A Transformation

IT HAS BEEN NEARLY A YEAR!
SINCE I HAVE POSTED A NEW BLOG WITH APOLOGIES, I HERE SHARE A BRIEF BUT POIGNENT ESSAY A TRANSFORMATION In one week, Mim was transformed from a semi-functional older woman with mobility issues to an older woman evidently no longer capable of autonomy. She did have significant mobility issues. Acknowledging this, she brokered weekly visits by a physical therapist, ordered a rollator -- the heretofore unknown name for a walker with wheels—and signed up for a medical alert device. But then she learned that a nurse would visit once a week. And people began calling her ‘sweetie’. She was not a ‘sweetie’. Then she learned that her brother needed to undergo a tortuous treatment for bladder cancer. And her gas fireplace stopped working. And the urgently needed refund from an aborted tour did not arrive. The funds were needed for urgently needed house repairs. It was enough to generate irresponsible drinking ... or at least one glass of good wine

Being 80

I am 80 years and 4 months old. Like Poet Mary Oliver – I believe that prayer is paying attention. Every morning when I go out to pick up my newspapers, I stop and consciously acknowledge the beauty in which I live. The dew or frost on leaves and branches. How new-fallen snow reminds us of the sculptural beauty of the leaf-less trees. Bird song. The tilt of a mom holding the hand of her toddler. So many of the teachers I have learned from cite the importance of gratitude. Gratitude not just for the present amazements but also for all the people and critters who have been here before me, who have enabled this beauty to permeate my existence. I have serius mobility issues. Please don’t ask me to be careful. I have to be careful. For a time, I allowed these issues (combined with pandemic restrictions) to circumscribe my life. It felt like I was organizing my life around weekly trash pick-ups and Netflix offerings. It was an inadequate existence. I have been on several Road Scholar trips. I receive all their catalogs. One of them contained text describing alternative, and encouraging, ways to participate. You could hike off vigorously with the stalwarts or stay behind and stroll leisurely with other less stalwarts. So, Wednesday morning January 5, 2022, I called them. I explained my physical limitations and the places I wanted to go. It was a long and reassuring phone call. I looked at one of their brochures and asked about trip to the eastern side of the Mediterranean. And I signed up for an “Odyssey at Sea – visiting ancient sites in Greece, Lebanon, Israel and Egypt” I will join the tour on Dec. 1, 2022 and return Dec. 17. Of course, I do not know what my physical condition will be then. Or what the state of the world will be. More pandemic?? More wars?? But I bought ‘trip insurance’ so I will either go or stay home (if indeed I am still alive). Until then, I have a luminous opportunity on my personal horizon. I intend for it to motivate me to get out more, to do more. I need to find a travel buddy to go with me to places like Steamboat Springs and Breckenridge. In July I plan to attend the Indiana wedding of my friend’s daughter. And I will arrange as many encounters with my grandson (and sons and daughter-in-law) as possible. I’d like to go back to Taos and Santa Fe. Get an entry permit for Rocky Mountain National Park and visit other Colorado wonders. And go to concerts and plays. And show up for this congregation which has been such a magnificent resource for my mind and soul. I believe that I am not only connected to everything (and everyone) that exists now, but also to everything (and everyone) that existed before (and maybe, but I haven’t figured out how, to everything that ever will exist).
These connections comprise my obligations. I am obliged to honor all components of this vast and infinitely complex universe, to protect individuals and elements that are in jeopardy, and to celebrate the ineffable beauty that permeates existence.

 

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!!

 

Two Digit Prayer

I am a two digit person…someone who can tolerate only two digit weather. In summer, the temperature should never reach three digits. [It did yesterday –102!!] In winter, the temperature should never fall below two digits…ever. But it does. And it will again. In both seasons -- too hot in summer, two cold in winter. Too dry. Too wet. Anyone who has been paying the slightest attention must surely be aware of the wildfires, the floods, the hurricanes, and droughts. [And perhaps the epidemics.] 

This is what they said would happen because of climate change aka global warming. It’s happening. 

