Wants or Needs

    The day before Thanksgiving, I shopped for the final ingredients of what would turn out to be a feast melding Native American fare (game bird, squash), a Pilgrim's pride of rib-sticking carbs, and a touch of Asian flavor - a spicy chutney using cranberries.
    As I entered the store, list in hand, an older man walked towards the door carrying a small but fully-loaded red plastic shopping basket. It was the kind you use when a cart is too big but your arms are too small. I probably wouldn't have noticed him at all but as he headed towards the door, the clear plastic lid of a generous deli tray of chicken tenders popped off and he stooped to retrieve and put it back on.
    Also within the basket, I could see a shrimp cocktail ring and a few cans of things. He should have been heading for the "15-items-or-fewer" line, but he wasn't. He was heading for the door.
    All this happened so quickly, but in that slightly slo-mo fashion, where I knew full well what was going on but my mind almost couldn't fathom that he would do it.
    Though it is possible that he simply "forgot" to pay, like that time my father walked out of a Southern California store following my mom and a cart full of groceries she had just paid for, only to realize that he was holding a bottle of Tums - that he hadn't paid for. (Yes, he went back to the store.)
    I thought about the luxury I have of just popping into a shop, whipping out a plastic card and buying just about anything I want. I thought about all those who came to the store, counting their change to make sure they'd have enough. I thought about the excruciating experience of getting your total and realizing you didn't have that much and had to put something back. Then, there was this guy.
    No one at the store saw him but me. No one at the store knew his own particular situation. We couldn't know whether the impulse (or well-planned maneuver) that resulted in him shoplifting food that day was motivated by greed or by need...
    I walked over to customer service, waited to get the attention of the middle-aged clerk behind the counter, and said "someone just walked out of the store with a basket of food they didn't pay for." The clerk looked at me and smiled then went about her business as if I'd just told her that someone left their shopping cart in the parking lot.
    Maybe this was a common occurrence. Maybe it simply wasn't worth chasing the man down for chicken tenders, shrimp and some cans. Maybe it wasn't my business anyway.
    But that day made me sensitive to the hidden needs (and wants) of others who just can't pull out a card or cash and buy what they need (or want). Now, every time I walk into that store, I will remember that man, and what needs (or wants) drove him to take things that weren't his but that he felt he needed to take.

City Morning, Beautiful Morning

My walk this morning was through a different world than the one to which I'm accustomed. Where I usually stride down village streets that meander around 75-year maples, today I walked along rambunctious city avenues, lined with trees encased like prisoners inside brick squares cemented within sidewalks.

I encountered the usual city smells: the stench of dehydrated urine, probably a stopping point for hordes of canines, the rank odor that is part yesterday's trash mixed with a smear of poo, then that delicious block surrounding the bakery with hot yeast bread and sweet pastries.

The fellow pedestrians walking dogs, the like-minded exercisers, joggers and strollers, children with giant musical instruments strapped to their backs dragging parents buried in smartphones heading to morning music lessons, all working the sidewalks with purpose and intention. I headed towards the boutiques and bodegas in the dodgy end of town and away from towering brownstones near the picturesque park. Knowing that walking in a big circle would allow me the space to stretch my legs but not the worry that would keep me checking my directions, I simply took the time to notice things around me. One young woman wore a face that was taut with either overwork or the search for a morning fix. An older man swayed with last night's liquor still coursing through his veins. Another spoke to me in Spanish but I didn't know whether it was proposition or insult or comments about the marvelous weather.

One of the most wonderful things I encounter on walks through busy cities, is the appearance of street art on odd corners and down alleyways. Not wonderful because you wouldn't expect to find beauty in a city - because there is already so much beauty, even within the dappled leaves of certain trees, intricate wrought iron bannisters, and turn-of-the-century architecture with its statuesque curves and aristocratic lines.

But street art is wonderful because it requires such intention and making so much with very little. These artists' canvas is the sandpaper of a flaking, crumbling wall; their paints come in a rattle can, their inspiration is the tagging of gangbangers and colored by social justice themes.

