good vs evil

When I was a child I loved to read Mad magazine, always first rifling through the pages to quickly find the deliciously enjoyable Spy vs Spy series. Antonio Prohías, an award-winning cartoonist, in exile from Cuba for being accused by Fidel Castro of spying for the CIA one day walked into New York's Mad magazine office, portfolio in hand. Unable to speak much English he was assisted by his daughter’s interpretation. He sold his first three Spy vs Spy cartoons that very day. No one had to explain to me when I first viewed the wordless cartoon that the opposing spies represented the U.S.A. and the Soviets.

At my Catholic grammar school, we had periodic drills in case of an attack/nuclear bomb. These drills required us to sit crossed legged in the school hallway (away from classroom windows and possibly breaking glass) and to tuck our heads in our laps, while shielding our heads with our arms. We kept cigar-sized boxes in our desks that contained water, chocolate, gauze and such, to tide us over until help could arrive. Like the fire safety slogan, "Stop, Drop and Roll," the drills had a kid-friendly catchy phrase, “Duck and Cover.” Again, it was clear we were ducking and covering because of the threat of the U.S.S.R.

When I wasn’t wasting my childhood brain on the reading of Mad magazine I would view the television cartoons of The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. Again, always eager for the episodes featuring the nefarious spies, Boris Badenov and his sidekick, Natasha. Boris and Natasha spoke with mock-Russian accents and worked for the fictional dictator-run nation, Pottsylvania, “…but, first we must get moose and squirrel.” Together the protagonist Rocky, a flying squirrel and his sweet-natured pal, Bullwinkle, a moose, valiantly fought for truth, justice and the American way- wait, I’m mixing them up with Superman, but you get where I’m going with this -I was raised, I was reared, I was brought to maturity on this good vs. evil stuff, and the enemy, in my mind, was always the Russian government.

And now in my retirement years I see the whole Russian spy-thing playing out, in real time, like some kind of bizarre James Bond soap opera. There is the quiet lead-in, then nothing for a couple of days, then *Bing-Bang-Boom* rapid-fire, fast-action sequencing that makes it nearly impossible to follow the multiple threads. Then I’m left, breathlessly waiting for the next shoe to drop.

This is all bolstered by the fact that I follow the Twitter accounts of some exceptionally knowledgeable, patriotic political writers, analysts, statisticians and such. I cling tenaciously to the words of those who assure me that my side, the “good guys,” will eventually victor. It’s addicting and at the same time I know it’s not good for my health.

I long for the warm days of spring, with her longer periods of sunlight, that will allow me to put down my IPhone, allow me to go outside and work in my garden, allow me to drive more often into the city to visit beloved family and friends, allow me to take longer walk/jogs at home here around Privatopia.

I pine for a quick end to this political madness. But I know that even as I see our current president slowly heading for the drain, it could be that it's one of those slow, partially clogged drains and thus it will be a lengthy drawn-out process before he, along with the dirty water, will begin to finally spin quickly and then even more quickly, -when suddenly *slurp*, down he will go. And I also know that if, let me repeat this once again, IF this plays out, this will not be the end -no, not by a long shot, it will not be “over” for my country. No, for a sizable rift has been carved directly into the heartland of this nation and that divide will require some degree of surgical intervention.

I have faith that eventually we, as a nation, will heal, although it will be a long and slow recovery. I have that faith because daily I read and re-read the heartfelt Twitter accounts of so many intelligent, well-educated, young Americans, who thoughtfully advocate strongly for “truth, justice and the American way.” Yes, my nation is going to recover.

On another note, the weather reports indicate that it’s warming up this week, and so my garden, not unlike my nation, will need some tending. It needs, as a whole, to be kept a watchful eye upon, to be inspected for weeds, its trees and plants will need loving encouragement, pruning, clean and adequate life-essential water, healthy and healing sunshine…

I’m donning my jacket, putting on my boots, tugging on my gloves, gathering my tools and I’m heading outdoors. There is work to be done!

***

In light of the many protests throughout Russia today (March 26, 2017) I thought I should add a note to my blog to say that I do NOT consider the Russian people to be the enemy, foes, adversaries or rivals. It is their ruler, Putin, and his regime that I oppose. Today my heart goes out to the many protesters, like the pictured young woman, the frightened boy, and the young man who gives the acknowledging-eye to the photographer. I admire their bravery: love & peace, my world brothers and sisters!