All those in authority – locally, nationally, internationally must act to reduce those activities/practices that exacerbate those changes which threaten the viability of this planet. They may. I hope they do. But all of us must alter our own lifestyles and practices. Slow things down. Consume less. Make more careful choices. I don’t know that we will. We’ve never been very good at ‘being good’. 

But I am not sure we have much choice. I believe (because I want to believe) that we can. I at least will try. I would love to see blue skies again instead of the haze from wildfires and auto exhaust. I would love my grandson to be able to thrive, run in green meadow, be astounded by majestic elk, perhaps fish or swim in crystalline streams. And breathe deeply the clear fresh air. 

Amen.

 

An Acknowledgement

It may well be Aunt Zoe’s fault.

My little family used to visit her in Laguna Beach, California back when people could still afford to live there. She was my father’s father’s sister… a fervent Protestant Republican school teacher who never married. She scared me because she was loud and opinionated. She had rules and brooked no transgressions, but her affection was as voluminous as her anatomy. Everyone loved her.  Neighbors, students, church members, strangers at the grocery store … all who fell within her orbit stayed within her orbit, smiling.

One day, returning from an afternoon at the beach, I sat at her desk and wrote about the waves marching to the shore in endless synchronicity. 

Aunt Zoe said it was brilliant and that I would obviously become a great writer. And I, who was barely seven at the time, believed her.

Thereafter, I turned to writing whenever I found myself in new or uncomfortable territory. When we moved from southern California to eastern Ohio, I forged a niche in my new world by writing for the junior high paper, then the high school paper, then, later for the college paper. Then, after graduation, for an actual newspaper. 

When my marriage became untenable, I wrote a collection of poems and verse that became a program I presented to women’s groups. That helped. For a while. After divorce, I found a job … writing. When my employer decided to move to its offices from Chicago to Tampa, I found another writing job in the Chicago area– one that eventually gave me the opportunity to travel to other countries [Canada, Guatemala, Japan, Korea, England, Brazil, Mexico, Turkey, Australia, Republic of China (Taiwan), Hong Kong, The People’s Republic of China, Switzerland, and France. When that job fizzled, I quit and got another job … writing… that took me to South Africa (and Zimbabwe and Namibia]. And when that job disappeared, I quit and moved to Colorado to work on writing for myself. So far, two books.

I am working on a modest collection of essays but not with the discipline Aunt Zoe would have preferred. She was a great believer in discipline (and honesty and temperance). Actually, there might be much about my life that would generate her disapproval.

Still, I know that nothing makes me feel more alive than when I am sitting in front of my computer letting the words accumulate in a fashion that makes some kind of sense, or point. Or both. 

Every time my dad pulled up in front of Aunt Zoe’s house, he would comment on the state of the hibiscus plant by her front door. I have my own garden now (in Colorado). Recently, I planted my own hibiscus. The flowers are my private memorial to Aunt Zoe in gratitude for her encouragement in a craft that has sustained me my whole life.  And pulled me around the world.

 

BIRTHSTONES

 When Gertrude was 16 her maternal grandmother gave her a sardonyx ring.  Sardonyx was her ‘birthstone’. Why couldn’t it have been a sapphire or diamond or ruby?  Sardonyx was just a brown stone, usually with little streaks of white (the onyx). Yuck.  Still, she loved her grandmother, and the stone was set in a delicate framework of different shades of gold. So, she kept it and wore it (especially when her grandmother visited). 

That was more than sixty years ago.  Some wisp of memory prompted Gertrude to fish it out of the small bowl where she kept her rings. It felt a little loose when she put it on.  Maybe her finger had shrunk. The rest of her had (at least vertically) . She used to be five feet two inches. Now she was just five feet none.  Twisting it around her finger, she smiled at memories of her grandmother, Olive Jenkins Walker, aka Nana. They were buddies, sharing giggles over stories about Gertrude’s mom and conspiring to have secret adventures. This was easier because she and Nana were about the same height, literally seeing things eye to eye. They shared many stories and sort-of secrets.  She died when Gertrude was twenty-five, a year after her first child was born. Gertrude had a photograph of Nana holding her infant son.  Both of them looked awestruck.

