There's Fungus Among Us (and I'm Lichen It)

Photo: a vibrant yellow brain fungus is perched atop a twig of black walnut that is also home to a furry green moss. Backlit by morning sunlight, the fungus is luminous and vivid. In the background, picturesque village homes are sliced between by rays that warm the green grass that grows along the road.

    In life, the smallest things matter the most.  The scant 30 minutes that I can eke out of my busy work life is the perfect way to start the day. This daily ritual had sloughed to the side during a tumultuous and uncertain year, and the frigid winter that brought us to this one. My early morning walks mean the world to me. It allows me uninterrupted time that can never be filled with a sneak of work. It enables me to get my proverbial ducks in a row, if only in my own head.

    My walks also bring me right into the path of nature. That particular morning, a hard rain the night before had left the world cleansed and misty. Up on Lebanon Hill, the fog lingered and tall trees were cloaked in grey. I often notice small natural things on my walks, but this morning, nature was vivid and clamoring to be seen. 

    If I had not noticed it, I might have stepped right over the yellow brain fungus that clung to that twig. In further affront, I might have stepped ON it. The fungus would not have cared, because it had it's job to do and the smashing foot of a human would not have altered its life cycle that much. If truth be told, yellow brain is a parasitic jelly fungus and feeds on the fungus that lives on dead wood. It would simply have continued to exist, or not exist, depending on the extent of the smashing.

    But, instead of me smashing it - it utterly smashed me. I was agape at the color, the translucency and the beautiful softness of it. That I was able to capture the luminosity and fragility in a photograph means that the photograph is proof, but also that it was so much more captivating in real life. 

    The rest of my walk was made brighter and more promising as a result of this encounter. When I got home, I stopped to pick up some twigs brought down by the night's weather. Again, nature astounded and enthralled me - this time in the form of a birch branch covered in lichen. Did you know there are more than 20,000 species of lichen? Lichen is not a moss, neither is it an algae or fungus - because it is both an algae and a fungus, living in symbiosis. Lichens can live anywhere from sea level to alpine forests. They appear in colors of red, yellow, orange and brown, bright green to black and gray. Freshened by the rain, the ones I saw that morning appeared olive, sea foam and indigo. 

    Again, I was gobsmacked by nature. Later that day, I read an article musing that the universe could quite possibly be a fractal - the kind of natural structure of snowflakes and crystals and Romanesco broccoli. This meant that the universe had a perfectly random order to it. It also meant that our part in it was just as significant (or insignificant) as that jelly fungus or the lichen. 

    I had set out to stretch limbs and breathe oxygen that morning, but my walk brought me inward and outward, knowing that whatever forces made fungus and algae and galaxies and stars could also make wonder and beauty. All of a sudden, the inconsequential became grand and full of purpose. And stopping to notice was like opening a door wide to the unknown but discoverable. All that in a morning's walk. I can't wait for tomorrow.

Photo: a stout section of birch branch is luxuriously covered with so much lichen that the bark surface is no longer evident. The lichen grows leafy and crusty and in many variations of blue, green, gray and brown.  In the background, the mother tree is formed like a "V" and the grass is luminescent green and the sky beyond the trees is bright blue.

Scent-sational Lavender

Photo: freshly harvested stalks of too-far-along lavender blooms lays in a thick bunch on grey-blue Vermont slate. The purple of the symmetrical flowers contrasts happily against the lime-rind green of the slender stems below them.

    Some believe that the sense of smell is our most enduring and reliable sense. With it, we can be transported across space and time. Memories will rush from a whiff of something good or bad, and some scents are so universal that it doesn't take much for a mere mention by others to conjure our own memories: the smell that precedes rain, wet dog, cinnamon and sugar baking.

    One of my earliest olfactory memories, aside from the scent of mothballs, aging textiles, and the faint rosewater of my grandmother's armoire, is the smell of lavender. 

    Though I was born in London, England during a sweet-pea spring, I did not identify with the country (or even know much about it) growing up. I lived my first half-decade in Sri Lanka, and then came to the US at kindergarten. My first trip back to London was in 1973 when I was nine years old. 