***

one of my childhood faves

As I recall Boris & crew were about to draw straws to see who would swim across the body of water

"duck and cover" in case of attack

practice makes perfect

just outside my door - when I place my hand on the knob she will look up, then dart away

My Own Private Alternate Reality

The first time I saw her she was sitting at a large circular table in the school’s cafeteria, pencil in hand, leafing through a newspaper and occasionally looking up at a television set tuned to a news channel. She was physically lean and had a pretty, no, let’s make that a beautiful face. She wore the usual blue uniform of the custodial staff contracted by the university. On her head was what I think of as a babushka. The scarf completely covered her hair and ears and was tied tightly at the nape of her neck. I assumed that she wore the scarf to keep her hair clean as she dusted and sanitized the classrooms and offices. I would find out differently months later.

Later that same day, she came to my office and introduced herself. She had a trace of an accent. She was fair skinned and had beautiful teal-green eyes. I again made an assumption that she was, perhaps, from an eastern-European country. I’m not going to reveal her identity, but her first name was a female name I’d always associated, being raised Roman Catholic, as a Portuguese name. It turns out her name is Arabic in origin and it means, “the shining one.” Anyway, the name was a good fit for her. For me she was an integral person at the university, who got along well with everyone with whom she came into contact, faculty, staff and students alike. Those teal-green eyes of hers seemed incapable of registering a bias to differences in age, skin color, gender, customs, religion, etc.

She began to stop by my office on a daily basis for a short chat and I grew to know a bit more about her. She was a polyglot, who spoke a handful of European languages and she had, in the year or so before I met her, pretty much deciphered the English language. She’d done this, as a emigrant from Montenegro to the United States, by “reading" the local newspapers while simultaneously listening to the televised news. To me her mastery of language was impressive.

She’d been a professional athlete in Europe and thus had exposure to European languages in her travels, perhaps that gave her a start in the English language as well. I recall the satisfaction evident in her face as she described taking the boat, or maybe it was a ferry, I forget, across the Adriatic Sea to shop in Italy. She told me that she and her companions would feign having only rudimentary Italian language skills. “You must have a pretty good command of the language of the country you are shopping in,” she said laughingly, “or they will take advantage of you, rob you blind.”

One day she sought my advice on an official university “work order” that had come into her possession. At the time the campus was undergoing major remodeling to update the aging hvac-system and to bring classroom space in line with more modern teaching methods which favor computers, wifi and electronics over blackboards and chalk. Her concern was that the construction workers, who were near completing their work, had misplaced the work order she’d found in her task bin and that the requested job would thus be disregarded or overlooked.

I read the handwriting on the official work order form, crumbled it up and arced it toward the trashcan. “Don’t worry about it,” I told her, "It’s just a joke.” With a look of shock on her face, her reflexes were such that she retrieved that crumpled paper, practically mid-air, before it hit the trashcan.  She placed it on my desk and smoothed it out. “You don’t know that!” she said adamantly, "It could be something that you don’t understand. Workers have their own vocabulary, especially hvac and electricians.” Her husband had been an engineer in Montenegro and was now working as a janitor/maintenance provider for the large apartment building in Chicago where their family resided. “Well, I’m certain you’re correct about that,” I countered, “but, I also know that in the English language the phrase 'blow job' has only one meaning.”

Through our conversations I learned that she was a proud mother to a preschool-aged boy and a 10-month old daughter. She was a great cook and we’d share recipes and samples of our cooking on a regular basis. Hands down, she made the best bread, a crusty artisan bread, such to rival any upscale bakery.

At some point a female campus security officer, who was a “scratch” golfer, started a golf clinic on campus. “The Shining One” was clearly a natural athlete. She took to the game like no one I’d ever seen, quickly outpacing those of us who’d already had some exposure to golf. Before you knew it she was assisting our security officer coach in the lessons. Thanks to “The Shining One” I know that when I practice I must always “end on a positive,” in other words, if I am at the driving range, chipping practice spot, or putting green area and I muff a shot or stroke, I must then try another ball until I have a positive result. “Muscle memory is important, essential,” she would say, “always, always finish your practice with a successful outcome.”

