It Takes A Village

Summer holidays meant a 90-minute trip to Gramma and Grandpap’s house.
There WAS an ‘over the river’ aspect to it,
since we lived in Pittsburgh,
where distance is seldom calculated by miles
and more often described as the number of bridges you would cross.
Getting to their home was a four-bridger for us.

My grandparents once lived in my Gramma’s childhood home,
which was in turn sold to my parents.
Who eventually sold it out of the family during my father’s search-for-meaning phase.
Gramma and Grandpap first lived close by, just a few miles away.
Eventually they moved closer to her sister, my Great Aunt,
and they bought a trailer in a spacious park that had lots only for senior citizens.
Grandpap, I’m sure, chose their lot;
it backed onto a field that was never planted in all the years they lived there.

Plenty of run around space for all of the ‘kiddos’,
and there was a regular parade of visiting children.
Trailer it may be, but Gramma had first her pump organ and then her piano in the living room;
the choir members would practice at their place,
and the family would sing after holiday dinners.
It wasn’t all hymns- the first time I heard Sound of Silence was when Gramma played it in her living room.

There was a two-seater porch swing behind the trailer, it sat three small children or two adults.
Grandpap had the small charcoal grill back there, too.
He had it there to keep it away from the little ones, because they seldom made it that far.
There was too much to see on the front porch.
First an awning, and eventually a fiberglass roof, covered the patio.
A collection of folding chairs and a glider were always there,
and when there was a big gathering we pulled out the dining chairs to accommodate the grown ups.
Kids usually got the front and side steps when the chairs were full.
Big brothers and sisters looked out for the smaller ones,
and a walk around the loop of the park was always a good distraction after dinner.

Moms and aunts did the dishes and filled the collection of containers,
there was always a paper shopping bag to take home with leftovers.
Usually there was someone that smoked, and smoking was always done outside.
I remember when Grandpap stopped smoking:
first his cigarettes, then his ‘stogies’ and last his pipe.
It wasn’t unusual to have at least one grown woman wash her hair after dinner and have it set in pin curls.
Usually it was Gramma, but other female relatives took advantage of the skills of the aunts to have their hair done, too.
The littler girls had the job of unsnapping the curlers from their clips and handing them, with the solemnity of an OR nurse when asked.

I remember when my daughter broke a music box, china and in the shape of a dove.
It was just a little too low for her, and I was sure I had baby-proofed things out of her reach.
Gramma came over and her first thought was that her great granddaughter wasn’t hurt.
I said that I would try to fix it, maybe I could glue it- I knew that Gramma loved it.
She kissed me and said- ‘It’s just a thing, it’s not important.’
And then she kissed Jenn, and smiled.

Goodbyes were said first in the dining room,
then just inside the front door,
then on the top step,
then on the porch.
When I was a child and we left for home,
five kids in the backseat with the bigger holding the smaller,
and two parents in the front seat of the sedan, 
we’d beep the horn as we turned the bend in the road- sure that they were waiting to hear it.
Later, when I was the mom and a trip home meant car seats/blankies/pacifiers,
pack the umbrella stroller,
did you grab the diaper bag,
and WAIT! WHAT ABOUT MONKEY? Who had MONKEY?!-
Gramma and Grandpap would wait patiently at the edge of the walkway until we were all tucked into the car.
I can still see in my minds eye Gramma waving then blowing a kiss.
We would wave back, then beep the horn as we went around the bend in the road.

We had our own village.
Each person knew their role,
knew who would wash, who would dry.
Knew who would bring the barbequed lima bean casserole (sounds horrible, but Aunt Ruth made it magic),
who would bring out and take down the chairs,
who would bring out the TV trays when the number of grandkids,
then the great grandkids, boomed.
We knew why we were there.
We knew everyone there.
Most importantly, we all knew we were loved.

(This post is part of the #31DaysOfWritingChallege2019. The photo shows my stepmother, my Gramma, and my cousin.)

 

 

 

Wash Your Face

There is a book phenomenon making the rounds.
Sells lots of copies.
Has a sequel out now.
She’s a speaker, a CEO, a ‘mogul’.
There are over 11,000 reviews of the book on Amazon.
(WOW!)

I have not read the book.

Maybe I would like it.
I don’t know.