    Throughout our long overnight flight from Los Angeles, I had already been luxuriating in the rarified atmosphere of the British Caledonian Airlines jet - probably a DC-10. I was mesmerized by the trim and tailored navy uniforms of the stewardesses (they would not be referred to as flight attendants for some time to come) and relished the dainty-portioned meals that were delivered in interlocking plates. I felt like I was at a doll's tea party because I had never known anything to be so small and yet so complete. There was a pat of tiny foil-wrapped butter to accompany a soft egg-glazed roll, a wrapped wedge of sharp Cheddar cheese, an entrée with vegetables and a small salad. My brother and I drank ginger ale and saved the square of delicately frosted chocolate cake for last.

    When we arrived at Heathrow Airport the following afternoon, my family and I gathered our things to disembark. In those days, not every airplane knew the ease of sidling into a jetway that was directly connected to the terminal. Some passengers disembarked on the tarmac, descending a sturdy moveable stairway and walking a short distance to the gate. We did not lug luggage, because we stowed our bags so that someone else had to worry about them. I had a small white wicker purse with a leather handle that probably contained a handkerchief provided by my mother and little else. There was a promise from my father that when we arrived, we'd be granted a small allowance in British currency for souvenirs.

    By the time I reached the bottom of the rolling stairway, I sensed something different about the air. There was a cool and misty humidity to it that I had missed my entire childhood in arid California. My fine and straight hair immediately began to curl into waves.

    When we got to my aunt's house, where we would be staying, I wandered into her small cottage garden and marveled at the flowers. I would not know the names of them until I became an adult and cared about perennial gardening - hollyhock, foxglove, lily-of-the-valley, primrose, and lavender... oh, the lavender! Immediately, I knew that this scent would figure large in my life - it had to! The smell was bright and peppery but powdery sweet. I touched a frond and found that the aroma lingered on my hands.

    It seemed that everywhere we went in London, I spied some lavender - spilling out of cottage gardens in the suburbs where my family lived, filling proper window boxes along brick and sandstone rowhouses, and lining the walkways of the parks and gardens we visited. Lavender was ubiquitous and unique. 

    In the years to follow, that lavender scent would be replicated in the Yardley's English Lavender soap that was the only thing my aunt used and which became my personal favorite. Lavender became a favored plant when I set up my garden in Central New York, which in my mind has a similar atmosphere allowing for some of the same flowers that grace an English garden. Now, my favorite flower thrives in two places and I wait patiently for the blue-green stalks to burst with buds for harvesting. This year, I arrived home from a trip too late to catch them in their preblossom state - the best for drying and storing, but the grand aroma of a simple but elegant flower reminds me of my dear late aunt, and my first trip back to England. It reminds me of cool air and misting rains, travels and returning home, of luxury and simplicity.

    When I smell lavender, decades and decades after my first encounter, I am as enthralled today as I was then. If that isn't a powerful sense, I am not sure what is.

    

The Concept of Cozy

 

Photo: the blurred and lacy pink and green leaves of the Japanese maple hover above a forest floor rich in vegetation. 

    In America, our cozy has a 'z' but in England it's an 's'. Either way, the feeling is mutual: during difficult times, or winter, or spring days that feel wintery, one can cuddle up with a warm blanket, make a soothing cup of tea, or a pot of simmering soup and kick back with a movie, or a classic album and chill.

    Scandinavian 'hygge' is cozy's sophisticated cousin - embracing the simple way that a wood fire, comfy clothing and something warm and mulled to drink can transform a moment from dreary to dreamy. Cozy is more of a mindset than a well-designed lifestyle.

    It is strange to think of cozy at the beginning of summer, but the warm season also has it's cozy counterpart. For us, it is simple meals inspired by what's growing in the garden - sliced new radish on homemade bread with a perky curry mayo, or a salad with fresh greens, steamed baby beans tossed with a vinaigrette seasoned with snipped chives and dill.

    We trade our living room fireplace for a roaring campfire, built not for warmth but for ambiance and perhaps a batch of s'mores. I want to spend every waking moment of my weekend outdoors, playing in the gardens, dining on the patio, and pondering the wine-stained sunset from the fireside.

    Regardless of the weather, cozy is finding the pure and idyllic things that bring you comfort and sinking in. Ahhh... Perfectly simple.

Let's Get Rail: Logistics

Photo: Amtrak's engines are capable of speeds up to 125 MPH and have 4,400 horsepower. We stand to the right of the first of two engines, painted in the rail company's typical steel grey and cobalt blue. From the front, this juggernaut looks powerful and formidable. Yellow lines indicate where it is safe to stand when the train is in motion. We have clearly crossed that line because the beast is at rest.

