping watch. Must be time for the little ones to start gaining a bit of bravado and independence – they’re in the nest for only two weeks before being booted out to make way for Round Two. Such a high-speed upbringing boggles my mind. Once again this is a stock photo, but Derek and Diane look just like this at the moment, and my mama heart wishes them every success. So now we know. Two babies. Two weeks (minus time served) to enjoy them. Expect flying lessons soon.
Answers to the things we wonder about. Answers to the things we care most about… those, too. Five of the people I cherish most in the world need answers to health crises, and that’s a wait that relentlessly saps strength and courage over time. Loving people means hurting with them, that’s just how it is. May their answers turn out to be as instinctive, timely, and real as fledglings taking off for the skies.
All things considered, the heavy-duty requirement at this stage of living might be PATIENCE. Life goes on, things happen, things change for better or worse, and, well… life goes on. If you’re reading this, you’ve lived through everything that’s happened to you, every second since you were born. Base your patience on that knowledge, and keep walking. Or, like me, DO something, right or wrong, and hope for the best. Your call.
Have a lovely weekend and a solemn Memorial Day observance. Summer’s almost here!
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.
Big doin’s on a sunshiny Saturday. Last weekend a crew descended on our parking lot and ground it to a nubbin. This morning they were back at 7am to rough it up and lay asphalt, which so far is a much quieter process than the first round, and it should look pretty fine by evening. They’ll stripe it again tomorrow and we’ll be off and running for a few more years. A bit of distraction, along with Farmers Market down the block, where there’s been a steady line for the Slow Rise Sourdough Donuts. Their Nutella version just might get me over there next Saturday.
It’s our little corner on this beautiful planet hurtling through space, an incomprehensible thing that we take for granted nearly every second of our lives. I love what astronomer, astrophysicist, cosmologist, astrobiologist, planetary science guy Carl Sagan said…
“Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every ‘superstar,’ every ‘supreme leader,’ every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.” -Carl Sagan
One of the last known images captured by Japan’s Hakuto-R lander before crashing into the moon shows a stunning ‘Earthrise,’ with the shadow of the moon creeping over Australia during a total solar eclipse. (Image credit: ispace)
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In our personal micro-worlds we make much of our hurts and slights, the slings and arrows of identifying as human, but life is both more and less than that. I stole the following from a friend years ago and its truth hasn’t faded in the interim…
We’re nine days from spring and the rain we need for the greening of NE Kansas has been showing up. So sweet and benign, all the soft water from the sky, and we hope it stays this friendly since Kansas weather is nothing if not unpredictable.
Of course, tonight’s the big night… it’s time to spring forward an entire hour and spend the rest of the year searching for that lost jigger of salt. Don’t forget.
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The lost hour symbolizes every trauma, whether infinitesimal or overwhelming, we’ve sustained over the past however-many years now. We’ve lived through scary illnesses that had to be handled on our own because PANDEMIC. We lived through said pandemic… so far. We’ve survived cockamamie politics; over-the-top injustice; incomprehensible cruelty; the abject hatred of our fellow man; and every other thing that’s part of the human experience. Here we stand, damaged, wounded, but ever hopeful for better days. We’re pitiful but we’re all we’ve got, boys and girls, so hold hands and keep taking new territory. Trauma’s most powerful enemy is truth – use it at every opportunity.
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Speaking of trauma… my new friend Erica and I worked on rooting out some more of it yesterday in my second hour-long massage. Her amazing hands know where pain lurks and she’s fairly merciless already… hurts so good, can’t wait to go back.
Small psychic traumas are gradually resolving as well, including a sense of rootlessness and lack of purpose. At some point after the lifelong nerve pain disappeared, my brain started working on the problem of “Okay, who am I NOW? I can finally do pretty much what I want… what’s that going to look like?” After a few months’ rumination on that question, it came to me one day not long ago that at 75 I don’t have to go out and reinvent myself in order to pay my dues as a resident of the planet. I already HAVE a life, here in this smallish space, that requires my involvement and TLC, and could take up most of my time if I wanted it to. This is good. I’m home. Having said that, I’ll be branching out a teensy bit in a couple of weeks, so stay tuned.
Everything that happens to us feels like such a big deal at the time because we’re hothouse flowers with intense feelings, so it takes time and perspective for our personal traumas to start turning loose of us. Sometimes we like them too much, which complicates the whole thing. Those hurts and slights and terrifying wounds tend to validate our existence, so they feel like our buddies rather than the thoughts and memories that will eventually paralyze us and shorten our lucid days.
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I take Sir Winston to heart…
“This is the lesson: never give in, never give in, never, never, never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.” (whomever/whatever you perceive that enemy to be)
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Above all, never lose sight of this befuddled truth, brought to you by the Society for the Proliferation of Crap Platitudes.
In the predawn hours of December 22, 2021, as I checked into KU Med Center for spinal surgery, I promised myself a reward: “Get through this in style and you win a nice therapeutic massage after your one-year assessment.” Yesterday, six weeks late but right on time, was finally that day – an entire uninterrupted hour of TLC for the stuff that made recovery happen – and I’m still thanking me for it as we speak. It’s gratifying when people listen to their inner voice and do what they’re born to do. Erica was born to give the gift of therapeutic massage… her voice and demeanor are calm, she exudes peace, and her hands find all the pockets of pain in the muscles and tissue, encouraging discomfort to leave the body. She asked why I waited a year to come to her and I didn’t really have an answer except that I somehow thought I should let the official healing period expire before I struck out on my own. Pollyannas are like that, sigh. She gently let me know that if I ever have invasive surgery again, as soon as the incision(s) are healed come see her in order for the ACTUAL healing to start. She’s clearly right – I had volumes of stress and pain stored in my cells that needed to be disturbed enough to go away. We’ll wake some more up next time.
Trained or not, there’s no substitute for the human touch, so this massage is a place-marker and an admonition to treat myself well in all the ways available to me. Life is entirely too brief to voluntarily miss out on things like music, sunshine, kittens, and the skilled hands of a healer, and they do walk among us.
So here we are on a crisp winter morning, with that faithful orange glow starting to illuminate the horizon. It’s 16º and Kim’s walking Mass Street, letting his hands get Just.Cold.Enough. to be entertaining. It’s Saturday, so it’ll be all the usual plus Jayhawk B-ball at noon. And then we’re hearing rumors of shenanigans in the works for tomorrow, so… wotta weekend, boys and girls! Hope it’s SUPER!
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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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