I do know I like the title.
I have no idea,
really,
what it means to her and her readers.
Her work of improving your life,
being a success,
change the way you think,
believe in yourself;
It sounds good, but not good enough to make me read it to understand the title.
But that won’t stop me from writing about it.

To me- wash your face means taking off the artificial.
Removing the stuff that stops you/others from seeing you, warts and all.

To me- wash your face means getting prepared.
Cleansing yourself.
Focusing on the essential.

To me- wash your face, is doing just the essential.
Maybe it’s part of what my gramma called a ‘sponge bath’.
A hasty dab and go.
Out the door and getting things done.

To me- wash your face is  removing the film that clouds your own perception of the truth.

Maybe it is also about removing the log in your own eye before pointing out the speck in your neighbors.
Better to wash your face in preparation to get to work  than wash your hands in denial.

There was another Christian author that I recall from the 70s.
Sheila Walsh, maybe?
No, I don’t think so.
Joyce something?
I can’ t remember.

But I do recall that it was very controversial in the strict conservative circles that she said it was a good thing for women to wear makeup.
She said (paraphrase because: the 70s have been a minute ago)
If the barn needs painting you paint it.
(The 70s minced no words, y’all)
Artifice!
Deceit!
Man, wouldn’t the 70s have been blown away by Ulta?
By Sephora?

Buy I found comfort in that.
You do what you do.
Make yourself feel better.
Confident.
Go on and use the primer/foundation/concealer/blush.
Hit up the eye shadow/contouring/bronzer.

But when you go to sleep.
When you prepare to take on a new day.
When you want to kick back and be YOU: wash your face.

Those that love you won’t run away.

(This post is part of the #31DaysOfWritingChallenge2019 )

 

Writer’s Block

Tonight I learned that,
contrary to Calvin’s assertation,
that writer’s block doesn’t exist.
I learned this from an actual, honest to goodness, writer.
From her own mouth.
I was there: I saw and heard it.

At an event by our local independent bookstore (Literati Bookstore in Ann Arbor)  I assisted with a meet and greet before the author’s talk as part of a benefit for Binc.
Binc is the Book Industry Charitable Foundation, and for over 20 years it has been the safety net for booksellers.
I was privileged to have been on the Board of Directors for several years, and privileged still to have the opportunity to participate at times as a volunteer.
Tonight the author was author and Binc Ambassador Ann Patchett, and she discussed the creation of her new book (The Dutch House) and also gave a peek into books that she recommends.

Meeting her was very nice.
Hearing her talk was transformative.

Not only was she funny,
self-deprecating,
witty,
and SMART;
she took Q&A from the audience
and it was her answer to one question that made me sit up straight in my seat
and PAY ATTENTION.

Since I wanted to be in the moment I only jotted down the words quickly, but this is a close as I can recall.
She was asked about her experience working through writer’s block, as she had recounted her struggles with starting and stopping, over and over, at page 30 of her new book.
She also name dropped delightfully the authors that helped her work through the novel’s plot.
But- her answer!

She said that there is no such thing as writer’s block.
It doesn’t exist.
And she knows it because her husband is a doctor.
Her husband works through things all day long,
trying over and over again to solve a medical problem for his patients.
And sometimes the day ends and the problem isn’t solved.
But he doesn’t come home and say that he has  doctor’s block.
He just gets back to working on the problem.
He does the work,
he tries again,
he makes mistakes,
he asks for help.

There is no writer’s block.

Writer’s block is the name that we give to whatever we empower to stop us from solving the problem.
What it means is that you need to do more work.
Put away the distractions.
Sit yourself down,
dedicate the time,
work through the issues,
solve the problem.
Try again.

There is no writer’s block.

I now have to question everything I thought I knew.
If (and Ann said so), there is no Writer’s Block, what else doesn’t exist?
What other things that I’ve given the power to stop me from moving forward aren’t actually there?

Is there Not Enough Time?
Is there Not the Right Time?
Is there Not Enough Money?
Is there truly any It Won’t Make a Difference?
Is there a My Voice Won’t Matter?
Is it really Someone Else’s Job?
Is it Too Early?
Is it ever Too Late?

What could you do if I gave you permission to wipe away the thing that you’ve allowed to stop you?
Name the thing.
Then know there is no such thing.
Then erase it.
Blow it away.
It doesn’t exist.
You do.