Photo: a man peers out of the reflected window of our sleeper "roomette" while a railroad worker in a neon orange jacket strides along the tracks. In the reflection: tall trees, cloudy sky flecked with blue. Across the tracks behind me, the Daily Buzz coffee trailer serves caffeine-craving (and company-starved) riders in a long snake-tail line.

     One of the most intriguing aspects of our trip, pre-travel, were the space constraints. Just how big is the Amtrak roomette? How will we sleep in tight quarters? What size is the shower?

    The answers are: smaller than you expect; you will get accustomed; and, a little bigger than you imagine.

    But size is not the main consideration, once you're on board. The logistics will be the most important aspect.

    HOW will you move around your roomette? HOW will you train yourself to sleep in tight quarters? HOW will you orchestrate your shower for maximum utility and comfort?

    Let's begin with your private 'nest' for the journey. We Americans are completely spoiled by space. We live in vast houses, with cavernous bedrooms and sprawling kitchens and multiple living areas. Even our bathrooms are the size of actual rooms. So, when you step into the space occupied by two LazyBoy recliners facing each other, with a shoebox in between for a table, and you build three hard walls around that space, leaving room for a sliding door through which you can step out momentarily if both travelers need to move at once. 

    This is when carefully planned movements, plenty of forethought, and the agility of a mountain goat will serve you well. Any sharp movements, should you get smart about doing something without thinking it through will result in bashing your head, elbow, or big toe into something that is less than forgiving. So you think deliberately: I am going to stand up, fetch my backpack, and extract a granola bar. Then, you place your footing with the precision of a moon landing, stretch your left arm in the direction of the backpack, use your right leg to pivot back into your seat, and place the pack decisively in your lap. Success! You will feel a flush of accomplishment and pat the mist of perspiration from your forehead. 

    For our rail adventure, I volunteered for the top bunk, partly because it reminded me of sleeping in the top compartment of mid-century truck-top campers, and partly because I thought it prudent to spare my claustrophobic hubby the thought of a train mutiny. It really wasn't too bad - again, owing to logistics. You must plan everything. Or at least think things through. Arranging everything you'll need for the semi-monumental task of slumber will mean staging where your phone, glasses, water bottle and blanket/pillow will be, because once you ascend the Kilimanjaro of somnolence, you'll not want to make a return journey soon without a Sherpa. Once ensconced in your bivouac of dreams, you'll hook up the obligatory webbing that is designed to catch you around the middle should you lurch off the bunk in your sleep. Because you will be moving all the time!

   By the second night, I had the best sleep of my life. I felt gently rocked in all four directions, and the humming of the rails, the repetitive jig-jag will remind you of your mother, if, in fact, she were two massive diesel engines with locomotive breath.

    Bathing on a train is also an art. If you have ever imagined brushing your teeth or shampooing your hair on a New York City subway, you'll be well prepared for a shower on the train. First, I laid out all the accoutrements, assembling soap, hair products and towels (which are provided in abundance by train staff). Just like on the subway, you'll take a stance that will allow some hands-free steadying. You'll dab a bit of shampoo on your palm, and you'll raise (sway) both hands (lurch) to your head (massive lurch) all while ninja-ready to clutch the grab bar should a seismic movement occur while you're scrubbing bubbles. On the subway, you risk hurtling into a sweaty fellow passenger; in a train shower, you risk face-planting into the very grab bar that's meant to protect you.

   And somehow I survived. Not only survived, but enjoyed a nice hot shower with great water pressure! The vestibule in the shower room has a seat for placing your clothes on or for sitting to dress. All surfaces could easily be sanitized with a disinfecting cloth but the stall was clean and regularly maintained by train staff.

    By the time we disembarked our train, we'd had a truly unique and pleasant adventure. The coziness of our tiny cabin was both private and comforting. If you've ever taken a long-haul flight in coach, you'll remember that moment when you'd be willing to hock your wedding ring to get a seat where you can just lay horizontally for a few hours. On a train, that's the whole point. 

