ABOUT TIME

Each week, my little local newspaper prints ‘How they voted’ – a record of action in both the House of Representatives and the U.S. Senate. [It always kinds of surprises me that there was actually ‘action’ to record.] Last week, the House passed the Lumbee Recognition Act to federally recognize the Lumbee Indian tribe in North Carolina … AND the Pala Band of Mission Indians Land Transfer Act … AND the Old Pascua Community Acquisition Act … AND the Eastern Band of Cherokee Historic Lands Reacquisition Act. All of these restored and certified once purloined territory to its original inhabitants.

The Fall edition of Sierra, the Sierra Club magazine, had a portrait of US Interior Secretary Deb Haaland on its cover. And, on pages 18-27, an article headlined “A Living Testament” by Jenni Monet (also denizen of the Laguna Pueblo) gave a comprehensive portrait of the first Native member of our national Cabinet. Prior to her new post, Haaland served as a member of Congress from 2019 -2021. Her congressional district included most of Albuquerque and its suburbs. She was one of the first two Native American women elected to the U.S. Congress. She is a political progressive who supports the Green New Deal and Medicare for All. Respected and respectful, Secretary Haaland has made a pledge: “We must shed light on the unspoken traumas of the past, no matter how hard it will be.” 

An op ed in the Oct. 25 NY Times revealed that Frank Herbert, author of Dune, had close contacts among the Quileute and Hoh peoples of the Olympic Peninsula. One of them, Henry Martin, was a mentor, teaching him how white people had stolen Hoh lands and logged their forests. Another, Howard Hansen, wrote a memoir called “Twilight on the Thunderbird” in which he described the environmental devastation of the peninsula. Herbert incorporated these teachings into “Dune.” That book (and now movie) helped readers/viewers think about the environment not just on the level of lakes or forests but whole planets.

 Go Glasgow!!

 

Memorial Games

When my cat Guinness died (more than three years ago) I let the veterinarian deal with his body. I kept his memory. 

 Later, when I moved my small couch, I discovered a cache of his favorite toys – little yarn or metallic balls (each slightly smaller than a ping pong ball). 

My other cat was not particularly interested in them, so I placed the collection in a heavy glass vase and taped a photo of Guinness on the front. That was my memorial. I put the vase behind a row of books on a living room shelf. No one need know it was there, but I knew and could occasionally smile at my memories of the crazy, loveable cat who loved only me. 

This year my grandson came to visit. Somehow, he found the vase full of cat toys. They were fun to throw. So he threw them. And the other people in the room threw them back. It was a perfect storm of cat toys and laughter. 

At first, I was taken aback. They were my Guinness memorial cat toys. But then I remembered how much Guinness loved to play. He would have approved. I joined the laughter.

After my guests were gone, I restored the Guinness memorial, ‘hidden’ behind the row of books. Until my grandson comes again.

Beyond Binary

Not too long ago I didn’t know what ‘binary’ meant. 

Not too long ago I didn’t know I knew any lesbians (although I was pretty sure I knew some gays). A long time ago I didn’t know (or know I knew) any African Americans … or Asians … or Native Americans … or Latinix … or Muslims … or Turks … or Germans … or Buddhists … or Catholics (well, maybe some Catholics … and Jews) … or motorcyclists … or hunters … or homeless people … or differently-abled people … or really old people… or any people other than white, middle class, privileged people. 

What a myopic view of the world! What an infinitesimal fragment of reality. 

Recently I went to a lesbian wedding. It was a beautiful celebration of two people who radiate joy in being together. I was honored to be there, to witness their acknowledgement of the miracle of their love. 

It is a miracle, you know… whenever it happens between/among whomever it happens. Right now it seems utterly foolish to inhibit, in any way, any smidgen of joy. 

When we open our eyes, minds, hearts to any* of our fellow passengers on this planet as it swirls within our galaxy, our heart is nourished … sustained. And we become more fully alive. [And increase the possibility of our own joy.] 

(*Even Republicans ***)
(***with one possible exception)

Earth Day Birthday

Today, April 22, is my brother’s birthday. My mom chose this date for her caesarian delivery because April 22 was my uncle’s birthday.

My brother was born in 1943; my uncle, several decades before. 🌎Earth Day was created in 1970.

Noting this, my brother claims he is older than dirt. He has told this same joke every year for the past 49 years.

It’s still funny.

It is my careful, unbiased observation that people born on April 22 are exceptionally nice human beings.

 According to my cousins, my Uncle Jack was the best dad ever. [I only spent a little time with him but I enjoyed every minute of it.] He was even at my parents’ house when we celebrated my first-born son’s first birthday (Oct. 5, not April).

