The Good News or the Bad News? A Grief Update.


When Mom told my younger sister and me that she was never leaving us, that after she died, she’d always be hovering nearby, trying to protect us, I was amused. Honestly, as much as she loved us, I only recall a few times when I felt her protection. Once when I was about 10, a nasty teenager hurled my first ethnic slur at me using two words I’d never heard before, fucking and kike. I ran to our Chicago apartment to ask her what they meant. She was furious and came storming outside to tell that wretched Harry Hess to shut his mouth and never say those words again. I was pretty impressed. Some years later, in my junior year of high school, a teacher berated me in front of her freshman Latin class for being a terrible example of a student council officer. I’d cut sixty physical education classes, and although elected to serve as council treasurer the following year, she threatened to strip away that office as retribution. My mom steamed into school to defend the indefensible, for I had indeed broken the rules. Mom still was furious that I’d been humiliated, no matter what I’d done. My punishment wound up being forced to make up the classes, two for every one, in my senior year. On swimming days, I was wet three times a day. Go mom. Aside from those memorable experiences, she was often a vulnerable mess, sorting out her unsolved childhood issues, making robust use of sedatives and being hospitalized a lot. I remember her saying ridiculous things like, “if you keep swallowing your gum, your insides will get stuck together,”or “if you buy anything for your unborn child, you’ll curse the baby.” She was essentially a kid, often fun, often naughty and generally needy. She was a curious combination of neurotic, tough and funny, weak and often overwhelmed. As kids, when my sister and I waited in the car with our dad while she ran an errand, he rustled his newspaper in the front seat and glancing back would say, “you know your mother’s crazy, don’t you?” But in a loving way. When he died, I spent the next twenty-five years taking care of Dorothy. She said lots of things that I remember. Lately I’ve been thinking of one in particular – “you can’t be in two places at the same time, no matter how hard you try.” As with many of her opinions that I chose to disregard, that statement turns out to be one of them.


Soon I will have completed my fourth year since Michael died. That’s less than nine per cent of the time we lived together. I don’t expect to live long enough to ever get to even half of our time which would be a long stretch that doesn’t sound appealing. I remember many things that Michael said to me too. Some were repeated on multiple occasions. During the course of our life, when we contended with whatever got tossed in our direction, he’d always say, “what do you want first – the good news or the bad news?” That was always an easy choice for me. Bad news first so the good could then ameliorate the rotten. So what do those two disparate comments from my mom and Michael have to do with my current take on grief? A lot, as it turns out.

So we’ll start with Michael and deal with the bad news first. He is definitely still dead. There isn’t a single thing I can do to change that reality. And the whole business about the stages of grief? I seem to be parked in the angry lane. I don’t know if that’s the desired outcome according to all the experts, but that’s life. I’ve definitely moved forward, but invariably, I wind up being really furious that we didn’t get the time we were so sure we had ahead of us. How all those nasty people in his family lived well into their nineties while he was gone at 67 is for me, evidence that there truly is no justice. I know it’s much worse for many other people but on some days, I just want to think about us. I remember in those last months of his life, he’d emerge from the confusion of his cancer-riddled brain, look at me and ask, “what are you going to do without me?” I’d tell him the truth. “Beats me.” I honestly had no idea what I would be doing once Michael died. I just needed to complete being his partner until the end of his life. There would be time for everything else later.

I’m coming up on the four year anniversary of his last breath. I’ve figured out a lot of things to do. I’ve traveled, at least before the pandemic. I’ve continued to grow my education by taking a broad array of classes and these days, webinars. I’ve exercised, danced, gardened, created art and read lots of books. I’ve listened to countless hours of music and discovered new artists to love. I’ve watched movies and television series. I’ve spent time with my family. I still have some long-lasting friendships with my peers, although some of those have fallen away. Being a widow has changed certain dynamics with people and I don’t have the desire to use my energy for trying to fix everything that doesn’t work any more. With a more limited future, I’m more stingy with my time. I have a nice group of younger friends who weave in and out of my life. They’re refreshing.

I’d say that my grief is now fused to me, like a sheath which is primarily internal. I’m not sad all day or crying or incapable of average life functions. It feels like those hazy clouds, diffuse and quite like other feelings that vary in frequency and intensity. I’m not sure if I actively made this happen or if it’s a purely organic process attributable to time passing. Periodically, I get surprised by a deeply primal agony that erupts over a certain song, a glance at a photo or an unexpected jolt of loneliness. I just ride out those waves. I expect those to be a permanent part of my life. But then comes the good news. I knew I’d never again be interested in a relationship, a partnership. The powerful magic that was Michael and me still exists and is alive deep inside me. During the hardest times, it surges up in me and helps me cope, as it did when he was alive. I marvel at this kinetic combination of pain, fire, power and love that are all rolled together now. I didn’t know that who we were would continue to fuel my life in his absence. But that’s what’s happened and although I’d give a lot for his touch, this mystical connection is unique, comforting and very real for me. How it was that two skeptical people like us, and especially a realist like me, gave ourselves over to this otherworldly attachment still leaves me confounded. It’s real though and I have documentary evidence from us both attempting to understand it as far back as 1972. Indeed, that’s the good news I take away from the infuriating injustice of not being able to grow old together. We saved every scrap of paper we ever exchanged. I find great comfort there. Which brings me back to mom telling me you can’t be in two places at the same time. Oh but I can.

Mom and Michael

At a time in life when people are beginning to have those moments of walking into a room and having no memory of why they went there in the first place, I am still experiencing that vivid recall I’ve had my whole life. A few years ago, I wrote about my “memory palace,”a reference to Sherlock Holmes who was able to pull out complicated details and minutiae from his brain to solve his cases. My memories are like those children’s pop-up books in which you turn a page and an entire scene stands up in three dimensions rather than only words. I can walk through those memories, seeing the clothing I was wearing, or that others were, smelling what was in the air, listening to and participating in conversations. So vivid and stunning. I have no idea why this happens. My mother had a powerful memory until she was about ninety when it finally began to fail. She too could describe her life from her early childhood in tiny details. She told me so much about hers that they now feel like they’re mine. In the long hours of social distancing during the past year, I’ve literally been internally transported into another time while actively being right here in the now. I think my long hours of listening to music enhanced this phenomenon. For example, I was hard at work in the yard last week when I recognized the first note of The Allman Brothers’ song “Jessica.”

From Wikipedia

I don’t know exactly how many times Michael and I saw them perform nor can I count how many hours we spent listening to their albums. But after the first note, I was at The World Music Theater in Tinley Park near Chicago, attending their concert thirty years ago, swaying to the music next to Michael. Only a two hour drive from home, we’d just gone up to the concert for the night. I can see myself walking toward him from a bathroom break, dawdling a bit because getting out of the parking lot and onto the highway always took awhile. We climb in the car together and I can feel the warm satisfaction of our good time, my hand massaging the back of his neck to make sure he feels alert and comfortable during the dark drive home. While I’m in that moment I’m also still digging up clods of dirt and grass for my new garden bed right here in 2021. An interesting kind of time travel that happens mostly when I’m alone but can show up unexpectedly when some trigger pushes the button that releases this parallel universe in my head. There’s no dissonance or adjustment. I guess I think that the mind is a series of layers, like sedimentary rock, but flexible and mobile. I have no clue how it works but if I concentrate, I can select a place to visit while I’m sitting in my recliner in my living room. So no, mom. I can be in two places at once. Just not physically. I find this phenomenon to be a wonderful gift. I dread the idea of having it disappear. But I’m trying to stay as close to the present as possible. I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself which is consistent with how I’ve felt for a long time. This interesting ability helps with my grief companion. Getting to immerse myself fully in the good times has definite advantages. I can leapfrog the bad memories as well. So far none of my forays into neuroscience classes has unearthed any explanation for what goes on in me. Maybe I’ll never get to understand. So I’m going with the flow.

Cheap Trills

A little chickadee

I’ve had a lot of free-floating anxiety threads dangling in my head for the past few days. I’d categorize them under the what happens next and the surprise problems categories. Trying to draw them together under a tongue-in-cheek title surprised even me, the source of this play on words title which I’ll explain shortly. Actually, though, underpinning these words are two of those gnawing strands which have been bumping up against each other in my brain. Yesterday I finished my last class of an eight week course on Zen Buddhism. As with most organized religions, I am left with the actuality of being someone for whom an affiliation with a group is not going to happen. However, I’m a soulful, spiritual person with an interest in extracting the parts of those belief systems which resonate with me. During the last session, the Zen priest instructor of the class drew on the words of four teachers whose wisdom had profound effects on her. I came away thinking about one of them in particular. He said, “love your problems because they are an affirmation of the gift of life. When you’re dead, you won’t have any more problems.” Translated into my-speak, I realized I was more zen than I’d realized – I always say, “life is a shit sandwich – take a big bite and enjoy it.” Not quite as poetic but a point well-taken and a good reminder to myself. Life is these issues, all strung together.

House finch

Grappling with the dayto-day issues of living can be a pain in the neck. The dryer that croaks when it’s loaded with wet laundry. That unexpected flashing warning light on the car dashboard. A river of water suddenly gushing out from under the refrigerator. A miscalculation in the checkbook. And that’s the easy stuff. Sometimes there’s a new problem every few days. Just keeping up is a victory along with being glad it’s nothing worse, like illness or death. Expectations can be a real minefield in the coping department. I’m one of those people whose approach is to be ready for the worst and then be pleasantly surprised when what happens is better. Back in the old days, Michael said I was a cheap date, satisfied with a. A little bit of good went a long way for me. And interestingly enough, it still does, despite having gone through some hard times. I can’t say I’m an optimist. I don’t believe that people are inherently good. I think the world is a huge mess. But invariably, the smallest bit of beauty stimulates this inexorable life force which surges up in me, even when I’m dark, sad, angry or confused. I’d call it an irrepressible genetic disorder. Or maybe an order if there is such a thing. And I’m always fascinated to find myself on an upswing that rapidly pushes aside whatever negative force had recently felt immovable. Lucky, lucky me.