Now that son was grown up and lived a thousand miles away.

Now Gertrude had a computer through which she can follow any train of thought to myriad destinations.

She began by looking up birthstones. It turned out that the concept of birthstones evolved sometime in the 15^th or 16^th  century in Poland or Germany as a sort of derivative of Arabian astrology. Or something. There were even some biblical implications . . . in Revelations! Gertrude did not dwell on these. She was more interested in learning that people born in August could have three ‘birthstones’. She could choose between peridot, spinel, and sardonyx.  Why hadn’t her grandmother known that? And choose one of the others, both of which looked prettier than sardonyx. 

Sixty years later, that point was moot. She had a sardonyx ring. Period. So, Gertrude hopped on another train of thought.

Sardonyx seemed phonically related to sardonic. So, Gertrude looked that up, then wandered around in virtual comparisons between the words sardonic and sarcastic. It turns out that sarcastic is meaner.

Her father was sarcastic. Most people who knew him would never think of him as mean but both Gertrude and her younger brother bore the psychological scars of his scathing remarks. For her dad, stupidity and laziness were cardinal sins. He often pronounced them guilty of these, making them feel inadequate. To this day, Gertrude became inordinately defensive if someone suggested that something she did or said was stupid.

It was an unfortunate heritage. Eventually, she was able to realize when this verbal trigger had been pulled and to reduce her defensiveness. She became a little better at accepting criticism without crumbling … dissolving into  mea culpa.

But remnants of those early harsh judgements clung to her psyche.  When she was overly tired or overwhelmed by a whirlwind of events or an avalanche of bills and obligations, she could slip into her soul dungeon, smothered in dark layers of self-proclaimed inadequacy. 

Salvation, in the form of common sense and memories of her grandmother’s love and laughter could lift her out of despond.

She decided to wear the ring more often.

An Acknowlegement

It may well be Aunt Zoe’s fault. My little family used to visit her in Laguna Beach, California back when people could still afford to live there. She was my father’s father’s sister… a fervent Protestant Republican school teacher who never married. She scared me because she was loud and opinionated. She had rules and brooked no transgressions, but her affection was as voluminous as her anatomy. Everyone loved her. Neighbors, students, church members, strangers at the grocery store … all who fell within her orbit stayed within her orbit, smiling. 

    One day, returning from an afternoon at the beach, I sat at her desk and wrote about the waves marching to the shore in endless synchronicity. Aunt Zoe said it was brilliant and that I would obviously become a great writer. And I, who was barely seven at the time, believed her. Thereafter, I turned to writing whenever I found myself in new or uncomfortable territory. 

    When we moved from southern California to eastern Ohio, I forged a niche in my new world by writing for the junior high paper, then the high school paper, then, later for the college paper. Then, after graduation, for an actual newspaper. 

     When my marriage became untenable, I wrote a collection of poems and verse that became a program I presented to women’s groups. That helped. For a while. After divorce, I found a job … writing. When my employer decided to move to its offices from Chicago to Tampa, I found another writing job in the Chicago area– one that eventually gave me the opportunity to travel to other countries [Canada, Guatemala, Japan, Korea, England, Brazil, Mexico, Turkey, Australia, Republic of China (Taiwan), Hong Kong, The People’s Republic of China, Switzerland, and France. When that job fizzled, I quit and got another job … writing… that took me to South Africa (and Zimbabwe and Namibia]. And when that job disappeared, I quit and moved to Colorado to work on writing for myself. So far, two books.     

    I am working on a modest collection of essays but not with the discipline Aunt Zoe would have preferred. She was a great believer in discipline (and honesty and temperance). Actually, there might be much about my life that would generate her disapproval. Still, I know that nothing makes me feel more alive than when I am sitting in front of my computer letting the words accumulate in a fashion that makes some kind of sense, or point. Or both. Every time my dad pulled up in front of Aunt Zoe’s house, he would comment on the state of the hibiscus plant by her front door. I have my own garden now (in Colorado). Recently, I planted my own hibiscus. The flowers are my private memorial to Aunt Zoe in gratitude for her encouragement in a craft that has sustained me my whole life. And pulled me around the world.