And of course, my brother is extraordinary … my favorite (and only) sibling.

So here’s to our amazing and fragile planet 🌏and to all those who work to protect it (and by so doing, protect the rest of us). They get it. We are co-dependent with Earth.

Celebrate it. Do everything in your power to allow every bug and bird and blossom and butte survive and flourish.

🌎 Hooray! For the interdependent web of all existence.

Old Hair

Other than senior discounts and Medicare, one enormous perk of aging is the lack of hairy legs.

Oh, I do occasionally – about once every three or four months – have to harvest the meager crop, scattered sparsely on legs whose veins tend to make them look like maps of the London subway system.

Still. It’s a perk.

Hair is a contrary mammalian trait. It seems to grow where we don’t want it and disappear from places where it is fervently desired.

This is true for both men and women but I will deal only with the aging female here. [And I will not deal with all of the capillary ramifications – like moustaches (which is another dilemma altogether).]

When I was younger and more smug (smugness seems to be characteristic of youth) I would smirk disparagingly at men who had attempted to disguise a balding pate by combing longer locks over barren skulls.

No longer.

My once glorious tresses still exist but, like the earth’s aquifer, are diminished.

My hair is thinning.

From the front and the sides, I still look adequately ‘haired’. Not so much from the back.

Now I too must fluff the remains and try to guide them over my pink, pink scalp.

I even have some powder I can sprinkle over the too obvious hair barrenness. It helps.

So beware, oh youth. Avoid smugness and smirks. All too soon, that which you deride will be that with which you must contend.

A Recent Scribble

I recently attended an event for writers focusing on our respective heritages. [This is a photograph of  some of my ancestors]

We were encouraged to write a little something. I wrote a synopsis of my life:

Like most U.S. citizens, I am a mongrel 
Within my veins and chromosomes flows the heritage of 300,000 years 
Or more 
I, like all people, came out of Africa. 
According to DNA analysis, my Paleolithic ancestors lived in northern Spain. 
I do not remember this. 
Family conversations alluded to more recent ancestors from the British Isles and Germany 
I do not remember this 
I do remember stories of early California ranches and farms – 
Buckboards and stage coaches— 
Not from personal experience 
From stories. 
Then I began to act in my own drama. 
First, following the standard American script: 
School, college, marriage, children 
Cooking, cleaning, washing clothes. 
Eventually, divorce 
Jobs that took me to many lands 
Learning, absorbing, respecting. 
I am part of all that I have met and learned. 
All that I have met and learned are part of me 
And I have only just begun.

Beethoven Lives

Last summer, my son and daughter-in-law took my 2.5- year-old grandson Harlan to Chicago’s Grant Park to listen to whatever music was being performed. He could sit on the grass or dance. He danced.

Thanksgiving week we were playing around in his living room. My son casually picked out the beginning notes of “Ode to Joy” (4th movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony) on Harlan’s toy piano. Harlan, now three, was playing with his toy train but he perked up when he heard the melody.

Then, amazingly, he started singing – in German.

Both my son and I were astounded – that he recognized the melody, that he remembered the German words, and that he sang them pretty much on key.

Harlan’s mom is German and is teaching him that language along with English and a myriad other things. But still.

There are perhaps a hundred language variations of that particular section of Beethoven’s work. I believe that it is adapted so often, in so many contexts, because it may well be the most joyfully triumphant piece of music ever written.

But what could be more triumphant than a performance by a three-year-old boy in a Chicago living room? Beethoven lives.

One Hummingbird Moth

I am fortunate to live where I can go up when I get down. And I was down. All that Friday afternoon and evening I barely slogged through agonizingly slow hours. I could not focus. Not read. Not watch television. Not write the letters and emails that needed writing. Not do basic chores. I was stuck in the muck of despond.

 It took me a while to get going on Saturday. But I knew that moving was essential. And going up the mountain imperative.

 I didn’t leave until almost midday so stopped and bought a sandwich at the Subway place where the man with perpetual verve works. (He always makes me smile.) I put the sandwich in my car and drove up through the canyon west of town --  the canyon that can do so much to restore my soul. There is a little restaurant where the road forks – one branch going into Estes Park, the other into Glen Haven (then on into Estes). I stopped there to see if it was still in business. (It was, but not for lunch.)

The Glen Haven road is less traveled so I took it. It had been more than a year but the curves and cliffs were familiar and comforting. Entering Glen Haven, I spotted the general store and pulled into the parking area at its side. My sandals were not suited for the gravel, but I managed to move my sandwich and water bottle and droopy self to a table in the shade of the store’s front porch. I ate, watching passersby and the birds playing in the pine tree across the street.