One day she stopped by my office near the end of her shift. I asked her why I hadn’t see her all day or at least in the cafeteria at lunch. “It’s Ramadan,” she’d explained, “I am fasting.” We contrasted the requirements of Ramadan versus my Catholic Lent. Both religions suggest a period of introspection and prayer, both require a time of fasting. However, the Catholic church really has more of a mere suggestion of a fast (as I recall: on Ash Wednesday and every Friday during Lent, you are to eat two small meals that do not equal one whole meal.) Muslims are required to eat or drink nothing from sunrise until sunset for a complete succession of 29-30 consecutive days. I joked with her, “Basically, when Catholics fast, we cannot eat from the time we go to sleep until we wake up in the morning.”

Many people reading this are probably familiar with the disorder and ethnic cleansing that took place in the Bosnian War in the early-to-mid 1990s, so I will say no more except that it consisted of arbitrary arrests and detention, torture, executions, sexual assaults… my friend’s twin sister died as a result of this upheaval.

There was never a question when it came to The Shining One's work integrity. She was sharp, she was determined, she was talented, she was informative, she was fun. She had the same dreams and aspirations of any person who seeks a better life. It was my privilege to have met her and become better acquainted with her.

Remembering the 75th anniversary of the Japanese-American internment order:

"Today: I am a Muslim, too."

Just loved this photo I spotted on Twitter

Flame Out

While driving through the Carolinas seven weeks ago, I sought out several bookstores looking, in vain, for a sold-out, five-year memory book. When we arrived back home in the rural Midwest I ordered one online from Amazon. They come in different colors and my book is powder-blue. It’s compact in size. Glancing at it now, I’d say it’s about 6 inches tall and 4 inches wide and about an inch thick. A friend recommended it to me, a friend who is a couple of years into her own book. The idea is to write one line per day, perhaps an observation of your day, a troubling event, something that made you laugh, a regret, an affirmation, a complaint... Later you can look back as the years pass and see where you were, what you were thinking, perhaps notice a worry that now seems without merit, you might recall a forgotten moment of joy, maybe notice that you repeat some negative behaviors, or find that you are maturing right before your own eyes… 

Here is my problem: I have been so crippled by the events unfolding in my nation of the United States of America that I can barely pick up a pencil to jot even one single line. I manage to write a line two or three days in a row and then nothing for a week. Perhaps, I tell myself, I just need to get in the habit… but I know it’s more than that. I find myself without words. I who wrote 160 postings on my blog, I who routinely jots hundreds of notes, each thousands of words long, in my Evernote, cannot string two words together on paper. 

I’ve never been a person prone to anxiety, however my brain is currently in overload trying to process the rapid-fire events unfolding and our 45th president has only been in office for three weeks! I have only a couple of trusted beings nearby with whom I am willing, at this point in time, to discuss my concerns, but I always have the most essential, Trusted Husband, so I am blessed.

Meanwhile, I have found support from people who I've never met, never seen in-person and who I will only come to know through their tweets. These new brokers of reason have popped up for me from all across my homeland, but also a couple from around the globe. I get my news mostly from reading. Trusted Husband and I have (and have for some time now) subscriptions to The New York Times, The New Yorker and The Washington Post. I’m considering adding The Atlantic as Trusted Husband has recently dropped the Wall Street Journal.

One person, in particular, who has become a source of solace for me during the past couple of weeks has been Pope Francis. This is funny to me, funny as in ironic, being a proud ex-Catholic, who no longer believes in the dogma or tenets impressed upon her, K-12. Yet there he stands, dignified head of what I consider a somewhat outdated theology, as a guidepost, an exemplar for me. I’ve watched Netflix’s “Call Me Francis,” a Portugal produced 4-part series (in Spanish with English subtitles) -okay, I confess, I’ve watched it thrice so far and am totally inspired by this man’s dedication to helping the less fortunate. He's had  impressive first-hand experience with the events of the tumultuous years of Argentina’s Guerra Súcia (Dirty War). His present-day tweets remind me of the importance of staying focussed on providing calm and persistent aid where needed.