(This post is part of the #31DaysOfWritingChallenge2019 )

 

 

 

 

 

Snap Judgment

Ellen DeGeneres  went to a sports thing.
She and her wife sat next to former President Bush and his wife.
They did not yell, hit, or tweet at each other.
Someone won the game.

I remember when this would not have been news.
We have changed.

There are people that view the scene I described as horrible.
It must be evidence that neither Ellen or former Pres Bush have any deep-seated beliefs.
If they did they would have duked it out during the game.
Or maybe scowled at each other.
Stalked away in high dudgeon
(High dudgeon. I’ve wanted to use that since I first read Little Women!)
Or something.

Other people see this as a watershed moment of brotherhood… or at least tolerance.
People can sit and watch a sports thing companionably
even if they think the other person is deeply flawed.
Okay.

Ellen has used the monologue on her TV show to explain that being kind to each other means being kind to each other….
even if you don’t agree with everything the other person believes.
There was much clapping and head nods.
Sincerity and straightforwardness is shown and we come to our senses.
Blake Shelton (The Voice)
and Dean Cain (the cute TV Superman from 1993)
are among the celebrities that support her level-headed tolerance in being kind to Bush.
(Y’know, even Michelle Obama accepts candy from the man. I mean….)

But The Hulk isn’t happy.
He can’t even.

Mark Ruffalo wants Bush to be brought to justice for the crimes of the Iraq War.
Vanity Fair
(the magazine, not a Marvel superhero)
wonders if Ellen is out of touch with reality.
Actress Jameela Jamil,
formerly a clapper and nodder for Ellen,
has flipped and now stands with Ruffalo.
Jamil didn’t learn of the monstrous President in school,
and now educated,  is understanding of the Bush rage.
(I don’t know that American students are versed on the Prime Ministers, so British-born Jamil has a point.)

So, maybe it’s a slow week.
Maybe we have run out of indignation due to,
I dunno,
anything that is happening politically right now.
Turks and Kurds.
Syria.
Tariffs.
Ukraine.
The revolving staffer’s door of the White House.
Poverty.
Illiteracy.
Maybe people righteously angry at Bush
are only upset enough to hit Twitter when he is seen with Ellen?
Maybe.
Maybe Ruffalo et.al. have been waiting for THE perfect time to emote.
Man, I don’t know.

War is bad.
Kindness is good.

I’m holding on to that, OK?

(This post is part of the #31DaysOfWritingChallenge2019.)

 

 

You’re One of My Kind

I got a text message last week from someone that addressed it to her ‘Favorite Training Person.’

For a time I was a trainer for Waldenbooks/Borders Group.
It was just about the most useful and fulfilled that I have ever felt in a job.
I got to do one-on-one training with new managers in my base store,
and then group training with amazingly talented trainers in an offsite location.
We worked first on flip charts (yup!) then graduated to PowerPoint.
Soft skills were part of the group training: recruiting, conflict management, communication… and change.

She was asking if I remembered the stages a high-performing team goes through when change is introduced,
Something about ‘storming’.
Oh yes.
Yes, I remember.

It was introduced by Bruce W. Tuckman, and was just MADE for flip charts and PowerPoint.
(Lots of fun to use the Human Bean images from old-school Office for the slides)
The idea is that a team doing well falters harder than a less-well performing team when a change is introduced,
but they rebound higher once the change is integrated.

I sent her some texts with the info, and smiled that she had asked me.
(When you are part of my team you stay part of my team,
Lifetime consulting just goes along with it.
That, and I was glad to hear from her, since she has always been dear to my heart.
Some people you hire,
some you inherit,
and if you are lucky some become family no matter how they enter your life.

It’s just:  I think Bruce missed a stage.

For one thing- not every team IS a high-performing team when change comes a-knockin’.
Some teams never make it to levels where anything is delivered,
where they can function together at all.

And some teams need another stage in there somewhere: Mourning.
(Maybe he would have added it if it was spelled ‘Mourming’?)
Change is the cessation of what was and a path to what will be.
It’s the death of the old way that gives way to the new.
And that death may need some time to sink in, to process.
I think that some of the Storming Mr. Bruce noted was actually Mourning.

And, you know, sad people just aren’t always that interested in getting things done.
Sometimes they can’t think past what they used to do,
what they lost,
what WAS-
even if they didn’t like the way it was before all that much.
It was familiar.
They could do it with their eyes closed.
It had been GOOD ENOUGH (dammit!),
there wasn’t that much of a reason to do it a new way!
Sometimes Anger is Sadness being all noisy and gesturing and frustrated.