When I finished and went into the store, I bought some little things and a cup of ice cream. When I asked the flavors, the owner pointed to the sign on which the flavors were listed. When I asked the ingredients of ‘Rocky Road’ he said: chocolate, marshmallow and walnuts. He smiled when I said that sounded well balanced. And his smile made me smile.

Back out on the porch, I savored. Not just the ice cream, but also the flowers on the porch – in large sedentary pots and pots swinging above. Each was crammed with a rainbow of blossoms. It was then that I noticed the tiny creature hovering over the flowers – wings beating faster than my eyes could register. A hummingbird? The woman sitting next to me said yes but then changed her mind. She had never seen one with bumble bee stripes and, as we looked more closely, we saw that the two-inch creature did not have a beak but a proboscis, curling into the center of each blossom.

Others began to gather and comment and take pictures. They said it was a hummingbird moth. My camera was in the car, but I took no photographs. It was more fun to watch a half dozen tourists pointing smartphones and 35mm cameras at the tiny wonder. And it was a wonder (you can Google it if you’d like to see what it looks like).

The miracle was the shared awe that it invoked among us. It was enough to remind me how spectacular our world is.

I stood up and drove home. I was okay.

Family-Rich Weekend

Rarely, rarely, rarely have I had such a family-rich weekend/birthday. 

My grandson and his parents returned from camping to fill my house with energy and laughter. And they stayed for my birthday and even brought presents. 

Then my nephew and his family came – my grandniece and grandson delighting each other and all of the grown-ups. And they brought presents. 

Then my brother came and melded into us as if we had never separated. And he brought a present. 

And I received calls and/or texts from my older son and other nephew and my other grandniece. Plus lots of wonderful birthday cards. And Facebook notifications. 

The house is quieter now and everything is pretty much put back together. [Put-back-together houses are over-rated.] 

Some might worry that the house might feel a little empty and sad. But it doesn’t. All the laughter and love reverberated into the walls and floors and lodged permanently into my being. 

I am replete.

The Last Straws

When I was a child and had spent most of a day doing things I should not have done, my mother’s patience would finally wear out. Exasperated, she would shout: “That’s the last straw!” And formidable retribution would engulf me and whatever messes I had made. 

There are so many messes in this country right now. So many things in jeopardy: national parks, women, public television, public schools, oceans, rivers, forests, unions, allies, national honor, even the air we breathe. 

But for many, separating immigrant children and parents was the last straw. 

 It was for me. I’ve signed dozens of online petitions. Voted carefully. And complained vocally. But, finally, this week I will participate in public demonstrations against our country’s abominable immigration laws. 

All of them. 

It is time for last straws – whatever yours might be. 

Recently I learned that plastic straws are a major source of pollution. Americans use 500,000,000 plastic straws (five hundred million!) every day. If this does not end, by the year 2050 there will be more plastic in the ocean than fish. 

So now. Right now. It is time to acknowledge the last straws. 

In the policies of our country’s government. 

 And in our milkshakes.

Summer Whites

Days are getting warmer. 

Today I found a stash of white slacks that I had tucked away when days were getting cooler. Their time has come. They reminded me of a minor incident that, at some level, still rankles. 

It was September (about 50 years ago). I was visiting my parents who were hosting an evening of bridge for their friends. That summer I had found the most (I thought) stunning white dress that was both casual and chic. When I came downstairs to help prepare for the festivities, my mother exclaimed: “You can’t wear that!” 

 “Why on earth not,” I wondered aloud.

 “Because it’s after Labor Day.” 

 “What’s that got to do with it?” 

 “People should not wear white dresses after Labor Day.” 

 “That’s silly. It’s a nice dress and I feel comfortable in it.” 

 “No. It will not do. One of my friends gave you a lovely green wool dress. Wear that.” 

 “But it’s too warm and I don’t really like it.” 

 My mother had an expression-- cold eyes and slightly pursed lips – that was the equivalent of Moses descending from Mount Sinai. 

She became ‘she who must be obeyed.’ So I did. 

But I still think rules like that are silly. If it wasn’t going to be so hot tomorrow, I’d find some green wool thing to wear … even though it’s after Memorial Day.

🌞

Middelburg Memory

Because I was having ‘mobility issues’, I separated from the rest of the group and went into Middelburg (the Netherlands) on my own. I wanted to see Middelburg’s ‘Abdij abbey complex’ and had a map indicating that getting there would be easy. 

I wandered the town square, enjoying the bustle of a little flea market and admiring the city’s magnificent town hall. It was raining but I had waterproof gear and was content, if hungry. A restaurant on the square had a table where I could eat and watch the town’s activities. 