Other paragons of sanity I’ve discovered: Sr. Simone Campbell, Fr. James Martin, S.J., (again the Catholics stepping it up ), Senator Elizabeth Warren, Senator Al Franken, Senator Chuck Schumer, little Sophie Cruz, J.K. Rowling, Stephen Colbert, Bill Maher, numerous military veterans, artists, poets, writers, comedians, Pod Save America, Pod Save the World, SNL… they help me to realize I am not alone and that, in fact, I am in quite good company. They teach me, they inspire me, they make me laugh out loud, and my psyche grows stronger and my mind calms...

This isn’t about me, per se. I don’t think our 45th president (or his puppeteer Bannon) can hurt me, in any but a superficial way. I am retired so they cannot take away my job. Will they slash my Social Security? Will they take away the Medicare to which I become eligible to use this year? Perhaps, yet I am at peace.

However, that does not stop me from worrying about my fellow citizens who may be squashed under the 45/Bannon thumb. And apparently I am not alone. Millions of Americans have figuratively and literally stood up to say, “Enough! We will not sit silently while you strip away our democracy.”

When I was an 8-year old child in 1960 our teacher encouraged us to memorize Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, the Preamble to the United States Constitution and The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus, words then coded by my brain as useful information and still stored in my cerebral cortex, under tons of useless junk like the one and only time I viewed The Apprentice because one of the finalists was an alum from the university where I was employed.

I’m fairly certain that the 45th president sees his term as nothing more than an opportunity to personally profit financially. It is his puppeteer Bannon who concerns me. From what I’ve read he is a very intelligent person with a possible white-supremacist slant, who is hell-bent on wreaking enough havoc and destruction upon his own country that it will necessitate figuratively, and possibly literally, rebuilding from scratch.

At some point Bannon had read, studied and then recommended to the transition team the reading of Halberstam’s “The Best and the Brightest,” a book that uses the title ironically, to show that surrounding yourself with the most brilliant of experts will not always yield the best results when it comes to solving the world's problems.

So as I view the 45th president and his puppeteer’s antics and their little missteps I wonder to myself: Bannon, is it possible you could have so mistakenly misinterpreted the American people? Did the feedback from your fervently-hateful Breitbart followers give you the completely wrong impression of the majority of your fellow Americans? Did you think that an elder white woman who is fortunate enough to find herself comfortably ensconced in retirement in the rural Midwest, where the livestock outnumber the humans, did you think she would not give a darn about those less fortunate than herself? That she would not open her checkbook to support the ACLU, Planned Parenthood and such organizations? That she would forget the words she once memorized as a child? That after the shock had settled she would not again find her voice and add it collectively to other voices? Did you underestimate our judicial system and people like Maura Healey? And don't even tell me that you were counting on any action or reaction from your arsenal-totin' Breitbart followers? Is there not now, visible to you, the chaotic infighting you'd hoped for, as we, the majority, set aside our differences to stand up for our democracy? Could it be possible that you think that "the majority" will tire of standing up and fighting for our rights and the rights of others? Because I’m certain that will not happen, not for me, not for others. No, puppeteer, you have woken the slumbering, fire-breathing dragon…

***

Just last spring, just before the election candidates had been decided, I sat with my 2 1/2 year old grandson and told him about the Statue of Liberty, how she'd stood proudly in the harbor and welcomed newcomers to the United States, we looked at photographs of her on my IPhone and I recited, in a theatrical voice, the part of The New Colossus that I could still remember from 3rd grade:

 “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breath free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these the homeless tempest-toss to me

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

He liked hearing my dramatic recitation, but I could tell from his face that he didn't really understand the meaning. "Liberty holds the lamp and says, 'Welcome' ," I said to him, "She is holding the light and saying, 'Welcome! Welcome to the United States.' " A big smile of satisfaction came across his face.

***

Sorry, puppeteer Bannon, you may be well-read and the brightest in the room (for snicks though, take a look at the people in the room with you & then tell me, "How is this working for you?"), however I am of the opinion that  your time as a Navy Engineering Duty Officer (and yeah, I'm duly impressed that you know how to use a sextant), your stint as junior staff at the Pentagon, your investment banker duties (BTW, your comparing the Jesuits with Goldman Sachs is similar in its unfairness to the comparison of the U.S.A. and Russia as far as political assassinations by "45"), and being "executive chairman" at Breitbart do not qualify you to be on the National Security Council anymore than my experience having applied ointment, bandages and kisses to my children's boo-boos years ago now qualify me to suture a wound. I just hope you don’t cause too much destruction before this is all over. 