    Though our research gave us some clues, there was nothing like the first-hand discovery of the ways and means of traveling by rail. Learning along the way not only gave us something to do, but also allowed us to settle in in the slow and meandering pace that locomotion encourages. Would we do it again? Absolutely!

    Our return journey is in five days.

Current Location: Skykomish of the Cascades

Photo: The ebony peaks of the Cascade Mountains in the distance are crested with snow under an ashen sky. Nearer are conifers in a variety of shapes and shades, adding gentle shades of green.

    Skykomish, WA is at 47.710048 -121.355695. It is a town of fewer than 200 people, down from "several thousand" in the 1920s. Just 50 miles east of Everett, Washington, it appears Alp-ish, with distant black mountains frosted in white. At ground level, the modest village is mainly a railroad stopping point and a recreational access point to the surrounding mountains. 

    Our tracks followed the meandering Skykomish River, and later the Wallace River. Surounding us, the North Cascades towered far above the rustic log cabins, compact A-frames, and Swiss-style chalets. Much of the landscape is national forest. Rivers rush through pine groves, tumbling over massive boulders and tiny river rocks. Trees of all types loom over mossy banks and clutches of wild flowers in yellow and orange. If we were outside, we would likely hear the bubble and rush of flowing water and smell the soft earthiness. The soil here is a pale pink in places and black in others.

    The town of Skykomish, at one point in the 1980s, became barely habitable because the soil and ground water became so contaminated by oil and heavy metals. Finally, in 2006, the railroad company and the Washington State Department of Ecology began remediation, which involved massive excavations to remove contaminated soil and replaced it with clean soil. Three years later, twenty two of Skykomish's homes and business buildings were temporarily moved and replaced in their original locations, atop fresh soil and new foundations. The town's residents and business owners benefitted from the installation of a new waste water treatment system.

    The Native peoples called Skykomish, which means 'inland people', used that area during the hunting and berry-gathering seasons. As the railroads brought Euro-American settlers to the area, smallpox and other fatal diseases were introduced, and by the time the Skykomish were assigned to the Tulalip Reservation in 1855, their numbers had dwindled significantly.

    The rugged beauty of the area is readily evident now, with trees leafed out and flowers about to burst in berries, but in the height of winter, it must feel remote blanketed in so much snow. I can barely imagine how the place would have looked one hundred, two hundred, five hundred years ago, when the world was less connected and distance meant isolation. The area's wolves, black bears, mule deer and elk must have proliferated, fed by fresh water and abundant vegetation.

    Just a few more miles down the tracks, more signs of civilization began to appear, and less wilderness remained. The isolation and remoteness began to look preferable to the proliferation of people-problems. There's nothing like a big dose of nature to recalibrate your internal compass. And to make you realize just how delicate the balance is between humanity and the rest of the natural world.

Current location: Dry Lake, North Dakota

Photo: A field of gold and green stretches to the far horizon, topped by a bright blue sky scattered with clouds. In the middle distance, a river stretches across the frame while a low-lying tree casts a long, dark shadow.

Photo: Stretching to the distant horizon is a mottled field of amber and golden flax, where a thin line of dark green trees occupies the middle of the frame. White, grey and slate clouds are scattered across from left to right and in the foreground, low dry vegetation presents a variety of textures and heights.

    Dry Lake, ND is at 48.195925,-99.043306. It is flat as a French pancake. Great expanses of golden brown fields stretch all the way to the thin line of the horizon, seemingly hundreds of miles away. Occasionally, a Van Gogh scene appears, with a sharp cut of road, a few lollygagging round bales of hay, bordered by dark olive stands of trees, and a golden light under a white-blue sky. 

    It is morning. The sun looks like it's been up for hours, but it is still the time of early fishermen parked along banks of flowing creeks and still-sleepy farm houses.

    I badly want a hot cup of tea, but that would mean putting on a jacket over my night shirt, or summoning O.C., our tireless car attendant who didn't even get dinner until well past our bedtime, and was already up cleaning the bathrooms when I walked down the hall. My stomach growls plaintively for some caffeine, but I am glued to the window, the train's faint whistle punctuating the rolling track sounds.

   A person in constant motion, I am suddenly experiencing stillness.

Peace Train

Photo: Wispy pink clouds chase like cotton candy streaks across a warm and transparent blue sky. Old train cars at rest on a side track form a dark silhouette with glints of silver and pops of light. Tops of trees are in shadow in the background.