When one is in Rome, there is nothing to do but do as those Romans do. When in the city, what else is there to do but to revel in all that makes a city what it is? To smell the smells, even the really disgusting ones; to cross paths with random humans of varying trajectories; to find beauty and inspiration down dank alleys; to appreciate the unique in every place. What a wonderful world.

... And Then Leonard Cohen

For many of my friends and loved ones, the passing of musician and sage Leonard Cohen is a hard pill to swallow in light of all that's happened on the political stage this week.

Why do we mourn people we've never met? How dare we grieve because the music has stopped? Why do artists, musicians, and creative subversives affect us so?

Because, I believe, they put into art objects, songs, stories, paintings, poetry and prose the very stuff and emotion of our existence. These are the logos of our lives, the backdrops to our plays, the soundtracks of our personal dance.

If you, for a moment, can doubt that Leonard Cohen's life, or David Bowie's life, or Prince's for that matter, could really mean anything to us personally, just read these words of Leonard Cohen (from long ago):

so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos... So ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in.

-Leonard Cohen

Yes, Leonard, there is a crack in everything. Thank you for reminding us that it is there for the light not for the sadness.

About A Fragile Folded Flag

What started out as a charming little writing exercise that allowed me to flex my literary muscles while exploring a creative art form that I had spent so much time away from is beginning to morph into an outlet for maintaining sanity and measuring my paces.

I have abandoned the "Writing Challenge" for a "Survival Tactic". You are welcome to read or not read, comment or not comment, thumbs up or bite your thumb. It matters not, really. What I feel compelled to write will find its way to the page. And it will help me, in some small way, feel better. Maybe it will help you feel a little better, too. No promises.

What I will try NOT to do is rant politics or give you a psychiatrist's couch earful. What I will try TO do is to find some bit of promise, a ray of hope, perhaps a chink in the concrete from which a tiny dandelion manages to grow. We will need those in the times ahead.

About A Fragile Folded Flag

Today, at work, we replaced a faded US flag with a bright crisp new one. The last time I did this, we simply took down the old one, never allowing it to hit the ground and bundled it up like a baby to be respectfully decommissioned. This time, the local VFW post got involved and came out in their military casuals to do the honors. These two old-timers donned white gloves while another man read what each fold in the tri-corn folded flag meant.

A small crowd watched from the sidelines, shielding our eyes from the sun in what looked a little like a salute. When the reading and folding were done, the former military man walked up to me and (as I was the director, and basically the ipso facto leader of the place) handed me the folded up flag - a relic of a hard-fought country, a republic that had seen glorious triumphs as well as terrible disgraces in its past. Then he saluted.

The gravity of the folded flag, like those handed to grieving widows at military funerals, now lay in my hands. 

This was the flag that I had pledged to in school with a small hand over the heart, felt patriotic for when it appeared in an unexpected place, and sometimes railed against when I felt that our country had not done its best. Still, this fragile piece of fabric, once vibrant and thick felt so fragile and bony in my hands. I wanted to hug it, to hug away all the divisiveness and discord, to throw it over the shoulders of the hungry and cold, to inspire those who revere it to live by the words of our guiding principles of freedom, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for all.

In the end, I gave the small triangular bundle back to the old soldier to decommission it - which I knew meant burning it respectfully.

Just like a mother feels for a child, I may not like what my child is doing at the moment but at no point could I ever stop loving that child. Our stars and stripes, long may she wave!

There's Got To Be A Morning After...

Today's Writing Challenge was supposed to be about a book I love, but I've had the literal joy sucked out of my day.

So I'm writing what I feel right now so that, maybe, just maybe, I can find sleep with only a scant three and a half hours left before I have to get up for work.

I know the sun will rise tomorrow. I know that the 'fight' isn't over. But right now I feel a loss nearly as profound as when I lost my dad three years ago. He would be saddened to see the results of this election. He was an immigrant who worked hard to make life better not only for his family but also for his community. He was a patriotic naturalized citizen who believed that Americans were the world's most compassionate and caring people.

The vitriol, the behavior and baggage, the history and reprehensible cohorts of our president-elect are not that America.

Living in upstate New York, I always said that people here are good. In twelve years, I've not experienced the stench of racism, nor felt the barbs of discrimination, but that I am comfortable and safe no longer matters if any other resident of this great land feels it.