A pair of mourning doves.

Barely a week ago, I was writing about feeling indecisive and ambivalent about how to emerge, at least a tiny bit, from the narrow parameters of the social distancing required by the past year. I really don’t like that circuitous thinking when one question leads to another instead of an answer. Being intellectual about emotions can be so wearing. Fed up with spinning in circles and further irritated by some, expensive, unexpected and uninvited problems, I switched into an active mode while staring at my yard, thinking instead about spring and plants and habitat. And I thought, “we don’t need no stinkin’ grass,” and grabbed my heavy spade. The next thing I knew, I was removing sod from the lawn. Which is, as everyone knows, tough work. I remember the first time I did it. In 1989, both my parents were diagnosed with cancer – ultimately my dad died. Michael had been elected to his first term as alderman and after months of campaigning, his back, which had often been sore from too many years of swinging a bat, called it quits and felled him for three weeks before requiring surgery. He was just forty. We had two little kids and I was working full-time while trying to care for seemingly everyone. That summer I didn’t do any gardening. The following year, my friend Joanne showed up at my house with an overflowing flat of perennials which she thought would do wonders for my sad, exhausted self. And they were like a tonic until I realized I couldn’t simply hurl them in the ground amidst the grass. They’d grow back and be messy. And so I became the human sod tiller. I dug up a big chunk of the front yard, laid in brick dividers and planted twenty-four perennials. I was partially crippled despite being sturdy peasant stock, but was well pleased with my work. Who knew that was the beginning of my war on grass?

The site of my first attack on grass.

Despite our many compatible similarities, Michael and I diverged on the lawn issue. I thought it was useless. As a city dweller with a patch of dirt next to my apartment building, I couldn’t see its point. He was a suburban guy, living in a place where everyone had lawns. He brought that expectation into our life – lawn. So he fertilized it, weeded it and mowed it, once the kids were gone and relieved of their detested chore, while I carved out more sod and planted flowers and shrubs to provide food for pollinators and habitat for birds. He liked his big vegetable and herb garden but oh, that beloved grass. He died leaving it to me. So now, despite its being a rather herculean task, I’m going after it, one patch at a time.

I’ll be ready to plant soon as soon as I’m sure the last chance of a freeze is past and then I’ll remove more of that lawn. But here’s the best part. While doing straight-up simple labor, those loose threads in my mind started coming together. As I dug into that rich dark soil, I was bumping into worms tangled in the grass roots. I took the time to separate them and return them to the dirt. Back in 2014, right after Michael finished his first chemo, we headed south to St. Pete’s Beach in Florida for some recovery time. We were so grateful he was alive after receiving a terrible prognosis five months earlier. We were quiet and restful, and I read a book I just loved called The Earth Moved – On the Remarkable Achievements of Earthworms. Just a few hours of digging brought back lots of memories of that special time.

I ran across this mind-boggler today. Fact or fiction? Articles validating this data abound.

Meanwhile, as I dug doggedly away, I was in the company of all the birds who’ve taken up nesting places in my yard. Carmine, my resident male cardinal, was singing his heart out, right over my head.

Carmine singing.

The chittering of juncoes, sparrows and finches was punctuated by cawing crows aloft. And there is the diminutive Carolina wren, a number of whom have chosen to live under my side porch, a wise choice for both shelter and proximity to my bird feeders. Their song is powerful and melodious, almost jarring when you realize how tiny a creature is creating such a big racket.

Carolina wren
Carolina wren

I realized that the physical labor, coupled with the company of my avian menagerie, was rapidly helping to dissipate my waffling indecisiveness about how to live this next section of my life. Although I feel uncertain about safety issues, for the most part, I’m still pretty sensible. And alive. I don’t require a lot of fancy-shmancy activities or material goods to buoy my spirits. As Michael always said, I’m the cheap date. After hanging out with my yardbirds, I was reminded by their vocalizations that I can be moved by cheap trills – the free music outside, just sitting there for my listening pleasure. Yup. Cheap trills. They moved me. To make some moves.

So this week, I began to creep out of confinement. I returned to the pool for the first time since February, 2020. The protocols for participation are as reasonable as one could imagine. I can’t describe the thrill of the endorphins, emerging from wherever they’ve been hiding, racing through my body and creating so much energy. I thought I wouldn’t be able to swim a stroke but my makeshift exercise programs and private pandemic dance parties were successful enough for me to maintain some muscle. Hopefully, nothing happens to shut down this wonderful balm for my soul.

The next thing I did was to meet a friend for breakfast, inside the restaurant where we’ve met so many times over the years. I hadn’t been inside a restaurant since last February. Everyone was wearing masks and new partitions separated the booths. We removed our masks to eat and then put them on again. Did the food really taste so delicious, better than ever before? Who knows? A waitress I’ve known for many years recognized me, mask and all, and gave us free drinks. She said she was so happy to see old regulars trickling back in – these have been hard times for people in her line of work. I left her a tip bigger than our check. Was it weird? A little. I don’t know how often I’ll be doing this but I’m glad I leapt that hurdle.

My last big step for this week was attending the reconstituting of my book club, which like everything else, hadn’t been a thing since last year. All of us have been fully vaccinated so we met at a member’s roomy home, with a sliding door to the outside wide open despite a little chill. We didn’t discuss a book today. Rather, we all shared whatever we’d gone through this past year, along with the books that brought us the most comfort as we dealt with isolation and loneliness. Some of us had easier times than others. I’ve known some members for 50 years and others barely two. I was glad to see that everyone was still here. We made a selection for next month’s meeting and are hoping to move steadily forward.

My beautiful cardinal female, Pumpkin.

So. I can’t say that I’ve eliminated all ambivalence and anxiety about the future because that’s not true. But I’ve moved past my temporary paralysis, hoping for the best outcomes as I slowly proceed into whatever life is supposed to be like going forward. I’m mindful and careful but out of solitary confinement. I’m adding a little structure to my amorphous existence. I found my life urges through scrabbling in the dirt with the songs of the yardbirds lifting my spirits and the always comforting specter of Michael saying the things he always said that ring like chimes in my head. Cheap trills. They’re everywhere.


I was scrolling around in the photo stream on my phone tonight and I came across this shot. One of the many mysterious tricks the AI on my tech devices can do, about which I know nothing. Out of curiosity, I poked at the pictures and found that they’re the locations of where I’ve taken photos which are still stored on my phone. Obviously my feeble attempts to foil the spies has been moderately effective in that some of the geographical locations are wrong. I keep my location off most of the time for the purpose of privacy. As if. I’m sure I could be found in seconds if anyone was bothering to look for me. Of course the bulk of my pictures have been taken near my home because I haven’t been away in a year. The others are just shots I like to look at every now and then.

These are from the last big trip that Michael and I took to Utah in September of 2016, seven months before he died. That was a wonderful and unforgettable adventure. Five national parks in eight days. Later, I worried that the rapid pace might have made him more vulnerable to his cancer after months in remission. But that probably wasn’t true as he’d had multiple recurrences over five years. After he died, I went off on a few trips like this on my own. Now that a year has passed since I’ve traveled, my mind has turned toward getting away. The other day I was listening to The Clash and I made a meme to illustrate how I feel.

I think my personal mental health cost of the pandemic is an increased inability to make decisions. Historically I’m a person who thinks fast, weighs options and makes choices with little hesitation. These months of warily weighing every move I make has me questioning every thought I have, to the point where what starts as an actionable idea dwindles rapidly to “is it really worth it to step outside my tiny comfort zone.” I find this inevitable ambivalence alienating and exhausting. Obviously there are public health matters which have dictated a profound sense of caution, especially as the numbers of people who’ve died from Covid grew to a tragedy impossible to comprehend. All the activities I’d put in place to help me adapt to living as a single person for the first time in forty five years just stopped. No swimming for an endorphin release. No haircut and massage day every six weeks to compensate for living without daily physical contact with another human being. My book club stopped because few members wanting to continue meeting on Zoom. Because of my age, I took the extra precautions of having my groceries delivered and having anything else I needed pre-paid and dumped into my trunk. When I look back at my photos from over the last twelve months, I think fewer than five % have people in them. I’m certainly not the only person who’s lived this way. I’ve seen some scary before and after pictures of the changed faces of people who’ve truly suffered through their isolation. I’m not that badly off. I just have no idea how to get comfortable emerging from this time. I feel uncertain. And I don’t like it.COVID-19 DNAThree variants of the COVID-19 virus found in 14 countries in the Americas, PAHO reports. Pan-American Health Organization.

Much of my ambivalence of what to do or not do is based on the continuing issues of the variants making their way around the country. Epidemiologists seem to agree that all the mutations discovered are likely already everywhere and that some are more transmissible and lethal than the original virus. One would hope that those of us lucky enough to have been vaccinated will have at least partial immunity to those variants, although booster shots are already being developed to address them.

After all the months of hanging around with my pair of undemanding cardinals, I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised at the wheelspinning which my mind devolves into when I’m trying to figure out what it’s time to do, now that society at large appears to be ready to return to some version of “normal.” At least for now. Next week both my grandsons will be back at in-person school, masked and distanced but in their building. I think they both need the contact although I’m still a bit wary. Hopefully, there won’t be a reason for all of us to return to a lockdown, as is currently happening in Europe.

I yearn for a big adventure like the ones I took in 2018 and 2019, when I headed for Sedona and Glacier. Those trips made me feel like I was using my time well, in a fulfilling way that would be in keeping with the hopes Michael had for me as I moved forward without him. Living as hard as I could which he so wanted to do. Not staying locked up in the house waiting to be done with life. He couldn’t have imagined the pandemic which has been dictating decisions since last year. The exciting trip to Alaska which was where I’d planned to spend my last year of my sixties is off my list. I can’t imagine voluntarily stepping aboard a cruise ship, the floating petri dishes for contagion. The National Parks left on my most desired places to visit are far away and feel like more than I’m ready for, although I look at travel plans every other day. Does it really matter if I see these places? Still ambivalent.