So I’ve been thinking the past few days about Change.
About the things that I’ve had to let go before I was ready to do so.
About the people that have left my life even though I wanted them to stay.
About places I thought I would see again but must now face up to never revisiting.
About time that I wanted to myself that now has competing demands from others.
About times when I knew ALL the old ways to do the old things and the Mourning when that all stopped.
About how Mourning is part of the process, but it isn’t the END of the process.
About how I now am getting so much better at knowing the new ways to do the new things.
And about teams.

Change happens all of the time.
And for many companies the change is frightening.
The uncertainty of ‘will this work at all?’ is often infused with the change.
And maybe the answer is ‘we don’t know-but we need to try something.’
So change requires a leap of faith.
Even if that leap is terrifying.
Even if that leap isn’t what you wanted.
Even if you had been OK with things-just-as-they-were.
Change is leaving the old ways for the vision of the new.
Change is the Storming/Mourning/Anger/Sadness/Jump into the future.

There’s another part of the process, a part for temporary teams.
Once they complete their purpose the enter the Adjourning phase.
Everyone takes their learnings (ugh! to corp-speak!) and the team disbands.

I’m glad that’s not what has happened to many of my teams.
True; we no longer work together… but we are still connected.
I got the text the other day because she knows I’m still part of her team,
albeit several hundred miles
and many companies removed from when we worked together.
But we are still a team.

She’s one of my kind.

See Me

When my girls were school-age I was the mama-taxi.
Long trips seemed to be my specialty.
Not just because driving was novel to me
(I learned when I was 30… long story),
but because they needed to go to places that were some distance away
and I was the only parent willing to do the trip (longer story).

Trips with preteens generally lead to long silences
punctuated by squabbling.
These circumstances lead to one of the Three Rules of Mom:

1. No ‘she said/she said’
2. No wet noises (later diagnosed as Mom’s misophonia)
3. Do what you have to do before you do what you want to do

To protect us all from the END of PEACE as we KNOW IT I would provide diversions.
One long winter drive to my parents that meant listening to
Christopher Plummer read the Nutcracker.
Delightedly scared cries were heard whenever he drew out the ‘SQEEEEEEEEEAAAKKKK’ of the Mouse King.
Other times it was singing songs.
And still other times they asked for stories.
(Later I came to realize this was self-protection for them.
If I wasn’t telling them stories I might ask them questions.
Which could lead to sharing.
Or discussion about puberty.
So stories it would be.)

In general the stories were well-known to us all,
as family stories tend to be.
They would ask me to ‘tell us the one about….’
and off we would go.

This scenario would later be repeated by the folks at work.
It seemed that either crazy stuff just naturally happens to me,
or I have a crazy way at looking at normal stuff.
Perhaps that’s same-same.
I didn’t… and still don’t
mind sharing stories.
If I chuckle at myself, well it makes it easier to accept and move on.
(True story: today I managed to put my suede boots on the wrong feet.
I am a grown woman and didn’t notice it when the first boot went on.
Only noticed when I stood.
And I was stone cold sober.
Both. Boots. Wrong. Feet.)
If you ask, it’s likely I’ll share most things if you really want to listen.
If it’s my story to tell.

I am also good at keeping secrets.
(You should know all of things that I won’t tell you)
I don’t believe that it’s my destiny to pass along the news that belong to others.
A person may only have so many amazing stories in their life, they should be able to choose how and when they share them.
So there are some stories I just won’t tell.
And there are some I never thought I would tell.
This post is something I have asked and received permission to tell.
But I’m nervous… so I’m stalling.

You see, not a lot of people know this story.
But due to recent events I will share, because it is true no matter what some people may want to say about it.

I was divorced after 24 years of marriage.
I had no idea how to date, or laugh, or trust again.
And I was fortunate to meet a kind, funny, attentive man.
He made me laugh.
Told me I was smart, kind, beautiful, talented.
Not overstating that we made each other very happy,
and neither of us had been happy for a while.
Me because my marriage was falling apart because my husband didn’t want to be married to me.
His was falling apart, because his wife couldn’t accept that he had gender dysphoria.
I had no idea what that meant… except it sounded like he didn’t like being a guy.
I wasn’t always stoked about being a woman… especially every 23 days or so.
I didn’t think much about it; life was kind of crazy.
My friends called him Bounceback Guy.
They told me no one stays with Bounceback Guy.
Well, neither did I, but not for the reasons they thought.