Sated, I walked the few blocks to the complex—dating back to the 12th century. There were two places of worship now connected by what we would call a social hall (where coffee could be served).

The lovely interiors included the oldest altar piece in the Netherlands. 

Eventually, I opened a heavy wood door to enter a corridor enclosing a garden of hedges and other plants. To the left, a barrier prohibited entry into part of the cloister. To the right, interesting sounds echoed off the ancient stone walls. 

I walked around the corner to discover a group of high school aged kids practicing movement and song. After a while, they were still and silent as a slim young woman began singing “We’ll Meet Again” in crystalline soprano. 

It was magic. 

Noting my interest, an adult leader explained that they were practicing for a World War II memorial event to be held in Middelburg in a few days. I was invited but my tour would have moved on by then. 

I have no regrets. The poignant song resonating through so many layers of history is permanently lodged in my heart.

TULIP SHADOWS

There’s a reason Holland is practically synonymous with tulips. These flowers thrive in that country’s soggy land and climate. And they are spectacular. 

On tulip farms and at the rightly world famous Keukenhof Gardens, the Netherlands is resplendent with tulips of every shade and configuration.

At Keukenhof, three million tulip (and other) bulbs are planted each year for a spectacle that is open to the public for only eight weeks.

 But everything seems to have a shadow side. My tour visited a tulip farm. Unable to walk with my fellows into the fields, I lingered behind. When I asked my guide about these buildings, she revealed they were housing for the ‘seasonal workers’ – usually from Poland – who helped harvest the bulbs for processing and shipment. Migrant workers are apparently treated the same the world over.

I can only hope some of the beauty seeped into their souls and gladdened their hearts.

An EARTH DAY message

Have you ever seen one of these? It's a button braid. I found it when I opened a trunk containing family memorabilia. It was made, presumably, by one of my female ancestors and reflects a time when nothing (or very little) was wasted. 

People used to save string. Take one bath a week. Darn socks. Use ink in fountain pens instead of buying [then throwing away] disposable ballpoints. I'm sure you can add to the list. 

I'm not sure how a button braid might have been used. Was it a way to keep buttons in one place, available when needed?  Or was it just a way to use old buttons as decoration? That's how I use it, on the north edge of the west-facing window in my guest room, which I call my ancestor room because the walls are adorned with photographs of preceding family. The room reflects not only the people but also the attitudes and practices of those who came before me

I decided to post the photo on EARTH DAY. 

We live in a world with an exploding population and diminishing resources. We could learn from our predecessors. We could become more aware of profligate consumption and excessive disposal. Find ways to use less, reuse more. We all could do something, even if only taking shorter showers.

If a gazillion or so of us became a little more careful with the resources we use, next year's EARTH DAY we be a grand celebration indeed.

Stubby and Scruffy

This is a bird feeder. 

This is a squirrel stealing birdseed. 

For months – well actually ever since I put the bird feeders up – I have considered squirrels my arch enemies. Triumphant arch enemies. 

Sometimes when I open my back door, as many as seven of the furry rodents scamper away, up my tree, over the roofs of my neighbors’ garages on the east and west sides of my yard. 

I leave. They return. 

One day, I noticed a squirrel with a tail considerably shorter than most squirrel tails. I decided to call him ‘Stubby.’ Another day, I noticed a squirrel with a tail that looked as though it had been attacked by a lawn mower. I called him ‘Scruffy.’ [I don’t actually know the squirrels’ genders, I’m just guessing.] 

Once you start giving squirrels names, you are doomed. 

Creatures with names are no longer arch enemies. They are individuals to which you pay attention, which you tolerate, which you sometimes find amusing. Acknowledging individuality means acknowledging worth [or something roughly the equivalent]. 

I wonder if the same thing might apply to humans.

Amen and Amen

“It will be a lonelier place relative to our natural world.” 

This quote -- by Robert Watson, chairman of a study team at an intergovernmental agency reporting that animals and plants are in decline across the globe – was published in the bottom left hand corner of page D2 of the Tuesday, March 27, 2018 New York Times. 

Such a tiny news item. So small, many people probably didn’t even see it. 

Everyone should see it. Everyone should think about it. Everyone should do something to reverse the trend. 

Save a tree. Or a river. Or a tortoise. Or even a stray cat. 

We need them. When our lives are wrapped in plastic and electronic images, we cannot breathe. At least our souls can’t. I know I can’t. 

I need crocuses and rain and the Norway maple in front of my house and Herbie my cat. I need the mountains to the west of me and the ocean far to the east (and south). I need the remaining (if shrinking) glaciers and the tropical rain forest. Even just to know they are there. 