I love how John W. Tomac’s illustration “Liberty’s Flameout” says it so much better than I can!!!

I pick up my little 5-year memory book and leaf through January, 2017 looking for a line and find this.

Ye gods, it doth amaze me

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world

And bear the palm alone

William Shakespeare

Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2

A Reluctant Farewell

A former Catholic, I no longer follow any particular religion, thus I do not necessarily believe in “afterlife.” However, there is nothing I’d like better then, when my life is over, to be greeted at the heavenly gates by key-keeper, St. Peter. And standing there I’d love to have him pat me on my shoulder and say, “Hey Ranell, welcome. Well done!"

***

I will miss the tactful, mature and compassionate husband and wife who have occupied the White House the past eight years. They are the epitome of class, refinement and dignity, all the while being sage, humorous, down-to-earth and if I’m to be fully honest, kinda cool (as in hip or modern.)

As a grandmother, I love that the Obamas brought Grandmother Marian Robinson to the White House to help stabilize the upbringing of Malia and Sasha, who were only 10 and 7, respectively, when they entered their new home. I can still recall, around that time, viewing a photo of Sasha grinning and you could see that her secondary central incisors had only recently replaced her primary teeth, just a little girl. The girls basically grew up in the White House. They leave now, eight years later, as intelligent, graceful, young women who were constant and exemplary models of decorum.

In a country that is smarting from the constant pull and tug of bifurcation the Obama family has remained steadfast. The First Couple are completely unaccepting of the vilifying hatred that is cast at them; heads held high, enabling their eyes to effortlessly see above and past the haters. They looked beyond, always with ease and self-assurance, a lesson in civility for all. I think I read this quote either in The New York Times or The New Yorker, "America may well be broken. The Obamas are not.”

Having moved from a diverse urban area to a mostly-caucasian rural area, I was naively unaware of the amount of racist hatred that remained in my country, the eyes of haters fixed on the pigmentation of President Obama’s skin thus rendering them unable to see practically anything else.

So, I say to our outgoing president: Mr. President Barack Obama, thank you for your shining example of courage, service and care. Your representation has made me a better human, as from you I learned lessons about the importance of prudent and continued communication even in the face of dogged obstruction and hostility. It’s been a privilege to be a citizen during your term, Mr. President.

My Dutiful Husband says, “Don’t worry, history will be kind to him.”

(And to sneak in a quote from a friend, the incoming President-Elect “is not fit to shine your shoes.” But I'm certain you'd caution me to move beyond such negative thoughts.)

***

"Well done Mr. President, First Lady, Malia and Sasha! Well done.”

Here's to long awaited victories!

Kind Readers: Do not expect a post from me for the next couple of weeks. I will be in a state of some kind of, uh, um,… for lack of a better word, mourning. 

I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven. -Matthew 16 

Lord, who may dwell on Your holy mountain? He who walks with integrity, doing what is righteous, speaking truth from the heart; Who does not slander with his tongue, does no harm to a friend, never defames a neighbor… -Psalm 15

My Ticker

When I was in 2nd grade at St. Ita’s school, I had a lay instructor. Among her many teaching tasks was imparting the doctrine of Roman Catholicism to 30-plus seven-year-olds. From her instruction I’m certain I learned many good tidbits that helped to properly mold and permanently shape my character, although I do not recall them at the given moment. The one and only thing that remains in my memory is the day she explained to us the concept of the word “eternity.” I can picture myself sitting at my desk somewhere in the middle row, about half way back, as she explained eternity this way:

“...imagine a huge sphere of granite, which by the way is considered to be one of the hardest stones in the world, and imagine that sphere of granite to be much, much larger than our planet earth,”

“Okay, got it" I thought as I sat with that image.

“…now imagine a dove, just a regular-sized dove, (I think at this point she pointed to a picture of a dove that was posted above the blackboard and which represented the Holy Spirit to us, young budding Catholics) and now imagine if that dove flew by just once every one thousand years and gently brushed the huge granite sphere with its wing...”

“Yeah, Teach, got that image, too,” I thought smugly.