I head out to the garden where Michael’s perennial herbs are making their spring appearance. On some days it’s enough to just bend down and admire them, grateful for their return. But on this day, I squeeze a few sprigs of the thyme, the sage and the chives, savoring the scents, the freshness, the promise of lushness to come in a few weeks. Small things, certainly, but still an adventure in nature which provides a measure of satisfaction for anyone who appreciates miracles of the earth.

I decided to dig up some grass. Generally I think grass is useless. I’m slowly getting rid of it so I can replace it with native plants which will entice pollinators. There’s nothing like yanking up clods of sod, and carefully placing the upended earthworms back in the dirt, to help you problem-solve. At least that works for me. As I dug away, I realized that my cardinal rules of coping have been buried by the pressure of this crazy year. And one of my best ones is that when everything seems too big and overwhelming, the best thing to do is break that giant ball into smaller, manageable pieces. I’m going to have to ease my way back, or forward, into whatever the world is going to look like, three months from now, six months from now, maybe a year from now. Generally I don’t look that far down the road anyway. That privilege of imagining a limitless future went away after Michael got sick. So I’ve taken a few small steps.

I renewed my pool pass. The indoor and outdoor pools both have Covid regulations. Usage is limited and reservations are required for a lane which can only accommodate two people. I can wear my mask right up until I get in the water and put it on the minute I get out. I yearn for the endorphin release that always comes from swimming although I expect it’ll take awhile before I can get back in shape. So that’s thing one.

The Courier – Local Wiki

I’m also going to have breakfast with another vaccinated friend indoors at a restaurant we’ve been meeting at for many years. Again, there will be masks and barriers between the booths and all the other Covid regulations. I expect to start out feeling really weird but hope that I’ll be able to relax after awhile. I suspect that I won’t be doing this very often but I think it’s a reasonable small step. I realize that lots of people are out there going about this stuff as if caution is totally yesterday. That some feel that their vaccines have made them invincible. And of course there are all those who’ll never be vaccinated, and those who think the virus is a hoax, and on and on and on. My baby steps probably seem like a ridiculous joke to them. Ironically, considering that I consider myself to be relatively courageous, I feel a bit ridiculous to myself. But I believe in the random power of the virus which is doing its thing while people are walking around unconscious, uneducated or otherwise feeling invincible. I’m not sure I ever felt that way, even when I was really young. In the end, what matters is how I decide, in what I think is at the very least, a narrow window of opportunity to abandon the hermit life for a sense of connection to the outside world. Next week, my book club which hasn’t met for a year, is reconvening. Everyone is vaccinated. We hope the weather is decent enough to sit outside. If not, we’ll wear masks and sit in an enclosed porch with all the windows open. Hopefully all will be well. I’ll let you know.

Is There a Gene For That?

Emerging hyacinth

I spend a lot of time running around. The weather is getting spring-like, so I’m out looking for my plants which will hopefully return, or simply show up for the first time after going in the ground last fall. But I was also running around in the winter except for the absolute worst weather days. And even then, in my house of many doors with glass windows, I’d be zooming from place to place, checking to see which birds were at which feeder, if there were any interesting cloud formations, fantastic sunsets or unusually-colored skies. During this past sad and wearing year, my connection to nature has deepened. I honestly have no sense of where I’d be psychologically without the ability to immerse myself in what’s accessible just a few steps away from my homey cave. When I was still working, I was parked in a chair. For decades. After retirement, I was a caregiver of one sort or another for almost seven years. As soon as I was recovered enough from Michael’s death to get going, I did, traveling as often as I could afford the expense. I grew up in a household where there was a lot of sitting around. I’m missing whatever gene allowed for being plopped in a chair day in, day out.

I spend a lot of time running around inside my head too. After losing all the normal structures in my daily life because of social distancing, I became a Zoom junkie. I watched livestream concerts. I attended classes through my local lifelong learners’ institute. I took Latin and am still taking Spanish lessons. I experienced virtual geology and was exposed to cutting edge neuroscience. I wound up in a fascinating webinar series on the brain which came out of the University of Texas. Featuring geniuses from places like MIT, who are studying mind-bending processes that may influence what I think is the final frontier, that space between our ears, I constantly ponder how much I don’t know. Unlike the constellations which seem to be fixed in the night sky, I feel like nothing that I thought was a given actually is – rather mutability, as with the virus, is more likely than we can fathom. Too uncomfortable and unnerving on a daily basis. In addition to locating where specific skills and recognitions are stored, the use of functional MRIs is allowing insight into watching brains in action in real time. Observing what areas light up depending on the stimuli. I guess it’s the science version of windows into the soul. I wish I could see what they can see – is there a gene for that?

Professor Nancy Kanwisher – MIT professor and lecturer – presenter at Center for Brain Health series.

I seem to be managing all these interests pretty well, although sleep is sparse. I listen to a few hours of music every day but virtually no podcasts or audio books. I have so much language and emotion blitzing my mind that I’m sticking with reading books, old school, although I also use the kindle app. That’s mostly for environmental reasons. Mostly I wonder about all kinds of weird things every day. I’ve got my endless lists. Why is it important to rank my favorite Rolling Stones songs? Or my top ten solo artists and top ten guitarists and lyricists? I’ve been carrying around lists of my favorite movies and books for years. Occasionally I add a new item to those. I wonder about whether anyone out there in the world with whom I’m no longer close, thinks of me instantly, the second the first note of a song we shared pops up on the radio or on whatever device plays their music. I have songs attached to a lot of people. Do they think of me as I still do of them? In my family we sang a lot. I started making a list of all the songs we shared. I know the songs which were special to my mom and dad. I asked my kids what they remembered about me and their dad and our shared music. I told them what I associated with them and asked for those gaps I didn’t have about theirs. Recently I sang all the lullabies my mom and dad sang to me when I was little, just to see if I could remember them, especially the ones not in English. On and on it goes. Is there a gene for this endless questioning?

I’ve actually always been like this, but Michael absorbed a lot of my intense mental acrobatics. He had an almost sedating effect on me. After a time leaning against him and spewing forth my vast amount of verbiage, I would essentially melt into a heap, kind of like the way you feel after a massage. Now I’m more like a runaway train. Unchecked except when I intervene with myself. I’m coming up on the fourth anniversary of his death. I’m still mad that he’s not wholly here. I recognize that there’s been no diminishing of my desire for him. By practicing for a long time, I’ve found that by continuing to write him letters, which are now approaching a thousand in number, writing my blog and somehow internalizing our bond so that it’s now essentially somatic, I can function well daily, despite isolation and that massive loss of intimate physical contact. Alone in my room late at night, his presence is heavy in our space. With the pushing of boundaries in science, in which what is mystical and inexplicable suddenly seems to be much more than flights of imagination, do I feel less alone because I’m not? And is there a gene for that? How about a neural network?

Roger Federer

I woke early yesterday because after a 14 month layoff, two knee surgeries, lots of rehab, and Covid restrictions, Roger Federer, aged 39, 40th birthday in August, made his unlikely return to competitive tennis today. I adore Roger Federer. I was worried about him because at his age, playing at a high level after such a long time away is a huge challenge. He pulled off another recovery from a bad knee, after just six months off in 2016, to return in 2017 to win the Australian Open. Until he reinjured himself he played well. He won his match today. He said he was tired, was still improving and is hoping to be 100% fit in time for Wimbledon, his favorite tournament, later this year. So what’s up with Roger and me? The woman who’s anti-hero-worship?

I really can’t explain why for most of my life, I’ve had my favorites. Mostly I’m skeptical about people. I’m always thinking about the darker side, the selfish side, the deeply human complexity that makes me believe that often what you see is not what you get. No rose-colored glasses for me. But I get these inexplicable feelings about people I don’t know out there in the virtual world and suddenly I’m a loyal supporter. Just as I am a fierce hater. I started watching Roger when he was a young phenom, just a talented punk like lots of other tennis players. When he was 21, following the accidental death of his young coach, he transformed himself into something else, more serious and self-contained. Watching his balletic, graceful moves, his evenness of temperament, the way he always has his parents nearby, touched me. Years later his wife and two sets of twins came along with a long-time team of coaches and trainers who are part of his entourage. He is self-effacing, humorous and emotionally expressive, a person who cries unashamedly in front of millions. So he became the intermittent oasis for me for just shy of twenty years. Always around throughout the year to provide comfort, often coupled with nail-biting anxiety because I love him so much, I always wanted him to win. Unrealistic but I don’t care. Novak Djokovic, who’s just passed Roger as the longest player to stay at number one in the tennis rankings is as detestable to me as Roger is inviting. An ill-tempered racket thrower who I’m told has a positive side but is, and always has been, viscerally repellent to me. Why do I operate like this? Once you’re really in with me, you’re there forever but if you’re out, you’re gone forever too. Is there a gene for that? Of course it’s much easier to do this kind of thing with people you’ll never meet. In real life, relationships are more complicated. Although during the past year, when I’ve attended all the Pete Yorn concerts he’s performed for free on Instagram, and on a platform where he’s shared ticket revenues with Covid relief organizations, I’ve liked him so much I sent him several personal thank you notes, along with a few observations. To my amazement, he’s replied, giving me little tokens I can wave in my kids’ faces when they mock me for being a groupie or whatever. Sometimes worlds do indeed collide.