     "Know what the most important element is for successful and happy travel?" I asked my fellow traveler, my husband of nearly 39 years. "Attitude," I proclaimed. For attitude is 99 percent of great travel experiences.

    Those who fume at the delays, crab about the meals that aren't exactly like home, or whine about security pat-downs are missing time that they could be chilling out and relaxing, tasting new and interesting flavors or appreciating the safety and security of their travel.

    No one likes these unexpected discomforts, but as they say 'you have to break a few eggs to make an omelette.' Stepping outside our comfort zone to check out fresh scenery, discovering like an old world explorer and taking chances with all our senses has yielded some of the most amazing, rejuvenating, and glorious experiences. 

     While I have control-freak tendencies in my own territory, the minute I step outside, I'm happy to feel all the twists and turns in the road and ride out the small lumps and bumps. That's just part of the adventure, I believe, to capture the memorable bits of life that often float past when you're inundated with the unexpected.

    I once surprised a young man in an airport security uniform. He was caught off guard by my smiling demeanor as I glided through the checkpoint, shoes removed, computer tucked under one arm and passport in my hand. "You look like you're having a good day," he quipped. I told him there was really no other way. Either you can smile about it or frown, but you were going to have to go through it regardless. 

    On this trip, as of Day Two, things are pretty copesetic, no complaints, nothing insurmountable to surmount, except holding on to that joy of discovery, of looking just beyond the bend to see what lies ahead, because around every corner is something. What that is just remains to be seen.

    As we sit in great relative comfort, sipping an adult beverage (the sure sign of a vacay is day-drinking, Duane says), watching all the best of America roll past our window, and listening to Yusuf Islam sing the soothing words of Peace Train, feels very nearly like what heaven, if it really does exist, must feel like. It is 99 percent simply amazing!

Train kept a rollin'

Photo: A glowing golden light rains down from unbelievably tall ceilings on this writer and her lifelong travel buddy. We are masked and vaxxed, and ready to roll!

    Our mode of travel today predates even the last global pandemic. The first trains in the US ran on wooden tracks as early as the 1720s, but iron horses as we know them now took about another hundred years to get going.

    Though I've loved trains for day trips on the east coast, it's been a dream of ours to take a long distance journey by rail. The grand train station at Utica, New York, with it's huge marble columns, Grecian styling and gilded decorations, feels majestic and slightly anachronistic. Train travel itself, can feel like it is out of step with the speeding world today. 

    We're headed West, young man/woman/person! Stay on track for our off-the-rails journey, in a sleeper car that will be our little nest for three whole sleeps. When we emerge from our metal cocoon, we'll be seeing josh and James, who we've missed for the whole pandemic year.

   I hope you'll check in, see where we are (wi-fi permitting), and hear my reflections on an ancient and timeless mode of transport that will be interesting, if nothing else... 

   Aaaaall aboooooard!

Slow: Gardening

 

Photo: A flat rock marbled with purple, blue and grey paint peeks out from under a tuft of blue fescue ornamental grass. The low scene also features twinkling forget-me-nots, stately purple ajuga and succulent sedum. 

    According to that dubious sage, the internet, slow gardening is the latest trend. "Don't mow and blow," they advise. Harried, high-achieving gardeners are warned not to let gardening become stressful. "Slow gardening is a mindset," one article clarifies, "replacing the lawncare chore with the pleasurable work of growing one's own food, starting plants from seed and gardening with local resources."

    My ideal pace of gardening is done on a calendar that spans not four seasons or twelve months, but 24 months or five years! When we bought our first house in Austin, we dared not put in a fruit tree because we didn't think we'd live there long enough to reap the rewards. Ten years later, we could have made peach pie or plum jam! Now that we've been in our Hamilton home for just over 17 years, we still don't have a fruit tree (mainly because local fruit is so plentiful in Central New York) but we've invested in asparagus and planted blackberry and raspberry bushes. Herbs that return year after year are a worthy investment. We will never run out of cilantro because it has self-seeded... everywhere!

    I plant so many perennials knowing that it may be a year - or longer - before I witness a blossom. Yet, there are others that surprise and reward with larger blooms, heartier foliage, and have spread enough that I must divide or be conquered. My most prized specimens are ones that I've received from friends.