“now, think about how long it would take that dove to completely erode or wear away that granite with only one gentle brush of a wing every 1,000 years, and you have just the teensiest, itsy-bitsiest fraction of an idea of what eternity means.”

I slumped down into my seat. I felt minuscule. I wanted to crawl inside my desk cavity. I felt tired, just completely exhausted. I rested my head on my desktop and closed my eyes. I saw myself as a tiny speck of dust floating somewhere in the middle of an expansive universe that surrounded the colossal granite sphere my teacher had just described. I recognized not only my insignificance, but the insignificance of any human being in the grand scheme of a universe that had absolutely no end. I knew then that I had no wish to exist forever.

I felt the teacher gently touch my shoulder. She asked if I was okay. I lifted my head, looked up at her and smiled, “Yes, yes I’m fine.” “Well, it’s time for recess, Ranell, so go outside and join your classmates.”

***

After Cherished Husband and I celebrated Christmas with family on the east coast, we made a trip to visit Virginia’s historic Jamestown. Jamestown was the first permanent English settlement in North America. When the first colonists arrived, the local native people (the Paspahegh tribe of the Powhatan Confederacy) welcomed the new visitors with open arms, furnishing the colonists with much needed provisions and support. However anything resembling the bond of friendship dissipated as quickly as the morning dew in Death Valley. The tribal natives were quickly annihilated and the colonists were left sick and starving. No one kept records on the natives, but the mortality rate for colonists in Jamestown between 1609 and 1610 was 80 percent. They called it the “starving time” and some colonists found it necessary to resort to cannibalism to survive.

The employee who greeted us at the archeology museum in Historic Jamestowne said we could photograph anything in the exhibits except the human skeletons, so I snapped a photo of a display that contained a gold signet ring. The ring bore the latin inscription “ Memento Mori” (Remember Thy Death.) The ring also had the initials C.L., and it was surmised to belong to Christopher Lawne, a English Puritan. He wore it to remind himself of the shortness of life. C.L. transported 15 people to “the new land" in April of 1619. He was deceased by November of that same year.

The ring reminds me of a wristwatch I saw recently. The watch is called the Tikker Watch. The Tikker System will, upon your inputting the correct information, give you an estimate as to your remaining life expectancy and then count down every second until you die. Are you with me on this?: the watch will keep time in reverse of one's expected life. So, let’s say I'm a healthy newborn baby -my life expectancy might be (depending on where I am born) about 99 years, and my watch would read something like: 98 years, 9 months, 22 days, 11 hours, 52 minutes and 44 seconds, then one second later it would read: 98 years, 9 months, 22 days, 11 hours, 52 minutes and 43 seconds, and then: 98 years, 9 months, 22 days, 11 hours, 52 minutes and 42 seconds...

Some people call it the “death watch” -kind of morbid. But the Tikker folks say its product serves as a reminder of the precious pricelessness of time itself and, that only by being constantly aware of the ephemeral fleetingness of life can we make informed decisions on how to make the most of our time.

I found this on their site:

The Tikker Watch was designed to provide you with a constant reminder that life is truly short and we should take advantage of the time we have on this planet… Buy one now and you will see how it immediately and positively affects you and those around you. Start a new way of looking at life today! 

I don’t need the Tikker Watch, nor a gold signet ring with a latin inscription, because I had a teacher who, when I was 7 years old, taught me about “eternity.”

***

For auld lang syne, my jo,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne,

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp!

And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne,

We two have run about the braes

And pu'd the gowns fine;

But we've wander'd many a weary foot

Sin auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie's a hand o' thine
And we'll tak a right guid willy naught,
For auld lang syne

Should old acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot
And long, long ago

Saw this in Jamestown, Virginia

Tikker Watch

I sincerely wish each and every reader of my blog (yes, all five or six of you!) the most well-contented 2017 you can muster. 

***

When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive - to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love. 

-Marcus Aurelius

“How can the past and future be, when the past no longer is, and the future is not yet? As for the present, if it were always present and never moved on to become the past, it would not be time, but eternity.”

         -St. Augustine of Hippo

Dear Santa,

This year finds me, as I assume you already know, still residing in Privatopia. And unlike last year, I won’t claim to speak for everyone here, but as you pass over northwestern Illinois, you have my permission to skip my home. I want for nothing. 

