Inquiring Minds

I have been home sick for the last 10 days.  First was the norovirus that came on suddenly and painfully. Vomiting and diarrhea added to the misery.  Finally  after four days of that and one day of feeling recovered, I have been felled by a nasty cough and cold.  

I always thank Martha for these contagions since she often subs in an elementary school - the petri dish of germs.  Thanks!

I have been using my down time reading historical novels which I prefer.  But as I lay in bed with tissues wadded up my nose, I thought of this question -

All these old century stories deal with horrible diseases - typhoid, Bubonic plaque, small pox.  But I have never read of a protagonist in earlier centuries having a common cold.  Did it not exist back then?  Did Michelangelo never sneeze on David?  Did Cleopatra never cough on Anthony?

And my burning question is - what did they use for tissues? This baby needs her Puffs Plus with Lotion and Vicks.  I can’t imagine rubbing rough papyrus on my already raw nose.

If you have any insight, please leave all scholarly research, or fantasy guesses in the comments.  Inquiring minds need to know.

Manifesting Kindness

I had meant to start January with a post about positivity and healthy resolutions.  But I got blindsided by a call saying that a friend’s granddaughter had committed suicide.  Seventeen years old.  Brillant.  Had just received early admission to the ivy league school of her choice.  It seemed that she was about to have everything she had worked so hard for.  But she also suffered from depression.  At first it was thought that she broke under the weight of academic pressure and expectation.  But her diary revealed that she was also being bullied at school.  Bullied to death.  It is unimaginably horrendous how some people treat others. 

She is the third person I know who lost their lives to depression.  I also have many friends and relatives who battle with this illness daily, to varying degrees.  I am far from an expert, but it seems like this illness is often triggered by, or reinforced by, a feeling of isolation, loneliness, or lack of support.   

Compounding the problem today, we are in the midst of very troubling times.  Politics, climate emergencies, broken health care, war.  So much pain and loss.  The causes for depression are multiplying. All, it seems, caused by greed and the insatiable desire for power and the need to feel better than someone else.  I read a lot about history, and my biggest take-away is that humanity has always had people with a mean streak, with the most powerful people putting down those without power. Always wanting more.  Always wanting to feel superior.  Always at someone else’s expense.  It’s a story as old as time. 

In the face of all the sadness and isolation, I want to do better for folks who are suffering.  I know they often mask their pain, and I wonder how many times I have completely missed the signs of a friend in need.  Last year I lost a former colleague who I thought to be one of the happiest people - always smiling, always volunteering for everything, always extra social.  She also suffered from depression.  But no one knew.  I just keep thinking about that - no one knew.

So one of my resolutions this year is to better educate myself on how to recognize and support folks who experience depression.  But I also have to acknowledge that in most cases, unfortunately, I won’t even recognize it.  So, what to do?   Researching about it, I came across this:

“Kindness serves as a powerful antidote to depression”

So my resolution for this year is to be more aware of all folks I encounter. Those close to me and those anywhere in my orbit. Even the mean and ornery ones. Even the red ones and the rude ones and the ones who wouldn't give me the time of day. Just be kind to everyone.  At every opportunity.  All the time.  It costs nothing.   

n keep our balance we

God Jul (Merry Christmas)

My family didn’t have much when I was growing up.  We didn’t get a lot in the way of presents but my mom always somehow made the Christmas season magical.  She was a stay-at-home mom, but worked some odd jobs all year - making calls, or stuffing envelopes - to make enough money to give us one special holiday experience.  The Radio City Spectacular, the Vienna Choir Boys at Lincoln Center, the Rockefeller tree lighting, or a Broadway show are some of my favorite childhood memories.  And although we didn’t get much under the tree, our home was always filled with festive handmade decorations and the smell of baking almond cookies.

I think Martha and I did a pretty good job of also giving our daughters a magical Christmas. But to be honest, it was all so hectic - we both worked full time, splitting shifts because we didn’t have any daycare help (and no Amazon delivery) -  I missed a lot of the magic in all of the frenetic chaos of putting it all together.