Pete Yorn – Facebook

This whole intense emotional deal goes deeper than recreational pleasures and is in keeping with how I feel about Michael, my children, my garden, my yard birds, my multitudinous topics of interest. Generally I operate in a pretty even-keeled manner, my behavior not being known for its extremes. Still, these almost visceral sensations on the positive-negative spectrum are undeniable, no matter how balanced I appear to be operating in my daily life. My son-in-law has told me more than once that he knew I’d grown to love him enough so that if he crossed over to my dark side by hurting my daughter, I’d only run over him once with my car instead of a hundred times to make sure he was flat as a pancake. I had to laugh at his insight. I have big passion. I don’t understand surface feelings – I think they’re a waste of time. When I was a little girl, my parents let me have a chameleon, actually an anole. I adored it. In fact, I loved it so much I squeezed it to death. I remember being utterly puzzled and bereft. A lesson I never forgot about needing to find that magical space between suffocating emotions and ones that breathed freely.

So here I sit, after year one of the pandemic. Generally, I am bursting with energy, fortunate enough to have the minor aches and pains inevitable as part of the aging process, negligible in terms of my ability to pursue what I choose in my daily life. My son says I’m hardcore. I’m sure there’s a gene for that. I suspect I’m a lot like my maternal grandmother who survived her troubles with a minimum of physical issues. She loved gardening, too and did lots of manual labor well into her later years. My mom lived a long time with lots of problems, many of which were self-induced. Still these women clearly passed along positive genetic material to me. Of course I am a woman of my time, more confident, confrontational and courageous. Maybe just more assertive and intolerant of the kinds of pigeonholes they squirmed in for significant parts of their lives. I know that the great comfort of my powerful relationship, coupled with this irrepressible curiosity has helped me to squeeze a lot of self-actualizing out of this dark time. I still have energy to burn. On those days when I’m ambushed by the always unpredictable assertion of my grief companion, I go with those heaves until I’m done. The next thing I know there’s something else I have to chase around. Last week it was an unexpected sighting of a belted kingfisher sitting on a tree alongside a busy arterial street in my town.

Belted kingfisher – Wikipedia

I know that until something that I can’t predict, whether physical or mental, slows me down or stops me altogether, I’m going to squeeze as much as I can out of what is accessible to me. Although mostly for myself, it’s also for Michael who left behind so many unfinished goals, written in lists in his red notebook. Yes, we shared the list thing, historians to the bone. He would be, or is, glad to know that I’m maxing out my time as he too would have done, given the opportunity. I won’t have long enough to get the answers to my endless questions. But this intensity thing I’ve got going? I’ve promised my kids that if I find out anything unexpectedly interesting after I’m gone, I’ll find a way to let them know. I do think there’s a gene for that.

The Living Spaces – Part 8 – Oregon Street – 1974 -1975 – Exposed and Vulnerable

909 E. Oregon – The air conditioner wasn’t there in 1974.

Michael and I moved into this house in August, 1974. Looking back, it’s hard to believe we switched living places every year, but at the time we were living more like college students than adults. We each parsed a livable wage out of part-time jobs while still straggling through classes. For the first time, we started trying to actually decorate our space. On Friday nights, we went to Lamb’s Auction, a building in an industrial area on Oak Street where we got our number card and bid on furniture and other household items. In a letter I wrote to my mother, I told her I that I was more comfortable in this place as I’d been since leaving home. Michael and I had been living together for two and a half years. Our friendship was the same solid bond which had been somehow instantly forged when we’d first met in the summer of 1971. The romance was still fiery too. But our very different personalities were stoking lots of insecurities and conflicts as we probed each other for the possibility of a long term commitment.

Next to the railroad track.

Our little house was located next to the railroad tracks that ran southeast through the city. Michael loved the sound of rumbling and the whistles as the trains ran by in the middle of the night. I was less enamored but didn’t really mind. Half the time I think he was fantasizing about racing out to jump a boxcar and head anywhere for an adventure, somewhat terrified that he was settling in to a more staid existence than he’d imagined for himself at this age. He made lots of pronouncements about being opposed to institutions like marriage, as if to remind me that he was an anarchist at heart. I was wanting a permanent partner as I’d always had since being a little kid. The question was whether or not Michael was the right one for me. I’d thought so initially. But after these few years together, despite fundamental agreements on almost every important issue, our vastly differing personal styles pressed buttons in each of us which ignited the fight or flight response. Most of the time in my case, the fight and in his, the flight.

What had really happened to us was that the powerful collision of emotion which had instantly crackled when we met, had simultaneously pulled away the protective veneers that most people hone by the time they’re young adults. We were both naked in front of each other, wide open and truly vulnerable. Ultimately that’s what’s ideal in a relationship, a situation in which you can always be your most genuine self. But we’d both experienced a lot of previous damage which made us both skittish. Michael’s older sister came out of his family with deep scars – she never married or had children. Out of my siblings, I was the only one of four to never divorce. We two youngsters were deeply entangled but with many hurdles to get past before we could finally be sure we were where we wanted to stay.

We spent the fall creating a comfortable home space. I had a new part-time job as a teaching assistant at an alternative high school for kids who had trouble adjusting to a traditional educational setting. I continued to work at the park district at the youth center as educational coordinator. Michael was full time at the Record Service. My jobs were emotionally demanding with kids only a few years younger than me, trying to navigate tumultuous times. I wasn’t great at setting boundaries and my level of work involvement began to encroach on my personal life. I saw that flag which was one of the key triggers of Michael’s annoyance with me. He often felt I was overcommitted to too many other people. I can’t say I disagreed with him but was still bumbling around trying to figure out who I wanted to be. I thought he was reticent and withdrawn. We had a long way to go.

While we struggled with all those undercurrents, life went forward. We went to lots of movies on Friday or Saturday nights, often after burning our tongues at a popular hole-in-the wall barbecue joint called Po Boy’s. Only open on weekend nights, it had three booths and a counter with stools where people stacked up four deep, hoping that Arnie, his wife Red or Dorothy, a grouchy lady who picked favorites, would recognize your desperation to order and eat before you missed the start time of the film. Arnie often mixed his hot sauce after having downed a few shots of whiskey. Sometimes it was so intense you couldn’t feel the tip of your tongue after a taste or two. If you got popular, you got invited into the kitchen to share a swig. At least the men did.

Late at night, after playing cards or listening to music at a local bar, we’d head to the Chuck Wagon Diner for a middle of the night breakfast. Sometimes we’d play our favorite pinball games, Drop-a-Card or Lawman for a few hours. We followed several local bands and went to clubs where we danced late into the night. My younger sister had moved here to attend school so we spent time with her. My oldest friend Fern came to stay with us before moving to California for a court-reporting job. She was with us when I became convinced that we had a peeping tom which frightened me. I remember seeing footprints in the snow around our windows. On that visit, she saw his face through the bathroom window which led to his finally being caught. I’d felt paranoid about that faceless stranger for months. One of my most vivid memories from that time.


Another memorable event happened after an evening when we’d had a lengthy game of Spades with another couple during which there was a good deal of laughing at old memories. Back then in our twenties, we were still smoking pot. Suddenly I glanced up from my cards and saw that Michael looked dreadful. I rose from the table, grabbed his hand and headed home. I have no clue what happened to him, nor did he, but something in what he inhaled had negatively affected him. We lay awake all night, me holding him tightly to the earth while his mind whirled with terrors. We never did know what actually been the cause of what happened.

I got my new dog in the house on Oregon. She was a border collie from a sizable litter, the last pup to stay in my lap late one afternoon in a barn twenty minutes away from town. I named her Ribeye after a mishap we’d had with Herbie and Harpo snarfing down two precious steaks from the kitchen counter when we weren’t paying attention one day on California street. She was with us for fifteen years. We had a memorable road trip to Florida early that winter of 1974 which was a highly successful disaster as our first lengthy vacation together. Also unforgettable was Christmas that year. Both Michael and I were Jewish. I never celebrated that holiday at home but his parents, who were more interested in fitting in to the society at large, had a huge tree, gifts and everything but the religious underpinnings. In a family as cold and dysfunctional as his, Christmas was a joyous time for him. As much as I wanted to make him happy, I simply couldn’t make sense of creating a tradition that had nothing substantive to do with either one of us. That year he set up a big tree in our living room, using his family’s decorations and lots of tinsel to the snide accompaniment of my sarcasm. His volcanic temper asserted itself and he picked up the tree and hurled it across the room, shattering all the ornaments and creating general wreckage. We found pieces of tinsel in all kinds of odd places for months. After this incident we shared that holiday with friends who were celebrating in their homes, which made things between us much easier.

Our personal issues were still persisting into the spring. I was utterly bewildered about whether to push my way through them and hang on to the magic that was still there amidst our emotional chaos, or move on. One day, Michael showed up with an airline ticket he’d bought, intent on shipping me off to San Francisco to see Fern for eight days so I could figure out what I wanted. He’d sold a music catalog he was developing that would form the foundation of an independent store he’d hoped to own some day. He said he’d done it as a best friend, putting our romantic relationship aside for the moment. I remember thinking it was the most generous gift I’d ever received. I was simultaneously glad and terrified – what was I doing? I was in my corner, fearful of abandonment, one of my life issues so I was thinking I’d do a preemptive strike and jump ship first. That old story, which started with fears about my mom’s health which I’d had my whole life, became exacerbated by the on-off relationship I’d had with Al. And Michael’s insecurities, pounded into him by his always disappointed parents, went ballistic every time I questioned any of his actions. Anything that felt like a negative judgment made him insecure. After that kicked in, all he could manage was a guarded defensiveness. Across this chasm came the ticket.