And I don’t mean to be disrespectful or anything, but I can’t help but wonder if your good intentions may or may not be misinterpreted by some.  Sure all those toys, games, books and gadgets are fun, and I mean it sincerely when I say “children need toys,” as play is an important part of a child’s development. Heck, even I revel in the distraction of an occasional puzzle or game, what with the U.S. election results and the president-elect’s post-election cabinet picks. But have you looked at those children in..., oh I don’t know, let me close my eyes and put my finger on a world map…,  Aleppo? Have you seen the look in the eyes of those kids? Surely no one with a beating heart…

Wait, wait, let me try that again, but this time just in the U.S. …, hmmm, my finger takes me to North Dakota and a young native American child holding a sign, “I can live without oil. I cannot live without water.”
Again…, this time it stops in Flint, Michigan.

Hold on, Santa, I’m just going to keep it local, right here in Privatopia. Shouldn’t be any problems with children here, right?

But, Santa, did you know that, according to Psychology Today, children raised in more "affluent households show a significant increase in health issues, like depression, anxiety and substance abuse,” like almost 2-to-1? It turns out that some children of privilege are afflicted with an illness, called “affluenza,” which retards their psychological, emotional and social development. Now I don’t know if it’s true, but a common story making the gossip circuit in Privatopia is that there is a father here who hands a blank check to our Privatopia association at the beginning of each year with the statement: “This is for any fines my children incur. Just fill in the amount at the end of the year and let me know the total.”

Santa, can you see where I’m going with this? It can’t just be about money and possessions. There are more important things in life. Right? 

Aw, I’m sorry, Santa. I don’t mean to rag on you. You’re probably just like me, hoping to do things that make the world a better place for all. Hey, keep up the good work!

And by the way, you know that tip you sent me this past summer about keeping my locks as “glistening white” as yours with the use of Ajax? Well, that may have worked for you, pal, but I’m telling you it took a solid week of coconut oil conditioning to get anything that remotely resembled softness back to my hair. But, like I said, “keep up the good work.” I appreciate your effort.

your pal,


Rae

courtesy of the New York Times

courtesy of me (notice part of my blue & white "Privatopia" sticker in the lower right corner)

If you want to see last year's Santa letter:

http://topeacenquiet.blogspot.com/2015/12/christmas-in-privatopia.html

“To perceive the world differently, we must be willing to change our belief system, let the past slip away, expand our sense of now, and dissolve the fear in our minds” ― William James

From an Ailing Alien

It’s been just over a week since I awoke in a parallel universe. Apparently at some point, while I was sleeping, I dematerialized and then rematerialized on a new planet. The physical makeup of my alien world seems almost identical to my home planet, almost…

So how did I detect, discern, or perceive this change?

Well, first of all this planet is warmer. Here it is mid-November and it’s 71 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s been about that warm all month. It wouldn’t be that way back home. No, it would be much, much cooler.

Then there is that foul odor when I step outside. At first I thought it was the hog farm, which like the one on my home planet, is about 3-4 miles due east. But then, I smelled that same manure-like odor when I was in the large metropolitan area 120 miles away, and then again, on another day when I drove west and out-of-state - no hog farms in those two places.

And there is the problem with gravity. Although I am the same height and weight, I feel heavier, you know weighted down, as if the gravitational force is greater on this planet, and it seems to render me physically weaker. In fact just yesterday, as I was giving a thorough cleaning to the bedroom, I lifted the king-size mattress in order to prop it against a wall, so that I could then remove and launder the bed skirt, lift out the box springs and vacuum under the large bed area. This is something I could easily manage in the former world, but here on Planet Two, as I’ve come to call this place, I found  myself struggling and battling to lift the mattress, until at some point I lost control and became wedged between the mattress and box springs, unable to extract myself. I called out to my Planet Two-assigned husband, who by the way seems identical in every way to Beloved Husband from my previous world.

Assigned Husband was in the attached garage, attempting to strip rusted bolts from an aging snowblower. Being just barely within my voice range, he eventually heard my pleas for assistance, opened the door and called out, “Are you talking to me? I’ll be done out here in a minute or two” and promptly closed the door between us.

And it seems as if my sense of humor seems to have abated. I laughed about the situation, but it was a hollow sound. I tell you it scares me.