But now I have grandchildren - 2 granddaughters, too young yet to get excited, and 2 grandsons, both three years old and at an age of wonderment.   And I get to experience the magic again, without all the work.  We have made snowmen, baked cookies, made tree ornaments and seen Santa.  

We went on a special trip on the Polar Express and had hot chocolate, got our tickets punched and received Christmas bells from Santa. 

I’d like to say that the best part was watching the joy in the kid’s eyes, but I think I might have been even more bedazzled than they were.  There is just something so magical about this time of year.

We do not celebrate a religious Christmas, although Martha usually attends some mass with old friends.  I tend to focus on the simple Scandinavian traditions of my youth - candles, reading books while sipping hot chocolate, and almond cookies.   

However you choose to celebrate this season (or not) I wish you all the childlike joys of magic and warmth and laughter.   And cookies.  Lots and lots of cookies.

Full of Grace

Well, this has certainly been a tough, gut wrenching week.  And apparently getting worse with each new appointment. 

Knowing that this nightmare is going to continue ad nauseam, I am taking measures to protect my inner peace by turning off all national news for a while and quickly clicking out of anything where I see he who must not be named.   I’ve been taking a lot of walks. And naps.

I also recognize that I have much be be grateful for:

• Although I am a queer woman (two strikes)  I am white which gives me a wealth of unearned privilege. 

• I, and my immediate family, all live in blue states. 

• Anticipating the republican win, my state just overwhelmingly enshrined existing civil rights protections, including abortion and trans rights, into our Constitution, to add an extra layer of protection against attacks.

• Although Martha and I collect Social Security, thanks to our pensions, we do not need it to live comfortably.

• Our grandchildren appear to be healthy and will most likely not need any special programs from our schools.  

When the shock and sadness of this national nightmare wears off, I’ll be fine. And I am grateful. But I don’t know how to help all those who will suffer, now and for generations to come. 

But love is not going to be enough. The trail just got steeper, but the climb continues. 

The Ring

Long ago I lost everything I owned and learned a valuable lesson about attachment to things.  Unfortunately I live with a packrat so our home is still filled with so much ‘stuff’ it makes my teeth rattle, but I continually sift through my belongings and pare down to the essential.  To this end, while Martha was out of town for a while, I decided to tackle my dresser which always seems to collect all the detritus of my life.  Out went holey socks, worn out underwear,  empty chapstick tubes, old grocery receipts, used up gift cards, etc.   

And then I opened an old jewelry box.  These days I only wear my wedding ring and occasionally some gold hoop earrings I keep in a dish, so I can’t even remember the last time I opened this box.  It felt like an archeological dig - a newspaper article from when I left my last job 35 years ago, NYC subway tokens (discontinued in 2003), miscellaneous foreign coins and euros, assorted safety pins, an obituary of a dear friend who died decades ago, many buttons in little packets that are attached to clothes in case you lose one - clothing I have long since gotten rid of.  Five ‘evil eye’ Mati stones brought back from a trip to Greece. Five?  I wonder what I was afraid of . . .

Then something that stopped me in my tracks. In the very bottom corner, wrapped in tissue paper, was the silver commitment ring I wore during my years with Daphne, long before legal marriage was a possibility.  I was already feeling the vulnerability and vague ache of the September trauma anniversary and I curled into bed along with a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings and memories too long forgotten and/or buried.  

The foremost of these was guilt.  Not survivor’s guilt.  No, years and years of therapy had gotten me through most of the constant rumination and re-play of fault.  Well, mostly.  But guilt that I have successfully moved on with my life.   I can’t even remember the last time I went to visit Daphne’s grave.  I have no doubt that she would have wanted me to be happy and to share my life with others.  But somehow, in the midst of my current life, I have spent very few moments honoring her and her impact on my life.  It was the guilty recognition that her memory is waning as I spend my life with others..  

Anger. This has been a recurring feeling every time I listen to politicians working to remove women’s reproductive rights.  The ring reminded me that Daphne took her own life when she found she was pregnant by her rapist(s).  Of course I didn’t learn this until much later given that her family had nothing to do with me. Times were different then, but how it pisses me off that we are returning to them.  