Gertrude's Bras

Two or three years ago, buying bras was a big deal for Gertrude. After initial trials and errors, she finally found a store and sales attendant that could measure then find the particular brand of lingerie that could sustain her profile.

No more.

First, she broke her left wrist. Before that particular catastrophe, Gertrude had donned her bras with the usual struggles and contortions that enabled her to get the little hooks into the little metallic circles, reinforcing her profile. This maneuver was impossible with just one functioning hand. It was (oddly) her accountant who advised her: fasten it first then just slip in on over your head. It worked.

Then came the pandemic. The store with the wonderful sales attendant closed. Indeed, many things closed and [although she never tested the premise] Gertrude assumed that going to any store, working with any sales attendant, and trying things on would [if not illegal] risk serious contagion and/or death.

Time sagged. Gertrude sagged.

One day while sorting through the usual avalanche of mostly junk mail, Gertrude saw a catalog for female underwear. Guessing which might be the right size and variety, she placed an order.

Ten days later, the catalog bra arrived {ironically, in a padded envelope]. She unwrapped the item, fastened the hooks, and slipped it over her head and shoulders and yanked it down to the appropriate latitude. It worked. Or at least worked well enough.

So, hooray! Gertrude’s spirits and anatomy were lifted.

AWOL

 It has been a VERY long time since I posted a blog.

There was so much other stuff to deal with, I just let it slide.

I have still been writing: mostly short, mildly amusing essays about an aging woman named Gertrude. Not so coincidentally, I am an aging woman. 

I have no idea why I didn't post those little essays on my blog. Perhaps it was a form of hibernation. But enough already. It is time to re-enter this particular area of cyberspace. This is your fair warning. Mim's blogs are coming back.

Hooray!!

THEY ARE BACK!!

Yesterday a miller moth flew out of my jeans as I was putting them on. I will not comment on the symbolism of that moment.

Later, another moth flew out of the glass I use to take my pills.

I know they are harmless. They do not bite. They do not chew holes in your clothes or curtains. But they are so rude! They hide in the shadows, along window moldings, on stair bannisters, and in paneling and window frames.  

They are small, dull brownish creatures that you would barely notice if they didn’t move.

As these insects migrate from the plains to the mountains, they seem drawn to my house and front porch and garage. It’s the wood. They like the wood on the porch and the west side of the garage.

And there are so many of them! 

One evening noises from the interior caused me to hesitate before opening the side garage door.  Fearing an intruder, I peeked in only to discover legions of moths flying into the garage windows. There must have been sixty of them hurling themselves against the panes. When I open the garage to drive somewhere, a cloud of moths rushes out over the alley.

Although they seem to be everywhere (little moth corpses pepper my carpets and floors) there are fewer than in years past.  When my two cats were younger, they loved to chase them, catch them, eat them . . . then regurgitate them. By turning off all lights except those in the upstairs bathroom, I would entice both the moths and cats away from other parts of the house then close the door, leaving the insects to their feline fate.

Now I have only one cat, who is old and totally disinterested.

This year’s gang seems, at last, to be diminishing. Those that are not dead have evidently made it to cooler altitudes. And I can put my jeans on without checking.

Getting to know you . . .

I walked around my block this morning.

That’s not a big deal. I’ve lived here almost 18 years. I know the territory.

But today was different. People were outside. We exchanged greetings and pleasantries [from CDC-approved distances]. And in some cases, names [which I will probably forget because I tend to do that].

It was all cheerful and friendly. I learned more about my neighbors. About the kids with amazing bicycle helmets. About the sculptor setting up a new studio, and his wife who created their garden and took their daughter on bike rides. About the retired gentleman fixing up his front yard. Even about the woman re-re-planting a corner of her property where plants seemed never to flourish.

And all it took to ignite this flurry of friendliness was a global pandemic.

Why?

beauty in the time of Covid19

In the middle of a pandemic, there was a heavy snow that transformed our world.

 Even locked inside

Or standing on the front porch

Or walking through the Sculpture Park

We could see how the snow cushioned the trees with beauty

Yes, it battered tulips, but they will probably survive.