    Last weekend, my houseplants made the Great Migration from their winter home in a bright and warm-ish sunroom to their summer digs on the back patio. Dozens and dozens of plants, some tropical (like passion flower, curry leaf, lemongrass, avocado, and fuschia) and others more common (like begonias, hoyas, succulents, and sooo maaany spider plants) were hauled out into the sunshine, repotted and prepared for warm langorous days of gentle rain and nights of warm breezes. Just like the person tending them, my chlorophyll'd friends seemed to stretch in the warm, yellow light and their leaves took on a brighter hue.

    The time I spend in my garden cannot ever be considered anything but play. I arrange and rearrange plants like they are furniture in a dollhouse, I experiment with new ways of propagating, and I try to create "scenes" out of plants and pottery and wood and stone. The exercising of creativity and imagination becomes my fascination as I slowly translate ordinary things into moments of joy or amusement. Beneath plants, you may find a chunk of old glass worn smooth, a painted stone, or a gnarl of wood covered in lichen and moss.

    I love the way the four-year-old wisteria weaves across an arbor made of naturally contoured sticks, and has whipped itself around the wire of the garden fence like embroidery. Velvety moss covers some stones in the garden path while others are flecked with color. 

    Gardening, but slowly, takes inspiration from nature's way of creating living spaces - requiring patience and nurturing, trial and error and trial again. In the end, the result will be to delight, bring peace, and a touch of chaos. Far from stressful, slow gardening for me is therapeutic and calming.

An "A" for Perseverance

Photo: Duane, Josh, and Rachel surround the newly graduated me. We are all dressed up and I am wearing a black robe over my navy-and-white polka dotted dress. There is a black mortarboard graduate's hat on my head with a burnt-orange tassel. The sun was very bright that day.

     Twenty-seven years ago next week, I sat, apart from my family, in an indoor arena that could hold nearly 18,000 people. In Austin, the Frank Erwin Center is called The Drum or The Superdrum. It was built in 1977 of satiny grey concrete, has hosted rock concerts (of which we attended several) and sports games, and sits stern and majestic on the outer fringe of the campus of the University of Texas at Austin. 

    That day, more than a thousand Business School students (I do not know the actual exact number) sat on folding chairs on the floor of the vast arena while their families and friends occupied the stadium stands. That's where my family was. I could not see them and I was pretty sure they could not see me. Some students had painted names and slogans on their mortarboard hats so that they might be picked out from the sea of black hats. I did not do that. I was thirty years old.

    It had been such a harrowing, exhausting, and sometimes exhilarating journey to get to that day. I was not the traditional student. In the stands were my parents (obv, right?) and my brother, but also my husband and our two children - aged 12 and 5 and my in-laws. My college experience was so utterly unlike those of the young 22-year-olds that surrounded me that it seemed preposterous. And it might have been unbelievable that a young woman who only started college when her oldest was two years old had been able to stick with it that long. I knew many older students like me who took the chicken-exit. But I somehow stayed.

    My first college classes were taken at the local Austin Community College, which were actually held at the even-more-local high school in the evenings. I started with one course at a time on Wednesday nights from 6 to 9. We'd park the kids at my parents, where they'd have dinner and play with the grands while we took night classes. The one-at-a-time class progressed to two-at-a-time, for which I was given dispensation from work to attend. I'd change my shoes and drive a few blocks to the downtown campus, trying to blend in with the other students. After a few years of that, while working a pretty sweet full-time job, I decided to cut my work hours by half and transfer to the University. In Austin, it is The University. Not that it is the only one, but the most prestigious, even among the private schools.

    By the time I got to UT proper, I was twenty-eight and had put in eight long years of night classes, lunch-hour classes, commuting, eating lunch in the car at stop lights, juggling motherhood and maternity and math tests and management lectures, counting plus-3-hours, plus-6-hours, until I finally got to 120 hours of coursework that entitled me to apply for graduation. At that time, there were no online classes (there was, still, no online), no special credit acknowledgment of "life experiences", no non-traditional student programs, no allowances for sheer perseverance. I had studied for many exams with a sick kid draped across my lap. I had done homework after the cupcakes for tomorrow's school party were awaiting cooling before icing. My husband could be credited with enabling my accomplishment. He kept working, playing leapfrog with our careers, giving me space for homework, studying, writing papers, heading to libraries for research. Without search-engines and Wikipedia, this meant viewing rolls of microfiche and using the computer lab on campus. To get in to the lab, one had to show one's school ID and bring two 5 1/4-inch floppy disks - one for the operating system and one for your personal data. When I had finally racked up the required coursework, I requested admission to the graduation ceremonies.