Finally, it was the palpable, physical illness that began upon wakening last Wednesday morning. It must be some sort of indigestion, I thought as the first wave of nausea hit. I reassured myself, this will pass, but it continued, in frequent enough waves to disrupt my appetite, thus further weakening me. It’s sort of reminds me of the Kryptonite that challenged Superman. Perhaps it’s related to that foul odor in the atmosphere. Or perhaps it’s radioactivity from computer and cell phone contact, or maybe it’s a toxin related to wireless internet and television exposure. I turn all off, but the waves of discomfort continue.

I make a quick trip to the city to check on my closest relatives, my Planet Two-assigned immediate family. They, too are feeling very queasy, but they are concerned about me, and thus try to reassure me that perhaps it’s just a common “bug” we all share and "we should give it time before we really react," you know, like call the physician.

I run into an acquaintance, or someone who looks exactly like someone I knew on my home planet. He asks, “So, what do you think about the election?” But, I’m wary of the beings on this new planet and choose to make only a general comment, “It'll surely be interesting.” I’m not ready to reveal to Planet Two beings that, alas, I am an alien.

The very next evening I talk, at length with someone claiming to be my long-time trusted friend, and finally I confess my situation with her. “Oh my gosh!” she says, “I thought I was the only one.” She also has been transported to Planet Two. And by now, I’ve confirmed that Planet Two-Assigned Husband and Beloved Husband are indeed one in the same. He’s made the transport with me. Well, at least I’m not alone. I make a note to check with my Planet Two family. I'll just bet they, too, have made the trip.

I toil diligently in the garden the following day, as it is one of the few places that makes any sense to me, where somehow the atmosphere is not as toxic.

Beloved Husband encourages me to take a long drive with him, “It’ll do us good.” We drive to an out-of-state town on a large muddy river. Outside the car, again I smell the foul odor of "crap." But, being in need of supplies to prep for our family’s upcoming Thanksgiving dinner, as we pass a large grocery store I say, “Let’s stop here."

The clerk in the checkout lane we choose has a very pale, light skin tone, as if she’d stood in that very lane, day after day, without any exposure to Planet Two’s sunlight. She is near to my age. Her hair is dyed a fiery ginger-red and it reminds me of the star actress from my home planet’s 1950s sitcom, I Love Lucy. The clerk’s rouge and lipstick are a bit garish for my tastes, however she does possess the prettiest baby-blue eyes I’ve ever seen, on either planet.

A young man is in line ahead of us and has placed two or three items on the counter. I don’t recall exactly, but I know one of them is a package of birthday candles. His complexion is almost the polar opposite of the clerk’s, his skin being very dark - over-exposure to Planet Two’s sunlight, I’m guessing. His hair is jet-black and finely braided into tight rows of plaits that fall just past his collar.

She looks directly at him, smiles and greets him in a bright lilt as she rings up his purchases. In his hand he has a twenty dollar bill, at the ready. She announces that the total is ten dollars and 50 cents. He says quietly, “Uh, wait a sec, I think I have exact change.” “Take all the time you want, Sweetheart,” she replies agreeably as he fishes smaller bills and coins from his pants pocket. They conclude their transaction with her sincere wish for him to have a nice day and him beaming back at her and thanking her for her patience.

She immediately turns to me, looks me in the eye, smiles a genuine, baby-blue eye-crinkling grin, and lilts, “And how are you doing today, Sweetheart?” At the end of our transaction she wishes me well and winks at me. It was that wink, it was then I that I knew…

My illness seems to be abating and I think I’m adjusting to the atmosphere. And I’ve been exercising regularly to regain some of the strength I’ve lost due to the new gravitational surge. Oh, and my sense of humor seems to be improving, but still has a way to go. But most of all I’m getting much better at spotting the other people who, like me and that ginger-redheaded checkout clerk at the muddy river town in the Heartland and the young man buying birthday candles and Beloved Husband and my longtime best friend, who, everyone of us, one day awoke to a near-venomous world they didn’t recognize.

And now I know that we’ll all bide our time, and we’ll support each other and slowly, but surely, we will once again strengthen and grow healthy.

“If you believe that feeling bad or worrying long enough will change a past or future event, then you are residing on another planet with a different reality system.” ― William James

found online - hope artist doesn't mind me borrowing it

superman & lucy