We each moved to different states but talked to each other every day and saw each other as often as we could.
Our relationship grew solidly on friendship, and laughter, and love.
Bounceback or not.
I trusted someone again.
As we grew more secure and comfortable with each other,
more information was shared.
Gender dysphoria discussions lead to deeper talks.
lead to him sharing that he was not really,
not truly,
not deep down inside
‘he’.
She was Aimee.
And my world rocked out of kilter.
Okay.
OK.
What did that mean for us?
What have I done?
What will I do?
(And dear heavens why do I pick the wrong guy? AGAIN!)

So.
Tears, and are-you-sure?- and but-I-liked-Him, and
OK, YOU are the same personality, but you are going to kill my boyfriend
(I wince to write that, but truth is truth and that’s how it felt to me)>
There was no Caitlyn Jenner.
Heck, there was only the lady with the large hands that had shopped at the bookstore a few times.
I didn’t know from transgender.
I wanted easy and steady and uncomplicated.
Not 700+ miles away, and hormone treatments, and does this mean I’m a lesbian?
Why does YOU making a change mean I need to make a change?
I’m not looking for that.
It was too much.
Distance didn’t help.
The bounce,
which had been fading (being honest here) from loving partnership to loving friends anyways,
was not going to survive.
And, truth be told- I was the one still trying to figure out what to do….
and I got dumped.
Awkwardly,
and hurtfully,
and tears,
and no,
I’m not with her because she is younger and prettier than you are,
it’s-for-the-best-we-can-be-friends.
And it hurt.
And I didn’t believe I was hearing the truth..
(and I was right:
the next woman was young, prettier… and a flippin’ belly dancer.
How could I ever think I could compete with a red-haired belly dancer ten years my junior… even if I’d wanted to.
And I didn’t want to.
And I was spared the need to say that.
Instead I could focus on the lies and cry and nurse my pride.)

But I NEVER thought there was a lie about being Aimee.
And I never doubted that a difficult decision,
even if it was one I hoped wouldn’t be made,
couldn’t understand the need to be made,
was the right one for them to make.

So now,
now when the news is about a move to declare that Aimee,
and other transgendered,
or nonbinary,
or intersexed people don’t get to make the choice to present themselves in the way that is correct for them;
when there is a plan to state that they don’t exist:
now is the time for me to tell my story.

I’ve met her.
She’s funny,
likes Star Wars and (help me, HOW?) Monty Python.
Favorite color is purple.
She’s happily married now to a woman that loves her just as she is.
Aimee is dearly loved.

And isn’t that what we all want in our lives?
To be loved for who we are?
To have our truths validated?
To be our very best self, and contribute to the world around us?
To be seen.

I’m asking you, see; don’t look away.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

 

 

Be Kind to One Another

Work with me here, please.
I am well aware that not all of my friends believe the same things.
That not all of them agree with each other.
Heck, that not all of them agree with ME.

But I hope that., somehow, most will agree with either Ephesians 4… or Ellen DeGeneres.
Or, as I do, perhaps both.

As a young teen our church believed in memorizing Bible verses.
I liked it; it was something to do as I washed dishes, one of my regular chores.
I’d prop the chapter on ‘the-hole-in-the-wall’, a pass-through over the kitchen sink.
I’d start with the first verse, memorize it, then add a second verse.
I’d keep adding until I could do the whole chapter start to finish.
Ephesians 4 is one of those chapters.
While I have lost the continuity skills I used to have, I can still recite verse 32 in the flowing King James version in which I learned it:

“And be ye kind,
one to another, 
tender-hearted, 
forgiving one another,
even as God,
for Christ’s sake,
hath forgiven you.”

There’s a lot in the verse, and a lot more in the chapter.
(And, yes, the book… as well as the Book…)
The verses leading up to this one, the last in the chapter, have a lot to say about the way we interact.
It seems to me that this is a chapter that could stand some more memorization.
Some more time front of mind.
And I count me among the number that need to think on it and put it to practice.