Muir Woods

The next thing I knew I was with Fern in California. When she wasn’t working at her flexible court reporter job, we did the tourist rounds, especially the nature ones. Muir Woods, Mt. Tamalpais, the Pacific Ocean and Monterey. In the midst of exploring I felt scared and almost ill. Al was in grad school in L.A. at UC Davis and decided we should get together for one more try at a life. I knew that choosing to participate would be the end of my life with Michael. Even if I concealed it. In those unnerving moments where no one could see me but Fern, who was my trusted friend, I had utter clarity. Somehow I had to go back to Michael and struggle through all our fears so we could move into a future together. I knew it would be a challenge. I’d figured out that we all carry our emotional debris with us forever and that what we needed to do was get better at managing it. I stopped communicating with Al. I wrote Michael heartfelt torturous letters which he loved while wishing he could go down his rabbit hole and hide forever. When I went home, he was at work. While I was gone, he’d entirely remodeled our house, which I was initially afraid meant I was getting kicked to the curb. When he showed up as I sat eying him warily, he explained that this was a fresh start for us. Imagine telling a liberated woman that you’d changed everything without asking for her input. I grudgingly accepted his explanation in the spirit of temporary truce, we made love in our “new” bedroom and moved forward. For a time things were still bumpy but, eventually, we started helping each other with our problems. We both began to gain confidence. All those thrills and chills, the intimacy and cosmic connections leaked back into daily life. We were so lucky to have leaped those hurdles with honesty and only to come out stronger on the other side.

Gaston’s White River Resort, Lakeview, Arkansas
Bull Shoals – White River State Park, Arkansas

In the fall of 1975, we took another road trip, this time to Arkansas, to the Bull Shoals – White River State Park. We spent half the time camping in a little pup tent for two, along with the dogs and the other half of the trip in a cabin. School was in session so the park was quite empty. I remember being wakened one morning by a rafter of wild turkeys gobbling on the run past our tent.

We ate, we read, we hiked and we slept. Getting away from everything was such a relief. The best part was learning that we were ideal travel companions. I think that’s a critical component of any relationship. For the rest of our lives, although we of course navigated trips with our kids and still traveled on our own, being away together was always just the best time ever. I still remember stopping on the side of the road where makeshift entrepreneurs were selling their wares. I got two pairs of earrings and Michael got a spoon ring.

We were getting ready for another move across town to the twin city which was separated from ours by a street. That fall of 1975 would bring new life changes and of course, more challenges. On to South Mattis Avenue.

Getting A Grip

I’m getting a lot of mail from companies like Viking, oozing with drool-worthy trips, most of which I can’t afford, and which also irritate me as their discounts are tailored to couples. Penalized for being a single person, like you’re not worthy of a deal. Last year I had this incredible once-in-a-lifetime Alaska adventure planned, a cruise and land extravaganza. Covid took care of that. One of the ancillary disappointments from that loss was that my over-priced soup to nuts travel insurance which covered everything, didn’t. Everything except a pandemic. So even though I canceled early, after having paid the full price which is demanded by the cruise line, I didn’t receive a full refund. They’ve given me a credit toward my next cruise which needs to be used by the end of this year. Can anyone imagine deliberately booking a trip on what’s been demonstrated to be a floating petri dish? The travel agent who helped me plan this Alaska thing wrote me the other day to remind me to plan my next trip. I’d already written the cruise line about getting a refund since I’m not likely to get on a cruise ship this year or perhaps never. They’ve refused to listen to my reasonable arguments and won’t refund my money. The agent isn’t helping either. Maybe if I was wealthy I wouldn’t be so annoyed. Or maybe I’d be more annoyed. Whatever. That ship has sailed, both literally and figuratively.

And then there’s unfortunate bucket list business. I’m one of those lucky people who bought my National Parks Pass years ago when it only cost $10.00. I’ve certainly gotten my money’s worth. Out of these 62 parks listed on the back, I’ve been to 21. That number doesn’t include many of the National Monuments which aren’t categorized as parks. I doubt that I’ll have the time nor the means to see all of them. But I’d love to see a few more before I’m unable to travel for health reasons, or any other reasons for that matter.

I admit it. I’m getting antsy. I wanna blow this pop stand. For you youngsters for which that phrase is unfamiliar, that means I want to get out of this space. I’ll be seventy in May. I have no idea how long I’m going to be alive and able to go anywhere. I’ve been following all the recommendations for dealing with Covid. I’ve had both my vaccinations. Some of my friends are ready to break loose and do whatever they choose, while I fall on the more cautious side of what’s safe. There are so many daily changes in the scientific recommendations. But I’m just a regular person who isn’t ready to hang up my traveling shoes just yet. Some nights, I’m studying road trips and other nights it’s tours by train. Bumping up against those urges is knowing that I’m starting to think about getting another pet. I’d rather do that after going somewhere so I can focus on the animal, whoever that may or may not be. I’m in that phase of life when all this stuff is connected. Back in the day, Michael and I loaded up whatever ridiculous vehicle we had, plus both dogs and just took off. Over time, things changed. Lots of my peers pick travel over animals or vice versa. I wish I was more impulsive but I’m not. So I’ve been spinning around in those irritating circuitous grooves that afflict most people at some point. I really don’t like those cycles which are a big waste of time. Time to be getting a grip. I hate when I sound like a spoiled punk to myself. There are people who never get out of their hometowns. I’ve had a decent share of adventures. Having more would help compensate somewhat for Michael’s absence. But I’m reminding myself to appreciate the moments I have instead of worrying about the things ones which may or may not come.

My garden is showing signs of life. Getting out to dig in the dirt is always therapeutic for me. Last night I remembered everything I put away last fall in the hope that I could conjure them back this year. I’ve got the seeds I harvested. And beautiful canna rhizomes along with dahlias. So hopefully there’s new life to coax out of my containers.

My plant gluttony remains. I’m combing through the catalogs and have orders ready to go. I’ll be nice and tired really soon.

I’m also looking around at my very eclectic and decidedly unstylish house. I remember once almost 25 years ago, my daughter brought a new school friend over here for the first time. She looked around in wonder and said, “you have so many things that are out in the open.” She said her home was spare with nothing interesting on display. She wandered around, touching books, looking at the different art and collectibles on the walls and the tables. There were also the many racks Michael had built to showcase his music collection, his hot sauce collection, his spices collection. We both made things. They’re strewn around the house too. My grandfather built a shadow box which hangs in my dining room covered with little knick-knacks which came from my grandmother and my mom. I decided to have a fresh look at all that’s accumulated in this place, art and photos and memories of trips that happened long ago but are still vibrant in my mind.

A tapestry Michael brought home from Panama.
A tile from Mexico
A Manet print with the guy on my right who looks like my dad with paper cranes made for Michael by his students.

I walk through these rooms and it’s like walking through my life. All the ideas I’ve had for decorating with the shells and rocks I’ve collected from shorelines of lakes and oceans. I remember where I was when I gathered them and often wonder what made the ones I chose any more special to me than ones that lay right beside them.

Gulf of Mexico shells
Sanibel Island shells
Photo of Sanibel with shells from the beach
Rocks from Lake Michigan – shells from the Gulf of Mexico.

My grandfather’s shadowbox is in my dining room. My grandmother’s pink poodles are there along with her swan-shaped pillbox among other small mementos. The most peculiar item on it is my daughter’s childhood parakeet’s egg still stuck in the hysterectomy organs, floating in formaldehyde. A reminder that we were crazy enough to pay $200 to save the life of a bird who was quite old. Michael’s idiomatic art piece, “Written in Stone,” sits on the cabinet in which I keep my early American pottery collection. Those shelves are also filled with family photos and handprints of my kids when they were little. The first statue I ever received from my first serious boyfriend in 1969 is there, along with a porcelain collie Michael gave me for a birthday years ago. And on top of that unit is the dancing lovers figurine Michael gave me for an anniversary gift.

Strewn around the rooms are souvenir art prints from exhibitions attended and mounted street scenes from the cities we loved like New Orleans, Charleston and Savannah. My mom’s crewel work is on a wall along with a display I made from all the stray buttons she’d saved over the years. There are tapestries from London and China which were gifted to us. Artworks of renowned artists mixed with those we picked up in our travels to local studios.

Looking around at the riches acquired over a lifetime is an excellent practice for an attitude readjustment. I’m going to be completing my 43rd year in my house this September. In this country, the average person can expect to move almost twelve times in their lives. I’ve only lived at length in three places, two as a child, and then here, in this last city, where I went to college and built my adult world. This is the base from which I’ve done my traveling. It is filled with the echoes of far away places as well as the signs of a deeply rooted home life. Both aspects of what I’ve done, going and staying, are well-represented here. But all I’ve been thinking about in the midst of these uncertain and turbulent times is going. Somewhere. Anywhere. I think there’s a tendency during a forced confinement to stop looking at what’s in your face. How often do you take stock of what you have when there are so many bright, shiny temptations of where you’ve yet to go, of what you’ve yet to acquire? For most people right now, that seems to be what’s most frustrating, that inability to go and explore more, get more. And more. I don’t like that impulse in myself. I feel spoiled and ungrateful. And I know better. So the wandering through this place, photographing what I already have, and in a way, where I’ve already been, is helping me get that grip on what’s really important back. Kind of like splashing cold water in your face to wake yourself up. I’m going to try staying aware and refocusing on the present. I love my space and what’s in it. I have more than enough great things, both material and spiritual. What happens beyond now will be a bonus. I’ve led the good life. Maybe not as exotic as some people’s, but good enough for me. Whatever comes next that’s an adventure is icing on my cake. I’m making that my new mantra.


I’ve always enjoyed looking up. I love clouds, sunsets, the moon, stars and planets, day and night. I don’t mind gray skies which have more shades of color in them than we realize. I like watching the birds aloft and especially when they rest for a bit in the trees around my house. Today during a welcome warming from the arctic temperatures which have lasted awhile, I stood outside for a long time, head craned up, scanning and thinking. For almost a year, I’ve depended on the open space in my yard, staying outside almost every day for hours, combating the sense of confinement that’s been a challenge for so many people. I’m fortunate to have a decent-sized space that’s populated with animals who provide distraction and a garden to which I’ve been devoted for most of my adult life. As I looked up this afternoon, I thought a bit about the images and sounds being beamed back to earth from Mars. I’m one of the people who struggles with balancing the marvel of space exploration and the science behind it, with the frustration of spending so much money when our own planet and its inhabitants are in dire need. I won’t be around long enough to know the ultimate fate of this overheated ball we live on but I’m fearful as we fail to meet the challenges of turning back the climate clock. And for the millions living hungry, unsheltered and under threat of violence? It’s all so big and overwhelming. Sometimes I need to pause. To stop looking at the big picture and focus on the smaller issues. The inside issues that aren’t out there under discussion in the grand and almost incomprehensible universe. All the small inside stuff that makes up our ultimately infinitesimal lives which can feel so huge and important. And which for most of us will be whisked away into forgotten insignificance, as if we were never really here. I’m pausing before getting swept back up in the daily flow. Ironically, though it hasn’t felt much like a flow since the pandemic changed everything, making life feel rather like a standstill, the flow goes on constantly, whether or not we can remain aware of its movement.