And so will we.

connections

“No man is an island…” Nor woman either. Even though many of us feel stranded in a fearful sea, none of us is.

Legions of people are working on our behalf. We have water in our faucets and electricity to illuminate and in myriad ways facilitate our existence. The Internet keeps us quasi-connected , which is better than nothing. I’m still getting my newspapers and the mail delivery people still bundle my mail so I can bring it in with one hand (my left wrist still healing from a break). And a therapist works to make me functional.

Farmers and clerks are still managing to provide sustenance. Television still provides both essential information and diversion. My old cat provides comfort and my vet still provides the special food and medicine to keep him going. My pharmacist conjures needed medication. Texts and telephone and occasionally Skype help us keep track of each other. And new developments, like Zoom, promise new forms of connection.

And do not (ever) discount the wondrous benefits of sunshine and emerging tulips and trees pregnant with thousands of new leaves.

And chocolate.

I have long loved John Donne’s poem, written more than 400 years ago. [And now forgive its myopic gender focus because this particular time and circumstance calls for our acknowledgement and celebration of human connections.]

No man is an island, 

Entire of itself; 

Every man is a piece of the continent, 

 A part of the main. 

 If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, 

As well as if a promontory were: 

As well as if a manor of thy friend's Or of thine own were. 

 Any man's death diminishes me, 

Because I am involved in mankind. 

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; 

It tolls for thee.

Caramel Sun

On January 30, the New York Times published a remarkable photograph on its front page. It had nothing to do with the nation’s politics, the Middle East or the corona virus. In fact, it looked like some kind of popcorn ball. Perhaps a caramel popcorn ball. 

What it really was, was a closeup of the sun. Each of the ‘kernels’ is about the size of Texas. Each carries heat from the inside of the sun to the outside. When the hot gas cools and sinks, it creates the dark lines separating the cells (or popcorn kernels).

The remarkable image was taken from the Daniel K. Inouye Solar Telescope atop Haleakala. This ancient cratered volcano is sacred to native Hawaiians who named it House of the Sun in their language.

The photo reveals that the bland yellow orb we in this hemisphere so welcome this time of year is actually a seething cauldron. The solar rays seen during eclipses can reach a million degrees Fahrenheit. Every second, thermonuclear reactions in the center of the sun turn 5 million tons of hydrogen into pure energy.

That energy makes its way outward through boiling gas pocked with magnetic storms that crackle, whirl and lash space with showers of electrical particles and radiation.

Never assume that what you perceive is the whole of reality.

Louisiana State Penitentiary

Why on earth would a vacation tour stop at a maximum-security prison? I suspect that the state of Louisiana encouraged Road Scholar to include a visit to Angola to burnish the state’s reputation. It worked. 
   

I do not believe that we were shown all aspects of the Louisiana State Penitentiary.  Looking online, I saw reports and images that were more like what one would expect. Still, what we did see was encouraging, giving me a little more hope for our species.

The prison sprawls over 18,000 acres, housing some 5,000 male prisoners, most of whom are serving life sentences with no possibility of parole. At one time the prison had the reputation of being a bloody and dangerous place – the worst in the country.    

Now, not so much. The prisoners work: on the rich farmland and in cottage industries. They have their own television station, broadcasting throughout the complex. They have places of worship for most religions. They even have service clubs. And an annual rodeo. They have created a sort of alternate universe where they can have almost normal lives while incarcerated.

Our tour had come up the Mississippi from New Orleans on a paddlewheel boat. We disembarked and boarded  a bus that took us into the  vast prison complex. Our first stop was at the stables where we ‘met’ some horses. We drove through fields brimming with produce then we stopped in front of what looked like a chapel. 

Entering, sitting in the pews, we saw two men, each holding the leash for a dog. It turned out that the men, both prisoners, were training the dogs to be service dogs for veterans. Dogs are rescued from shelters and the offenders work with them over the course of a year until they are ready to help veterans restore their physical and emotional independence.

Wow.   

                           

Amazing Grace

During any trip there are moments that are indelible. Something happens that is so special that you want to remember it forever.