• Verse 3 is a calling to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.
• Verse 14  tells us to focus on the truth and think for ourselves: henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive;  
  
• Verse 29 deals with the power of our words and cautions us about the ones we choose: Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers.
• And verse… well, maybe you’d like to read the rest for yourself.

Back in the days I learned these verse I belonged to a church where women were not allowed to preach.
They were not allowed to pray in front of the men either; the group split to pray on Wednesday nights.
(The women stayed upstairs, the men went to the Sunday School/Basement area.)
Women were to remain silent when there were men that could minister,
so as not to usurp the authority of the men present.
Men, as the head of the family, were to lead the rest of the family in worship.
I would sit next to my husband and send my thoughts at his head; ‘TALK!’
Because I had thoughts about what we hearing, studying, singing.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t.
Why he was so seldom exercised to stand and speak.
In my heart I much more identified with the Quakers: still the silent meditation, but with speaking/ministering women.

These days I am no longer with that church.
These days I am now ordained and officiate weddings, funerals, baptisms.
These days, I sense a swing towards the entire country preferring that women are silent while they let the men speak.
These days, I hear the words spoken
>so carefully crafted<
to divide us rather than build us into unity.
To enflame with rage and directionless energies.
To break the Spirit of unity and shatter the bonds of peace.

I find myself, my emotions, my mindset, tossed to and fro by the cunning and craftiness.
I feel exhausted, and unsure how to break my silence.
Until I remember Ephesians 32… and Ellen DeGeneres.
(Thought I’d forgotten about her, didn’t you?)

I can choose to be kind.
I can be tenderhearted.
I can forgive as I have been forgiven.
Be kind.

Ellen signs off her program these days as she has done for about four years.
She states “Be kind to one another… Bye Bye.”
No other doctrine.
No religious overtones.
No specific act.
Just…. kindness.

She started after the suicide of a teen that was outed… then bullied… then dead.
This is not the only time bullying for
actual or perceived gender,
sexual orientation,
gender identity,
or disability has lead to suicide,
but it was the time that Ellen decided she would speak the change of heart into being.

Change starts with one decision.
Change starts with one action.
Change will be accomplished by kindness… one to another.

Change starts when the silence is broken.
Change starts with one person.
Change can start with me.
I  will choose to be tender-hearted.
I want to minister grace to the hearers, not spew corrupt communication.
To be kind.

 

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

Well Well Well

                                                    Pulitzer Prize Winning Photo                                                       1988,  Scott Shaw photographer

31 years ago this week an 18 month-old little girl fell down an 8-in pipe, an unused well.

For 2 days a rescue crew that included oil-drillers,
paramedics,
and contractors worked to free her.
It took 56 hours before the hard dirt and rock of Midland Texas gave up and let her go.

CNN gave round-the-clock coverage of the rescue efforts.
Of the various methods used and discarded.
Of the volunteers that poured in to help.
A photo of the rescue by Scott Shaw won the 1988 Pulitzer Prize for Spot Photography.
A trust fund was set up for her, a movie starring Patty Duke was made about the ordeal.
People were glued to the TV,
cheering and crying when she was rescued.

For one child in Texas time stopped, and people came together to find her.
To release her.
To reunite her with her family.

A lot seems to have changed in the past 31 years.

Not one child, but many, are separated from their parents in Texas.
(And in Kansas, New York, Michigan, and on and on.)
It’s estimated that over 10,000 children
(and I’ve seen up to 13,000, but that’s hard to believe, isn’t it?)
have been separated from their parents and are in one of a hundred licensed shelters.
Many more, though, are in ‘Emergency’ shelters.
It’s an Emergency that we, the people, have created.
That we have allowed to happen to our children.

Oh yes, they aren’t ‘our children’, though, are they?
They aren’t like Baby Jessica, the girl in the well.
They are migrant children.
Illegal immigrants.
From families that sneak across our borders.
From families that seek asylum.
They are runaways.
Orphans.
Lost.
Loved.
Missed.
Hiding.
Frightened.
Children.

Like Baby Jessica, many of these children have no idea how they got where they are.
Like Baby Jessica, many don’t have the words to explain how they feel.
Like Baby Jessica, they need their parents.
Like Baby Jessica, they need to be cared for,
to be rescued,
released,
reunited.

Cameras are not encouraged, these 31 years later.
There is no round-the-clock coverage for the,
not 1,
but thousands of children that need help.
Perhaps it’s easier to help one child than to save many?
Perhaps it seems do-able.
One and done.
Maybe we can better comprehend that story.