Each of them sustains us. Not just by providing oxygen or beauty. But also expanding our understanding of reality. 

Amen and amen.

And So We Carry On

Last week, Stephen Hawkins and Toys Are Us died, hundreds of United States high school kids walked out to protest gun violence, and a few of the neighborhood crocus started blooming. 

Meanwhile, war in Syria has been going on for the last seven years leaving an estimated 400,000 Syrians killed and 11 million displaced. 

And the war in Afghanistan, which has been going on for 17 years, has left 1.5 million Afghans dead; 4,500 U.S. dead; and 100,000 U.S. wounded. 

Right now, 65.6 million people around the world have been forced from home. Among them are nearly 22.5 million refugees, over half of whom are under the age of 18. There are also 10 million stateless people who have been denied a nationality and access to basic rights such as education, healthcare, employment and freedom of movement.

Nearly 20 people are forcibly displaced every minute as a result of conflict or persecution.  
In the United States, homelessness is endemic. 

And yet, and yet. Last week, hundreds of United States high school kids walked out to protest gun violence, and a few of the neighborhood crocus started blooming. 

And so we carry on.

Lopsided Progress

Over the past 300 or so millennia, there has been significant progress. The shift from cave to computer is astounding. 

 Technology is one thing. Society quite another. 

 I don’t believe humans have changed that much. We need, I think, to discard the notion of our ancient ancestors as dull-witted brutes. They were smart enough to figure out fire and agriculture and weaving and art and one thing led to another and now we have smart phones. 

What has not evolved, in my opinion, has been our societies (local, national and global). In fact, we may have regressed. 

We’ve gone from circles of people with an acknowledged consciousness of their relationships with the rest of existence (stars, plants, seasons, animals) to a hierarchical pyramid schemes that discount three fourths of our species. Under the latter, we have serfs, slavery, and homelessness. Progress has been lopsided – like our society. This is not what Pangloss told Candide – "all is for the best" in the "best of all possible worlds". Nor is it true that ‘every day in every way, things are getting better and better’. 

We need to stop being smug about the progress of our species and start working toward re-forming our circles. 

Then we can be smug.

Enough Already

More than 225 years ago, English author Mary Wollstonecraft wrote that women were coerced into believing -- “that they were created rather to feel than [to] reason, and that all the power they obtain, must be obtained by their charms and weakness.” 

No one believes that now. 

Or not many people. 

But traces of that anomaly seep into attitudes that are perverted into excuses for various crimes against women-- whether violence, abuse, or patronizing behavior/comments. 

An occasional pat on the back is okay. Pats on the head are not. Neither is any form of uninvited groping or grabbing. 

The whole man/woman thing is fraught with . . . almost everything. Attraction is inevitable. Detraction, not acceptable. Sexual tension can be delightful but respect is required. Permission sought. Mutuality confirmed. 

Whole industries are founded on stoking the fires of desires. Extreme décolletage rules. Misogyny rules. Lasciviousness rules. 

Enough. 

Whether we are 8 or 18 or 80, each of us must establish boundaries, advocate personal autonomy, and work to protect those females who have a hard time doing it on their own. At least stand with them. 

Now is the time. 

For all of us.

more than the missionary position

Imagine, if you will, a conversation/debate between/among Catherine Deneuve, Oprah Winfrey, and Dr. Carol Christ. 

Oprah Winfrey is an American media phenomenon, actress, producer, and philanthropist. Her speech during the Golden Globes Awards, riveted audiences with its compelling rhetoric declaiming that the time for brutally powerful men was up. . . that the “Me, Too” movement was prelude to a seismic shift in society. 

Once called “the world’s most elegant woman,” Catherine Deneuve is the actress/singer/model/producer who was one of more than 100 French women who signed an open letter denouncing the #MeToo movement for conflating sexual assault with harmless flirtation. [She later apologized to female victims of violence.] 

Dr. Carol Christ is a feminist theologian, author, and director of the Ariadne Institute for the Study of Myth and Ritual. She twice annually leads women on tours of Crete to learn about Minoan culture. 

About three years ago, I spent two weeks in Crete on one of those tours, absorbing the archeological traces of the matrifocal/matrilineal/matrilocal society that flourished there for a couple thousand years. I was convinced: non-dominational societies are possible. 

Parse that word a moment: ‘non-dominational’ – no domination – no gender or sector or class with more privilege or power than any other. 

It is entirely possible that Catherine, Oprah and Carol would not argue or debate. They each believe in the self-sovereignty of women and their inherent right to be treated with respect. They have no objection to harmless flirtation. And they all know there is more to life than the missionary position.