And finally, joy.  Twirling the ring around my fingers (I can no longer get it on since I’m long past my skinny days).  Smiling, I began to think about all the lessons Daphne taught me that have brought me to where I am today.  Peace with my sexuality, the comfort of intimacy, the trust of true relationships, kindness, laughter, and the “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke” mentality.  I know I would not be experiencing the joy I have today without her influence on my yesterday. 

Now found, I’m not sure what to do with the ring.  Strangely I can’t even remember when I took it off.  Still, it feels odd to have it so tucked away that it has gone unremembered for decades.  My therapist used to always tell me that the river of time only flows in one direction.  There’s no going back to change things.   But, like the Sept. 11th “Never Forget” signs that are so prevalent here in New York this month, I feel like I want to do something.  I just don’t know what, but I want it to reflect my incalculable gratitude. 

4 under 3

 

We took our annual family  trip this year to a seaside town in Maine.  I say it was a trip, rather than a vacation, because we shared a house with 4 children.  Two 2+ year boys affectionately known as Category 5 and the Tornado.  A one year old girl who crawls faster than I can walk and got into everything in our non-child proofed rental, and one 6 week old girl who was velcroed to her mom, constantly cluster feeding.  Chaos. 

We chose Maine as it is driveable for all of us and we needed every available inch of car space for car seats, strollers, beach wagons, blow-up toddler beds, bassinets, a high chair and boxes of diapers, wipes, snacks and other assorted baby and beach paraphernalia.  That we willingly put ourselves through this is a testament to the human spirit.

Still, we managed to do some fun things - an antique trolley car ride and a seaside open air train ride.  Lots of quaint shops that always sold salt water taffy and fudge.  Picturesque lighthouses and amazing oceanside seafood.  And hours and hours of late afternoon hours at the beach.  

Maine water is a little chilly for me to do more than splash my feet but to see Category 5 and the Tornado form the perfect storm - throwing themselves into the water, building and smashing sand castles with such exuberance while my 1 year old granddaughter simply crawled in the sand, laughing every time a wave came and knocked her over - it all just filled me with such joy and nostalgia for my beach bum childhood. 

We ended our trip with a few more pounds around our waists, even more pounds of sand in everything we owned, and some great memories.  Then after the chaos of trying to shove all the gear back into the cars, babies into car seats, and get back on the road, I got a text “where shall we go next year?”  I’m going to need a few days to recuperate before I even think about that.

Thoughts During a Catholic Funeral

I recently attended the funeral service of a woman Martha was very close to.  I am never very comfortable with these events but the woman was elderly and had been ill for some time, so not a surprise but still much sadness.  I went to support Martha.  The service took place in a Catholic church and I think I may have been the only non-Catholic person there.  I surmise this because everyone else knew the routines - sign of the cross, genuflect, how to receive communion, etc.

I sat there, clueless, holding Martha’s hand and quietly taking in the sights and sounds.  Pretty hymns, headache producing incense, and Jesus’ dead body hanging on a cross - which sent me down the rabbit hole.

I am heartbroken for folks today whose worst moments are caught publicly and then repeatedly shown to the world on social media.  How often I read about some woman’s rape that was live streamed and can’t imagine how absolutely soul destroying that must be.  I literally tremble just thinking about it. How grateful I am that phones were not an option on the worst day of my life.  

My daughter is a Middle School social worker and deals with similar issues daily.  The kid whose bullying is filmed so others can laugh, the girl that sends nude pictures to her boyfriend only to find they are being passed around the school, the kid who suffers some embarrassment now immortalized on social media.  The psychological impact must be devastating.  It’s no wonder that kids who experience this repeated victimization have such high rates of depression and suicide.  And I wonder about the emotional deadening impact to the folks who view these atrocious videos.  

I sat in a Catholic church, looking at a near naked man, on what had to be the worst day of his life.  Stripped, beaten and nailed to a cross.  A man’s murdered body put on display.  I am told this is to remind Catholics that Jesus suffered and died for them.  But it just made me very, very sad for anyone whose suffering is made public, open for all to see, which is all too common these days