My loved ones, friends and I are among the vast group marginalized by a campaign that resorted to falsehoods and grandstanding, mockery and violence to defend the status quo. How can I be sure the sun will rise as warm and life-giving for us all in the morning?

I waited for sleep to wash over me, tried to think of a cheerful song or anthem, but came up short with nothing but a tear-dotted pillow to account for my efforts.

We will wake tomorrow, go about our business of work, of taking care of our families and being good citizens. But we will have more important work to do then. I am still trying to find something positive here, to find a message, to find a fight song.

For now I can only say, 'America, America, what have you done?'

My Tattoo - WC 11/7

All tattoos have meaning otherwise the bearer would not have taken time, spent money or endured pain to receive it.

My tattoo is significant to me because it is a representation of my family. Four simple lines connected by a baseline that binds us. It is on my wrist so that it can be a constant reminder of the indelible connection I have with three other human beings.

The little children we nurtured grew into adults who became truly good human beings. Then they expanded our circle of four into a corral of six with the inclusion of their life partners.

The lines, which each of us four inscribed onto our arms: as a formula for family solidarity, a symbol of enduring grounding and reaching, as a shield of protection and honor, as a simple but fervent love, have linked us together in this world in a real way.

The pain? Tolerable. The cost? Negligible. The way it will last? Till death on my body but till eternity on my soul.

Vincent Van Gogh Fascinates Me - WC 11/6

There is no historical figure that fascinates me as much as Vincent Van Gogh does.

Though it's believed by some that he was mentally ill, that his behavior was erratic or irrational, and that he committed suicide, there are others who believe he was suffering from depression, that he was tortured by his artistic abilities and that his death was either an accident or the work of another.

What truly transcends the theories about his troubled life are the works he left behind. Though many can easily recognize the stunning colors and the way the paintings appear to move, they are mostly unassuming subjects. Even the still life pictures are ordinary and of objects that are a little bit flawed and imperfect.

Vincent's Irises are amethyst and sway in the wind; his Starry Night sky is ethereal and limitless; his Sunflowers are voluptuous and warm the very air! His portraits are honest and pleasing; his self-portraits are haunting and tender.

Van Gogh himself said, "For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream."

For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of Vincent's paintings makes me dream.

A Place I'd Live But Have Never Visited - WC 11/5

I'm a planner and agonize over details. I prefer a well-crafted itinerary to uncertainty. Why would I ever want to live somewhere I've never vis...

Well, there is one place.

Mars. Yes, the planet.

Oh, can you imagine the penultimate adventure of shooting off to our neighbor planet in a shiny spaceship? The hab would already be set up there, of course: the work of a small army of bots.

Inside the hab is a climate controlled environment, furnished in something that looks like IKEA - the high-end stuff. There's a biodome with plants, a recirculating but spring-inspired creek, scheduled weekly rainfall, food crops and farm animals.

Because it would be a one-way trip, I'd get to take all my family and closest friends with me! Aren't you all excited?!

Like the dude in The Martian, we'd do all kinds of sciency shit and hop into special suits to explore the vast craters and mountains on days off. There would be movies and themed-parties and a bar. Like the one in Star Trek TNG, with special Mars-distilled spirits.

All the latest plays and Broadway musicals would be live streamed (with delay, of course) and a supply ship would bring pallets of books from time to time.

Add a few 3D printers and a medical staff and lots of supplies and it could be the trippiest trip of a lifetime.

For me the idea of space travel is so enticing, I would do it without even seeing one brochure or trip advisor rating.

I'll see you there!

Ten Interesting Facts - WC 11/3

[The word "facts" implies that this is true. And most of it is.]

10. Knows how to drive a stick shift.

9. Has one tattoo, dreams of getting more.

8. Loves vanilla ice cream best.

7. Can consume vast amounts of buttered popcorn.

6. Owns 14 pairs of black shoes.

5. Was a teenaged punk rocker.

4. Loves "The Sound of Music" and "My Fair Lady"

3. Allergic to oysters; loves pearls.

2. Once picked up a very large snapping turtle to 'rescue' it.

1. Loves post-apocalyptic anything.

My Earliest Memory - WC 11/2

There are red-tinted concrete floors, a stylish black low settee and the cool stone of shaded verandahs while all is humid and languorous outside. My father loved music, had played various instruments when he was a kid - probably with varying levels of ability, but in his family it really didn't matter whether you played well. It was more important that you played at all.