Recently, I participated in a Road Scholar tour that included a visit to the Antioch Baptist Church outside Natchez, Mississippi.

When we entered the modest sanctuary, I was a little disappointed because there were only about a dozen congregants standing in the choir loft. Then the music began. Beautiful, rich voices, singing in terrific harmony.

Then they invited us to join them. The songs were songs like “Amazing Grace” which everyone knew. I hesitated, unsure of my ability to climb into the loft, but went as soon as I saw there was a railing I could use. I made it up and joined the performance. It filled me with joy.

Before I climbed into the loft, I saw a woman from the tour who had proceeded me and who was singing with her whole soul. She and her husband were a couple I had ‘connected’ with – often sitting with them at meals. I think her husband was a judge and she was a Chicago matron (possibly Jewish). I used my smart phone to take a rather dim photo of a stunning moment – one that I will treasure for a long time.

 ‘Amazing Grace’ indeed.

Pulley Bone

Pully Bone Natchez, Mississippi has a deep heritage. Named for the Indian nation that was defeated then expelled from the high bluffs along the river, it is said to be home to more millionaires than any other U.S. city.

The Natchez people were mound builders, reflecting a sophisticated spiritual tradition that did not survive repeated conflicts with the French (and Spanish). Many escaped into the Carolinas only to suffer the Trail of Tears. Later, cotton, harvested by slave labor, created the wealth that is still reflected in luxurious homes and plantations in the area.

I saw little of that. A medical problem prompted me to find transportation from the elegant paddle wheel boat docked at the river, to the local urgent care facility. I walked up the gangplank and into a red cab with white lettering identifying it as part of the Rock N’ Roll taxi company. It was driven by a slim older man who didn’t smile much. We ascended the bluff and drove to urgent care. The driver gave me his card (which I promptly lost) and left.

After an examination, I was told I could pick up a prescription at the Walgreen’s on the other side of a four-lane freeway. A cab was called for. The same one showed up. This time the driver pulled up to the drive-up window where we learned my prescription would be ready in about 15 minutes. So, we rode to the front of the store so I could get some necessities while waiting for the medication. With those in hand, I waited by the front door for the return of the Rock N’ Roll taxi. When it arrived, the driver, aware that I had missed the morning tour of Natchez’s mansions, drove me the long way back to the boat so I could at least get a glimpse of his city.

I wanted to pay him extra, but he refused. He only charges $10 no matter where he drives. This time, I kept his card, tucking it into my pocket as I walked down the gangplank and onto my boat. That card is now a treasured souvenir inscribed with his name “Pulley Bone”.

 I have no idea if that’s his real name … or if he was just pulling my leg.

Thanks Are In Order

When I awoke on Friday, I clearly needed medical attention. Thank you to my physician and his staff for working me into their Friday morning schedule.

Thank you to my pharmacist for promptly filling my prescription.

Thank you to my brother for driving up from Denver to take me into Rocky Mountain National Park. [We were totally unaware of the catastrophe in my house.]

Thank you to my housekeeper for sprucing things up … and having the presence of mind to call a neighbor when she discovered a foot of sewer water in my basement.

Thank you to my neighbor for shutting off the water.

Meanwhile, up in the mountains, wandering (after lunch) amid glorious aspen, several deer and one magnificent herd of elk, I apparently dropped the prescription bottle.

When I returned home to the mess, I looked everywhere for my prescription … to no avail. But the plumber came (thank goodness) and drained the basement, and turned the water back on … about 8:30 p.m. [He’s coming back to repair my sewer pipe … $$$.]

I still really needed my prescription. Then I discovered a voicemail message on my home phone from a mountain grocery store pharmacy, saying someone had turned in my prescription to the counter at a mountain gift shop (near where we had had lunch). 

Thanks to whoever turned in my prescription.

Thanks to the gift shop person who called the grocery store pharmacy.

And many, many thanks to my pharmacist who – thankfully – agreed to replace my prescription.

In a few days, and a lot of money, my basement will be okay.

In a few days, and the rest of my pills, I should be fine.

And I am grateful.

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)