There is so much rhetoric demanding our attention.
So many competing stories.
They buzz and nip and demand our attention.

Spare a little, please, this week.
A little thought as we hit October 14.
Remember (or hear about it for the first time and marvel),
how we the people rallied to save one precious child.

Can we do more to save thousands?
Shouldn’t we?

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)
 

 

 

 

It’s My Turn

The 90’s were a whirlwind for my small family.
My husband lost his job early in the decade.
he joined a program to get a degree in avionics, with the plan to work on plane engines.
He ended up rehired by the same company that paid for the training, and worked on the shuttle cars in the airport, instead.
During his school times I frequently worked a split shift: shuttling first him to school, then our daughters to elementary school, then to work.
Back at 12:30 for the kindergartner, laundry, PTA, and dinner in the afternoon.
Picked him up again at 3:30, then back home to drop him off… then back to work to close the store.
Retail.
Family life.
Holding it together a day at a time.

One day I topped for gas on the way back to work.
Put $10.00 in the tank (trust me; it went further then).
$10 was a lot for me; we were in ‘the bad time’ of unemployment.
I frequently prayed for $20 more a week.
With $20 I could work miracles for dinner.
Wouldn’t need to worry when the ‘non-grocery’ week came around and we needed toilet paper, detergent, toothpaste, etc.
(I dreaded those weeks. Scrimped where I could. Did you know that a washed off cereal liner makes a great lunch bag?)
$10 was gas enough for two weeks of running back and forth to the airport, school, mall, etc.

I waited to pull out of the gas station, looking to make a left and go to work.
The light to my right was red, and the car in the closest lane stopped to give me access out of the station.
I inched forward, and he motioned me to keep going.
So I did… and was promptly smashed into a car.

I remember sitting in the car and crying as the man I’d hit stormed in circles and raved.
I was terrified of telling my husband I’d hurt the car.
Terrified of the police coming.
Horrified that I had just put the last of my cash for the week into a car that was NOT going to get me to work.
“$10. $10!!!! Now what will I do?” ran through me head over and over.

Tonight a young man pulled out of a gas station driveway, making a left cross traffic.
His 4 year-old son is in the hospital.
Perfectly healthy until last Saturday, little Ethan had a seizure.
The doctors discovered a cyst on his brainstem and plan to drain it this weekend.
They hope that will be the end of it, but his father isn’t so sure about that.
On top of all of that, it hasn’t been going very smoothly at work.
He’d ducked out for a quick smoke and a slushy, stopping in at the corner gas station for the smokes.
It’s the gas station down the street from where I work, too.

It was my car that he hit as he exited the station.
We talked as we waited for the police.
He was crying.
I was shaking.

I saw him coming, and jerked my car hard to my right; he just hit the back quarter panel, wheel, and scraped up the wheel/tire something fierce.
His car is worse: lost a light, ripped up the bumper- stuff was dripping and I hoped it wasn’t the coolant.

I heard myself, my words, as he talked.
It has been just the most terrible time.
He was so sorry!
It was just a quick break- he’d have to call work now and what will they say?
He needs the hours, maybe they will let him make it up?
Am I sure I’m OK?
Should he call 911?
Should I sit down?
He can’t find his insurance card- is that going to be bad?
Do I know how much the fine will be?
He is so sorry! It was totally his fault….

I called my husband.
I stared at my brave and tough car tried not to cry.
My friend Lisa/Lea came and gave me moral support.
And, when the officer told me to wait at my car after I did my statement she went and gave Eric moral support , too.
I have my ‘magic number’ (so says the officer) that the insurance company will need.
I’m not planning to go to the hearing; I understand that means he won’t get a ticket if I don’t show up.
I see no reason to be there and make him pay more of what I suspect he doesn’t have:
It was an accident.

It could have been so much worse.
But it wasn’t.

So, please: if you are so inclined please pray for Eric and his son Ethan.
Guidance for the doctors and healing for the family.

And please, look both ways before you make a left.
Let’s all be careful out there.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

Pussycat, Pussycat- where’ve you been?

I am conflicted.

I am proud that women can stand together an peacefully be heard.

I am profoundly disquieted by the words our President has shared and continues to share (speak, tweet, whatever).