Credit : BBC

Social media is fraught with complicated problems: invasiveness, dissemination of uncontrolled disinformation and conspiracy theories, subversive marketing, and powerful, manipulative executives. Often it feels like too much, stressful and wearing. I know many people who’ve walked away and I get that. I’ve found that the space provides me with a sense of connection that I’ve needed more in these past four years since Michael’s death, and especially during social distancing. For my part, I try to express my views of the world, often angry and dark, while punctuating those vituperative posts with beautiful photos of nature, artworks and interesting stories about life. I also publish my blog on these platforms in addition to this one. I’ve been mystified by the responses to my blog. I don’t utilize it to sell anything or to be an influencer. I’m leaving a written record for my kids, of my life and their dad’s, the events which came before them, along with whatever else currently occupies my mind. I also wanted to share experiences that might help someone, particularly in the cancer world which dominated years of my life. A hard road indeed. That individuals I’ve never seen and never will see have found something in my words which resonated with them is a bonus for me. And unexpectedly, more than that.

Yesterday I woke to the news that my friend Frank had died. When I say my friend Frank, I’m still keenly aware of the somewhat baffling circumstances of our relationship. I’ve actually never met Frank in person nor spoken to him in any other manner than a technological one. A few years ago, both of us were commenting on the posts of an old and dear friend of mine. One day, I received a friend request from Frank. I wrote my old friend and asked who this person was, a decent legitimate guy or someone to ignore. Generally, I’m pretty friendly but you never know what can happen that you might regret in the ether world. I didn’t want to make a mistake I’d be sorry about later. My friend assured me that Frank was a great guy, referring to him as a “salt of the earth” kind of person. I accepted his request and so began the average type of chit-chat typical of what transpires between people who don’t know much about each other. I found that in general, we seemed to share similar political views and a sense of humor. I learned that Frank was in a second marriage with a younger woman with whom he had a young and deeply adored son. He’d been through some hard times but was enjoying this new and seemingly unexpected chapter in his life. He was in remission from liver cancer, had figured out what was important to him, and seemed happy and grateful. At the same time I was on my road through the grief following Michael’s death and his lengthy bout with cancer. I posted many photos of our decades together from our early years to recent ones after we’d made our beloved family.

After a time, I realized Frank was reading my blog posts which appear on a link to Facebook. A thread in this blog goes back a few years and is the story of how Michael and I went through his cancer from diagnosis to death. He had a rare orphan cancer that affected about 1500 people a year at that time, one for which there was no cure and very little research or data. We invented our response to that enormous challenge. I’d vowed to write our story, first to honor Michael’s courageous struggle, and secondly, to provide anyone else who might get a dreadful prognosis with a sort of road map for pushing both the personal and medical boundaries of such a cancer. Multiple chapters about this saga are on my website under the title “Be 278.”

At some point, after Frank started reading my blog, he began sending me messages and comments about it, outside the typical banter which had previously been our more average interactions. I found out that Frank had lapsed from remission well over a year ago and was going through some treatment and other interventions. He and his family split time between living in his hometown, Chicago and her country of origin. For a time he was medically stable, but ultimately, while living abroad in his wife’s home, his cancer returned and was beyond the capabilities of the doctors there. He returned to Chicago to receive the best possible care and was told that his situation was terminal but that with targeted chemotherapy, he could get more time. He went forward with a variety of options but over a few months, he began his final decline. The following are messages we exchanged in mid-December while Frank was reading the end of my story of Michael’s cancer.

From Frank – December 19, 2020

I have to try hard not to sob. I allow the tears but no sobbing. I identify so much altho I am not nearly as sick. Confusion and paranoia abounds as does anger and some self pity. I also have no appetite for the first time in my life and I am losing weight consistently. Down 55 lbs so far. I am on chemo but know nothing of my future. I do know they say incurable.

From me – December 19, 2020

Oh Frank. I’ve been thinking of you often these past weeks, knowing you’re in treatment and what that can be like. The myriad of emotions and thoughts that people contend with during their private grappling with disease is so intense. I hope you can find your moments of respite with _________. For us, we literally lived in minutes, trying to be aware of the good ones during the avalanche of everything else. Sending all good feelings your way.

From Frank – December 22, 2020

In reference to your constant complaining at the hospital, me too…..have found that the old axiom “a squeaky wheel gets the most grease.”, is true. I am still out patient at ________ (half mile from my home) and they are wonderful. Still I complain when appropriate. _____is a wonder wife and nurse, also confidant….I was afraid to share early on but did and the resulting empathy was dearly appreciated. Easy now. ______ a constant source of living in the moment.

That was the last time I communicated directly with Frank. I had a pretty good idea of what he and his family were going through and felt odd that our connection was so filament-like that there was nothing more I could do but send an occasional note. His adult daughter took over his Facebook page to let his many friends know that he appreciated greetings and warm messages sent his way. Literally the day before she reported his death, I’d written my friend through whom this unexpected link had developed, to thank him for having brought this lovely man into my life. He texted me to let me know Frank had died in addition to my seeing the public post and to share his sadness. Neither of us could’ve imagined this just a few years ago.

In addition to the companionable grief that I continue to carry for Michael, this unimaginable year has brought more sadness than I ever imagined. All those hundreds of thousands who died from Covid and the wreckage their deaths left among their families and friends. I’ve despaired over the suicides of three young people in the past ten months, who for whatever reasons, couldn’t get above the stress of this dark time. I know people coping with illness and the threat of loss of their loved one. I lost the most recent in a long line of animal companions. So yes, it was time for a pause. Time to reflect a bit on the smaller but significant moments in life that can get engulfed in the tsunami of news until these events are blurred into nothingness. Today I took some time. I recommend it.


Credit – USA Today

Yesterday, I received my second dose of the Moderna vaccine. Ostensibly that means that if I’m in the lucky 94.1%, I’m unlikely to die if I contract COVID19. However, that said, I don’t think the science is indicating that having my immunizations means much about any significant changes in the lifestyle I’ve been following since last year. The kind of national strategies adopted by other countries, which has helped them truly flatten the curve during this world crisis, eludes this country, in which people are determined to do whatever they want to, when they want to, all the time. There are plenty like me who’ve been holed up in their living spaces for almost a year. But millions of my fellow citizens have been out and about, attending large gatherings, and not wearing masks. They are utterly defiant. They shout about their individual rights and freedom. They think the virus is a hoax. Or if they believe it’s real, they’re certain they won’t get really sick. Even with the hundreds of thousands of people who’ve died, they are still intransigent toward the recommended, and now, the required rules, put forth by the federal government, like wearing masks in many public spaces. This inconsistent behavior, coupled with the deep divide in our politics and social views have me thinking a lot about rules. Rules. Cancel culture, which I think used to be political correctness. Being “woke.” Lots and lots of rules. What exactly do they mean? And exactly where do I fit into this time when it seems people are ready to pounce on virtually anything that doesn’t comply with their positions ?

You don’t have to look hard to find rules. Many are delineated in religious texts. Above, I include a small visual sample of the myriad volumes which would take up much more space than appropriate for a blog post. Suffice it to say that while there may be commonly held agreements on “the rules” in these books, there are also many digressions in beliefs. Which ones are right?

People have been writing rule books about social behavior for ages. I’m pretty certain that whenever they were written, there were always those who thought they were absolute, virtually written in stone. And for every one of those who believed, there were others who thought the proposed behaviors were irrelevant and absurd.

Let’s not forget the rules of governance and political ideologies. Some read this stuff and accept the precepts verbatim. Others regard them as stretchy, flexible, especially those which were written long enough ago, that they seem irrelevant to our technologized societies which make almost every device obsolete as soon as it’s off the production line. Clearly the premises set forth in those documents need adjustments to mesh with current times which are so different from back then.

I’m reminded of the line from the film, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off:

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Ferris Bueller

We have rules for work, rules for sports and rules for play. Rules are on display everywhere, at least from what I remember, since I haven’t been out in the world much lately. Think of the signs we all read that define our daily behavior. Stop. No entry. No smoking. No shirt, no shoes, no service. Exit only. No firearms permitted. For the most part, we don’t think much about these super-imposed rules for behavior. Sure, you make a U-turn sometimes when the sign says they’re not allowed. You enter through the exit door. Rules can be broken with deliberation or accidentally. I get that stuff. For all practical purposes, I’d categorize myself as an inveterate rule-breaker, perhaps because I have a significant anti-authoritarian bent. But that’s mostly about what I do when I’m the only person likely to be affected. When it comes to the overall health and wellbeing of my community, I’m much more conscious of my responsibility to society at large, rather than to my occasional whims.