The whole family had grown up making music, singing together, dancing whenever possible.

My father put a record on the turntable and a song came up that was one of his favorites because he started to sing the chorus that he knew well. The rest he hummed and la-la'd. Soon, I was dancing with him, my small feet planted on top of his shoes and our hands linked and arms swaying.

"Take my hand
I'm a stranger in Paradise
All lost in a wonderland
A stranger in Paradise"

Somewhere in space, that memory, like the cobwebbed recollections that remain in us all, still hangs suspended long after he's gone, and I'm growing into an old woman.

Five Advantages of Social Media - Writing Challenge 11/1

Five Problems with Social Media
No, no, no. I'm writing about...

Five Advantages of Social Media!

Many in our age-bracket say things like, "what did we ever do before ____ ?" when we consider how our lives have changed between childhood and adulthood. Even for those who remember those days, it is hard to imagine life without cell phones and unlimited access to information. Saturday morning cartoons constituted the extent of our "screen time."

In less than the span of a generation, we have moved from minimal dependence on electronic culture to complete immersion. No wonder that Baby Boomer and GenXers have taken to social media as we have!

I believe the five advantages of social media can be correlated to the five senses. Through social media, we see the world near and far. Our friends post brilliant sunsets and artfully-displayed dinner plates, photos of grandkids and videos of pet tricks.

We share nostalgic tunes from days gone by or the latest by the popular artists of the day. Social media allows us to reminisce about the soundtracks of our lives and reminds us that the auditory art form continues to evolve.

Though Smell-O-Vision has not arrived at our social media doorstep, certain things evoke the memories that only a sense of smell can trigger. The scent of rain on hot pavement, the tang of BBQ sauce on ribs, the odor of wet dog. See, you knew exactly what I was trying to conjure just by reading the words!

The sense of taste is probably right behind smell when it comes to future technologies. But who hasn't watched those cooking videos with the sound off, reading the ingredients and imagining the feel of the spoon and the viscosity and texture. I know I've had my mouth water from time to time just watching the dishes unfurl.

When it comes to the sense of touch, social media cannot replicate that tangible aspect, but it can evoke pangs of remorse, twinges of compassion or revulsion at another human's heartache or the sheer joy of witnessing another's happiness.

While social media can never take the place of face-to-face contact, it has given us the ability to reach across miles, or draw close those who are near us. We can share as we never have before, allowing space and time to grieve together. We can send virtual hugs (which really do feel almost as good!), bolster each other with encouragement, and yes - even allow the ability to insult and admonish.

If all of that is wrong, then I don't wanna be right!

Confession: I Love Everything About Travel

    Some of you will cringe and others will doubt my sanity, but just a few of the salty souls who understand will smile and nod.
    I love everything about travel. I adore the (obvious) flirt with adventure and discovery; I appreciate the way every day brings a new perspective from a different angle or location.
    The idea of arranging all of my belongings into compartments and packages and making them work is delicious and the kind of challenge that excites.
    Even the delays and mix-ups and wrong turns have an acquired cache, like the smell of your own baby's sweat.
    I love airplane food (gasp!). Not the plastic wrapped pretzels, but the bento-boxes of international flights and the tiny flatware with which you dive, elbows tucked, into lamb biryani or mini English roast dinner or a one dish breakfast casserole. I can justify that mid-day cocktail because it is truly 5:30 somewhere.
    Airports, train stations, subways are a microcosm of humanity complete with the good, bad and ugly. Arriving in a new place makes the entire world fresh and discoverable, makes even the next corner as unknown as the planet Mars.
    The destination matters less than the attitude by which you approach it, for me. Some of the best adventures have been rather close to home, and I've found many similarities to my own life hundreds of miles away.
    Sure, I love our cozy little house and the wilds of our back garden, but I'll never tire of the rush of airports and the languor of terminals, the unexpected sights and sounds and the pull of inertia.
    Annnddd... away we go!