Objectifying,

verbal humiliation,

crass disregard for the basic humanity of women is wrong-

– and it’s horrifying coming from the President of the United States.

(People lie.

Clinton likely inhaled.

Oral sex is sex.

1,000 points of light are turning their faces in shame or winking out.

Weapons of mass destruction… weren’t.

Lies are everywhere without respect to political party.)

But I didn’t march yesterday.

I believe men have felt threatened by the primal life-force of women since men first realized women can bleed monthly and not die

… and not only that but life can come from between her legs and emerge screaming into the world.

Such great magic was to be feared….. and things that are feared by man must be conquered and disparaged.

(Of course, it could also be revered and magnified… but we aren’t there as a people yet.)

I get that there is a collective urge,
deep in the DNA of many (not all) men
– keep the women quiet.

I see it.

I know it’s there.

Men: I love you in spite of it.

But my vagina isn’t the source of my compassion.

I don’t speak the truth through my uterus.

My labia don’t define my self-worth.
I am more than my parts… which are mine to be shared as I choose.

I believe that life is in all of us.
I also believe that I don’t really know when that happens.

When LIFE happens.

Is it with breath?
Is it with birth?

Is it with heart beat?
When we are named?

I don’t know.

And since I don’t know- I can’t say I agree with a choice that can snuff it out.

I can’t stand and be counted for abortion rights.

I miscarried at 4 months and it haunted me for years.

I wish that agony on no woman.

I can’t be counted as believing something I don’t know.

I do know that every pro-choice person that I’ve met is also pro-Life.

And so I connect with that belief in us all.

There were so many reasons to march yesterday.

And there were just as many reason to march… and vote… last November.

So now what?

Yesterday 15 tornadoes ran through Mississippi and Georgia.

There is pain- destruction, fear there.

Help them… show them their lives matter.

So-called ‘honor killings’.

Glass breaking.

Bombs.

Hate-speech.

It seems every week someone with  a weapon shoots a random gathering.

(I heard it discussed last week- ‘Did you hear about the night club shooting! Crazy, huh?”
It had the same emotion I used to hear when the cafeteria announced pizza day.)

Where is the outrage?
How have we not stopped- stunned- at the loss?

How are we raising children differently to instill compassion so that violence is abhorrent?

But I did not march.

Because I can’t say I agree with all I did not stand beside you.

But I heard you and I support and believe in you.

Instead- I will continue to impact life  through my action as I can.

Where I can.

Homelessness, hunger, literacy.
(Alleviating two and boosting one!)

I’ve heard it said- ‘Why don’t “they” care for the children that are here if “they” are so concerned?’

Good question.

Unless you are with me all day, everyday, do you know that I don’t?

Must I reveal every act of charity for society’s approval?

I don’t need the approval so strongly.

Charity is for its own sake- not for publicity.

You impact as you can, too.

I don’t need to know how.

I don’t need to know what you do.

When we all make a difference the difference will be evident.

Yesterday was a big step in that direction.

It is our right to speak.

To declare without fear of harm our innermost belief.

It is, I think, our duty to speak truth.

And when un-truth (alternative facts is, I believe, the phrase of the day)

is spoken we must stop and shine the light of truth on it.

I am thankful for the march.

I am so proud of you for speaking your truth.

I admire the women that marched in generations.

I applaud those that moved WAY out of their comfort zone to be heard.

I appreciate the example of peace and conviction.

And so I dare to add my voice,

to declare my viewpoint and uncertainty:

I will honor the truth that I know for certain.

I honor life.

I honor compassion.

I honor activism.

Now that we’ve marched;

now that the, to me, frighteningly-horrible man is our President-

what can we do to help ourselves?

How can we use the momentum of the movement shown to build-up?

My vow is to find the ways and take them.

Look for the pain and help with the burden.

And, yes, I will pray for this man- this President.

I wish part of the oath had been, like for physicians: First do no harm.

But I fear it is too late for that.

So; marchers and observers alike, I challenge us.

What’s next?

How will we make change?
How will we drain the rapidly overflowing swamp?
How will we help the hurting- feed the hungry- house the cold?

Do you have blankets/coats/gloves/boots for the drifter?

Donate them.

Can you add a little to your cart for the food bank?
Feed them.

Can you speak to your neighbor and find common ground?

If nothing else, this President has galvanized action.

Let’s use it for good.