So how did that happen? I’m not a member of any organized religion. I have awareness and respect for my origins but I don’t subscribe to any traditional practices other than enjoying the food. I’m also not a member of any organized political party. I don’t know of any whose platform lines up with my beliefs. I always vote but my choices are usually not people who I’d consider an ideal candidate from my personal perspective. I haven’t had a heroine or hero since I was a little girl. Every time I chose one, I’d eventually find out something which tarnished the image I thought was the real person. As I got older, through living with my essentially decent family, doing lots of reading, thinking and observing the world around me, both the parts in close proximity and farther away, I developed a code of ethics and morality that I’ve adhered to for most of my life. I’ve been imperfect and made mistakes like virtually everyone. None of them have been particularly heinous according to my own standards, nor anyone else’s, at least as far as I know. I consider myself progressive with a natural empathy for the underdogs of this planet, those used and abused with malicious intent by people who wield power. As I’ve aged, I haven’t become conservative or close-minded. I get irritated when I read snarky “okay, boomer” articles which I consider ageist. If “woke” still means sensitivity to racial and social injustices prevalent in the culture, then I am woke. If I misunderstand something, I try to learn and fix that.

I support the #metoo movement and BLM. To me this is as natural as breathing. I’ve been part of these movements before they had these names, since I was a teenager when it seemed there was always a reason to be out in the street demonstrating. I wasn’t out there because of any rules other than that there should be justice. Pretty simple. Lots of people I knew and cared for, who were on the same side as, me were imperfect to say the least. Sexism was common. Racism not so much. Classism was an insidious invader, unconsciously asserted by many based on years of unacknowledged privilege. Back then, what is now being called “cancel culture” was being PC – politically correct. I’ll admit that I wasn’t then, nor am I now, totally rigid. I could get pretty didactic about certain blatant breaches of behavior. But I could overlook small things and I have a sense of humor. Completely narrow parameters don’t work well for me and lots of people in my sphere. I remember that years ago, I had a friend who was a member of a group called the Radical Union, essentially a Stalinist organization based in Seattle. When he’d come home for a visit, he smoked a lot of weed and spent hours reading comic books. Surely there was middle ground in there somewhere.

Morgan Wallen’s sales spike, his sister slams ‘cancel culture’ after he’s recorded using racial slur Elise Brisco USA TODAY

So now this Morgan Wallen guy, a country music singer comes along and uses the n-word. He doesn’t get a pass from me for that and getting outed for it. Radio stations aren’t playing his music but evidently his fans are still backing him up. His sister is using the cancel culture mantra that Republicans are currently employing to slam every idea or recommendation for change which stems from people of color or anyone on the left. Her claim is that he made a mistake from which he can learn and grow. Given the madness of increasing blatant white supremacy on display in this country, that excuse doesn’t fly for me. What culture is getting canceled in this circumstance? The culture of degrading black people? Fame is expensive. When you reap the benefits, you also pay a price. And certainly that price is being exacted from lots of people whose career choices put them in the public eye, exposing their dark corners to prying eyes. In this technological age of rapid-fire publicity, their every move, from the most incidental to the biggest, is on display for the world to see. And that’s where often “the rules” are getting blurry for me.

Woody Allen has been being called out as a pedophile for some time but the condemnation is intensifying. I remember years ago I watched his film Manhattan which was about a relationship between a teenager and a much older man. The movie preceded his scandal but I felt really uncomfortable watching it back then. Autobiographical? When he became deeply involved with his young adoptive daughter, the rumbling about his behavior got louder. Eventually the actresses who chose to work with him despite his personal behavior were sharply criticized as being essentially complicit with him. Should I not admire their work any more? Are they co-conspirators? Of course not. And my other big question is this: does his art have to be disappeared? I love the movie Annie Hall. If it still makes me laugh am I in league with a twisted abuser?

What about Michael Jackson? His music is still played on radio stations and streaming services. If I’m not turning it off, if I’m still dancing to it, is that tacit approval of his perverse lifestyle? Is it wrong if I think he had a pathological psychological disorder? Or is that canceling his victims?

Robert E. Lee statue – Richmond, VA.

I understand the intense desire to remove the statues of Confederate generals who fought to preserve slavery and destroy the Union. That war never really ended and is still being waged today. This cancel culture lingo used on the right is a thinly veiled attempt to validate the tenets and values of a racist ideology, disguised as a defense of history. I’ve read enough to know that for some, The Cause is still alive and well. No confusion on that count.

Portrait of Shakespeare. ( Folger Shakespeare Library)

But I’ve recently read a number of articles about whether or not the teaching of Shakespeare should continue to be included in high school curricula. One teacher complained that teaching the works of a long dead British white guy was irrelevant to her diverse classes, and that the human condition could just as easily be learned through more current and relatable works by modern authors. I can’t deny that. But is there no value in the literary canon that goes back hundreds of years? Can’t we sample a wide variety of authors from different time periods? Is it that too many are white? What defines a broad liberal arts education? I actually appreciated Shakespeare more as an adult than a high school student. Fifty five years ago, a lot of what was taught in school seemed irrelevant during the fiery 1960’s of my youth on the south side of Chicago.

I remember reading The Bridge of San Luis Rey, a Pulitzer Prize winning novel which I found so dull and boring as I plowed through each page, that I wanted to tear my hair out. My English teacher said the theme of the book was that people grow better through suffering. I thought I must really have been becoming fantastic because that book was making me suffer profoundly. Looking back, I’m not romanticizing what I know was really annoying at the time. I do think that designing education to be exciting, relevant and engaging is a worthy goal. But so is being exposed to lots of different writing from different times which require a different type of mental discipline and encourage a curiosity about what brought the world to now. Isn’t that valuable? Or is that concept just another statue in a less tangible form that needs to be taken down?

For many years Michael and I played the card game Spades with various friends. He was a more serious player than me, way more competitive, and as bridge player, someone who paid attention and counted cards. I just had fun. One night we sat down with some people who we didn’t usually play with and discovered what we thought was a phony new rule called “nil.” Actually it was a rule that simply wasn’t part of our practice. We didn’t like it and scornfully pronounced it a sneaky way to win with what otherwise was a losing hand. Of course, it was a real thing, just outside our habits. That’s sort of how I feel about these rules that come rolling along pretty fast these days. I’m trying to keep up and go with the flow, thinking and deciding what rules I want to choose for myself. I never got used to “nil” and didn’t ever play Spades that way again. Not sure how I’m going to play some of these new rules yet, either. I’m likely going to break some, in keeping with myself. And I’ll be fine with my decisions even if I’m swinging in the breeze on my own.



New York (CNN Business) – Bad news for people who frequently use the 😂 emoji: It is no longer cool.

Really? In the middle of the latest polar vortex which is brutalizing huge swaths of my country, an absolutely certain indicator of every dire climate change prediction, emoji usage is taking up people’s mental space? The nation is fractured, threatened by domestic terrorism and foreign cyber attacks. Emojis??? I have nothing for this.

A post-Valentine’s Day commentary. Ok. I’ll admit that watching all the social media posts about how you met your Valentine, and all the flowers and candy photos that people had received, made me feel a little lonely and blue. But here’s the truth. First, I’d already anticipated how I might feel on one of these classic emotional trigger days and had pre-emptively bought myself roses when I was shopping for my grandsons’ valentine gifts. More importantly, Valentine’s Day, roses, Michael and I, had our own unique years-long history. After crashing into each other’s lives in youthful cosmic mad love, after a few years we had to work out some life details. Both of us had anarchistic attitudes which sometimes coincided and sometimes didn’t. Michael hated the artificiality of Valentine’s Day which he viewed as a phony event established by a capitalist cabal of florists and greeting card companies. The idea of declaring your love on a day selected by a bunch of bureaucrats rubbed him the wrong way. He wanted to give me flowers when he felt like it or when there was a reason specific to us. I wasn’t such a hardliner. He always acknowledged the day and especially enjoyed the practice of buying a card designated as “get well” or “thanks” which he altered into a Valentine’s greeting. Flowers were rare. I got used to his quirky ways. I always got roses for our wedding anniversary, one for each year and one for the year to come. That’s when my quirk came in. My favorite roses were the peach color, which always had the most delicious sweet smell.

Michael preferred red ones. I always wanted to be gracious about receiving a gift but as years went by, I explained to him that red roses had been so overbred for petal numbers, structure or whatever, that they’d lost their scent and often wilted within a day or two. Michael remained Michael, so red roses it was through the decades for anniversaries and birthdays. He often gave me mixed blooms for just because, always a lovely surprise.

This rose disagreement soon became part of our family lexicon. One year when my son was working abroad, Valentine’s Day rolled around. There was a knock on my door and I opened it to a guy dressed in a tuxedo who sang a little ditty and presented me with a dozen peachy roses. I ran to thank Michael who said he hadn’t sent them. I found a small card tucked in the midst of the bouquet – they were a thoughtful gift from my kid who knew I pined for them. Michael was glad for me and kept on with the red ones for the rest of his life.

The one above is from our wedding anniversary in 2001 when we were on a cruise. I never figured out how he pulled that off as we sat in a small bistro on the ship for a special meal. He wound up sliding a ring box across the table. Always his own person, I appreciated the thoughtful things he did for me, in his own particular way. The world’s best present-giver.

When I was planning the exhibit in honor of his life in 2017, I ordered a floral arrangement for the table in the entry hall to the event. I couldn’t help myself – in the midst of the white flowers and the greens, you can see one red rose peeking out of the middle. An unforgettable little remembrance of my unique guy.

I’m still paying attention to politics which is a fundamental part of my daily life. But I think I’m in a strange withdrawal from the overwhelming weight of the past six years, from the 2015 campaign through the 2016 election and the Trump presidency. Always watching, waiting for the next infuriating, crazy event to happen is significantly different from your average attention to current events. Obviously things are still wacky, especially with the incessant pandemic looming over my narrow little world. After the family deaths in which I was a daily caregiver, I would intermittently startle like an unswaddled baby, feeling insecure out in the world. I have vestiges of that now. Just wondering if that will improve after the mentality required to survive these past years.

I’m working on getting an in-depth understanding of the different pronoun usages which are being employed to describe a more fluid sense of gender than what was once accepted. I want to be respectful and mindful about what other people need for their sense of both acceptance and safety. Sometimes things seem to be moving faster than I can keep up, or perhaps my exposure is limited by the constraints of the pandemic. In any case, I’m trying.

I’ve been a sports fan since I was a little kid, looking for a way to be close to my dad who frequently watched his games by himself. I learned about American staples, baseball, football and basketball. Eventually I was reading the biographies of athletes and expanding my interest to include hockey, tennis, volleyball and all things Olympics. I loved college sports. My interest was enduring. I enjoyed participating in softball, volleyball and swimming, and took some tennis lessons. Recently though, I’ve realized that I’ve lost focus on what were the familiar touchstones of so many years of my life. I still watch tennis but everything else has fallen off my radar.

Lately I find myself awake in the dead of night watching odd sports like biathlon, agility competitions, skiing and snowboarding. There are so many niches in this world with dedicated enthusiasts for all of them. I did watch the Super Bowl, drawn in by the drama of the young superstar versus the seasoned champion. I’m wondering about how everything changed for me, without my really noticing. Maybe if the Olympics happen later this year, I’ll refocus my attention. Or maybe I’m not willing to commit myself to being an inactive observer of too many activities that were once an easy release from years of work and raising a family, not to mention the caregiving years. I guess I’ll find out if the post-pandemic time will precipitate a change. If there ever is a post-pandemic.

I’ve been wrangling with myself about my beloved cardinal pair, Pumpkin and Carmine. My family who have no idea they’ve become my family. As with everyone we love, the time comes when you’re aware that doing without them will be truly painful. I’m always aware that these are wild animals. To date, aside from putting feeders a little closer to my house so I can observe them up close, I’ve done nothing to engage them in any way resembling attempted domestication. But it’s a struggle. The average life expectancy for a cardinal in the wild is about three years. Some can live much longer. In captivity, they can survive for a few decades. My son is a bird biologist who’s caught, banded and released countless birds. The other day I laughingly asked him if it was totally wrong for me to set up his mist nets, and haul my pair in so I could put them in a large flight cage and take care of them as pets. Except I wasn’t really kidding, mostly, and he gently responded that yes, it would be wrong. I have to stay on the right side of nature and understand that love doesn’t include fiddling with wild animals unless your motivation is helping heal a wound or the like. I can’t confine them to heal my wounds. But I’d be lying if I said my anticipatory grief over their future absence wasn’t already a real thing to me. Looking my human frailty in the face. I wish I was better at avoidance behavior.

Bird footprints on my porch.

So those are a few of my little stories from the polar vortex, the frozen tundra of the midwest. I definitely will leave the full climate change conversation for another day.

In The Company of Phantoms

I woke up the other morning with the phrase “raison d’etre” tumbling around in my head. I thought the stimulus underlying such a random thought was connected to my current online Spanish class, in which I’m finding that a lot of my high school French is still accessible from memory. Although there are plenty of differences between the two languages, their similarities are undeniable. Really, though, that phrase, loosely translated as “reason for being” isn’t just related to language. I’ve been doing deep dives into the overall state of myself and my country for days. A somewhat bleak pair of prospects in this window of time. I’ve been pondering that question, reason for being, while reading some history books about the 1800’s. I did some research and found that apparently, the first time that line appeared in print was in a letter from John Stuart Mill in 1864. Mill wore a number of professional hats in Britain during the 19th century, but was known chiefly as a proponent of social liberalism.

I guess that the phrase “reason for being” sounds like a maudlin topic. I’ve been a bit maudlin in recent days. But given the fact that I listed the next bunch of words which also popped up in my mind that morning, things aren’t as dire as they sound. I wrote them all down. 1) You Gotta Have A Plan, 2) Dilettante 3) Clubless 4) Nightlife 5) Nomad 6) Dialectic and 7) Unreconstructed. This seemingly unrelated cluster is what I think is my unconscious response to having a life without structure. With the death of my dog last week, my only requirement for living in an orderly manner is gone. No one else around who needs anything. How odd. I feel like a balloon tied to a tree on a windy day. I bounce around a lot with a sense that at any moment, my string might come loose and off I’ll fly into space. All the words I wrote are whispers like a phantom’s voice, some known to me personally, like my dad’s, and others whose names I couldn’t immediately access, like Mill’s, the nineteenth century British philosopher with a liberal heritage. A couple have the same last name – Groucho Marx and Karl Marx. They’re subliminal messages coming to me as I bob around, trying to find a meaningful place to be. I think my obsession with the current impeachment proceeding isn’t helping lighten the heavy thoughts. As with numerous moments in history, I can’t look away. This political spectacle is both the most compelling and well done indictment of the ex-president, yet simultaneously, a vacuous sham, because it’s obvious that the Trump-worshipping Republicans will vote to acquit him. I know why they will and it disgusts me. My family and friends tell me to stop watching because it’s bad for my mental health. Another one of the phantom voices pops up. Maybe not true for everyone, but true for me.

I posted an article on Facebook the other day with this preceding comment :

“How these Republicans will let this guy off the hook after today’s chilling, methodical presentation will be at best, utterly cynical and amoral. At worst? They are zombie cultists who have lost their connection to reality.”

And yet, none of what’s happening is as unprecedented as it seems. Trump is not the first con man to emerge in this country. He’s far from original except for perhaps his utter emptiness as a human being. A book I’m reading right now, “The King of Confidence,” is about a similar con artist who managed a remarkable odyssey from atheist to Mormon, to lawyer to prophet, to elected official to self-ordained King, dragging with him a remarkable conglomeration of grifters, wives and sycophants. I’m not quite finished with it, but you get my drift. Throughout history, there have been many frauds who, for whatever reason, find the pulse of vulnerable people who are looking for something to believe, for someone to follow. Intellectually I understand the comfort being part of some movement or belief system must provide. Personally, I must’ve been born with an inherent issue about affiliations. That’s where Groucho comes in. I’ve identified with this quote for years. I’m whatever is the opposite of a joiner.

Quotes from The King of Confidence:

“In every community persons are to be found who are fond of indulging and cultivating a love for what is marvelous, and who are ready to believe that a supernatural agency is involved in whatever transcends their comprehension. Such tendencies are by no means found in connection exclusively with those with low intellectual powers, and small attainments. On the contrary, it is not infrequently the case that persons of education, of reflection and even superior intellectual endowments in some respects, are led astray. Buffalo Medical Journal – 1851.

If ever the world was afflicted with errant humbugs of any age, it is the present,” declared a frustrated writer for Scientific American. “The furious emergence of spiritualism coincided with another phenomenon that seemed to offer evidence of a country losing its grip on rational thought and action. Since the late 1840’s, murder rates ‘had exploded across the nation,’ according to historian Randolph Ross, who notes that some parts of the country that had been previously among the ‘least homicidal places in the Western world suddenly became the most homicidal.’ For years, worried observers of American culture had noted a ‘growing disposition to…the ‘wild and furious passions’… ‘of savage mobs,’ as Abraham Lincoln put it in 1837, and by mid-century, superstition, alienation and blood-lust seemed to be prevailing over reason and the rule of law.”

Photo credit : LA Times

So if we go back far enough, there’s plenty of evidence to support the idea that what’s in front of us right now has historical precedent. Lots of them, in fact. The worshipful Trumpian mob isn’t a new phenomenon. Is it human destiny to repeat the same patterns endlessly? I know about the swings of the political and cultural pendulums. But they’re cold comfort. Watching the Senate impeachment trial, knowing that it’s outcome is a foregone conclusion, makes me wonder what the future holds for this still deeply divided country. Another voice from the past comes to mind.

I hope that the new administration, so much more reflective of the diversity of our populace, will have enough time to undo much of the widespread damage Trump left in his wake. I don’t believe that another phantom in my head had Trump’s one man wrecking ball level of destruction in his mind when he made the following statement.

I’ve lived through plenty of political turmoil. I’ll try to remember that as I move forward, attempting to create some structure and renewed order in what has for me, been almost a decade of continuous losses and adjustments. That’s how life can be. These last five years have made enduring my own issues feel harder. It’s not like I’ve ever felt part of the mainstream. After all, Ronald Reagan was the most admired conservative standard-bearer for years in my early adult life. I remember plenty of what he said and did.

The original “MAGA” team, not a 45 original slogan.
Another 45 stolen catchphrase.

So I have to remind myself of my dad’s ghostly advice, “you gotta have a plan.” I’m working on it, dad. Absent the pandemic, I think I’d feel a little less unmoored, a little more organized than I do right now, but again, the ability to control external factors is beyond my power. I remind myself of the dialectic, the constant friction always in motion. And here comes Karl.

Change will come, no matter what I’m doing. The question is how I’ll respond to it. Right now, still in the midst of social distancing, I’ve got a little order by taking classes and webinars. My QAnon class is eye-opening and terrifying. I feel compelled to learn as much as I can about that movement and others like it, as I believe based on history, that this country is as divided as it’s been in the past and will continue to be, going forward. Then there’s my Zen Buddhism class at the opposite end of the spectrum. I can’t say that I’m likely to become an immersed practitioner of this ancient philosophy, as I’m not what I’d call Zen. But I like working on mindfulness and am definitely attempting to stay present, not in the past, and not too far in the future.

Apt for the pandemic.

I stay up too late at night. I never used to be so nocturnal. The silence and darkness are conducive to reflection. I tend to read books in the evening rather than in the daytime when I’m trying to exercise, do chores and projects and occupy myself, instead of jumping into my car and driving away to lead a nomadic life after all the limitations of the past year. I’m shaving minutes off my climb to the second floor and my bed, before I become a permanent dweller in the world more appropriate for the young than for an oldster. My poor circadian rhythms.

Last night I dreamed I was in a house that had a room set aside for a female dog who’d just whelped a litter. Not surprisingly, they all looked just like Flash, gone in 2015. I’ve only been dogless for a scant week so it’s obvious that my deepest self is already gearing up with the not so subliminal messages. Here I am, engaged with the big and little pictures, as usual. Politics, my reason for existence and dogs. Well, then. Enough delving. Time to be in today.

Flash as a baby