    Going to school while working and raising a family was hard. We were working so didn't qualify for any grants, and the idea of loans scared me. So, we scrimped and saved, paid tuition and bought textbooks with our slim household budget. Someone once told me that it didn't hurt kids to have their parents get educated. In our household, I drilled into both kids how putting school before everything else in life was the right way to do it. Both our children went straight to college, and completed their degrees the traditional way.

   That day, as I sat there on a plastic and metal folding chair in a sea of graduates attired in shiny black robes, faces scrubbed of last night's pre-grad beer party, benefitting from Mom and Dad's tuition payments, I felt tears rolling from my eyes. As I sniffled, the sweet-faced young girl to my left heard my sniffles and smiled at me. "Aww, this should be the happiest day of your life!" she reassured me, pulling me in for a one-arm hug. 

    "You have no idea," I told her as the announcer started calling our names.

One Brown Mouse

 

Photo: a miniature fairy house sits near a field of perennial succulents and a small grey heart-shaped stone nestles in a bare patch. Looking like a tall tree, a pale blue grape hyacinth juts above the foliage.

    I have encountered many things on my walk to work through the business end of a small town - friends and frenemies, emergency vehicles and urgent purchases, half-eaten pizzas and half-baked ideas. The other morning, I encountered a small, furry, scurrying brown mouse.

    I first met her at the corner where the grey granite bank building sits. Initially, I thought she was a bit of dried brown leaf that the wind was toying with, but when the path of movement continued along the blank wall of the building, I noticed that she seemed to be seeking some shelter, not knowing if I were friend or foe.  I say 'she', because she seemed diminutive yet determined, but gender did not matter.

    As my feet advanced along the sidewalk, the little mouse stopped to see if I were still in pursuit, and then ran a little further along the space where the wall met the pavement. I could see her seeking out some crack, some crevice that was large enough to disappear into, but when she didn't, she continued on a few feet more. There was not a single indentation large enough for the little body to get safely into, so she went on a bit further. When we'd both gotten to the small, brick-lined alleyway between two buildings, I saw her plainly as she skipped across the way to the opposite wall, on miniscule trotters that were more grey-pink than brown.

    There, the brick was aging and perhaps had some space for ingress, so I stood there, bags in hand, like a lollygagger waiting for the next thing to happen. She continued to run, stepping into one crack and finding it insufficient, seeking another a few feet away, and probably stopping to catch her breath within the tiny heaving chest. I went on, my work was still waiting and there were (figurative) donuts to make. But I thought about that lone mouse for a good part of the morning. Had she been getting breakfast in a nearby dumpster, or nibbling on the ever-present pizza crusts left along the sidewalk? Were the tiny cheeks full of such sustenance to take home to a brood of babies? 

    The chance and random encounter left me feeling light and as if I were in cahoots with nature to witness the early-morning run of one brown mouse.

    At home, this morning, the bird feeder by my kitchen door swung on the squirrel-proof baffle from a hook. Empty. A Dark-eyed Junco alighted there for a half a minute, knowing there was nothing in it, but perhaps hoping that his presence might signal the present situation to whatever life-force that caused the seed to reappear. I sipped my tea and went to get the bird seed bucket.    

    Within seconds, an oversized Bluejay hit the feeder with heavy birdfeet and caused a small spray of nibbles to fall to the ground below where he would likely peck at them in leisure. Immediately after, Mrs Cardinal stepped onto the small perch and bent sideways to snatch some seeds. She ate until she had enough then flew down to a spot where rainwater always collected on a concave bit of garden border. She sipped the cool water and sat there a minute before flying back to the feeder for a little bit more. Mr Cardinal was not far behind, but he did not seem interested in the seed, probably seeking a heavier protein-laden meal.

    Like the rare surprise of a sunshine-yellow dandelion bursting from a crack in the asphalt, finding nature in unexpected places is always a thrill for me. That brown mouse gave me pause to know that tiny creatures inhabit a place we consider the realm of humans: concrete and pavement, stone and brick. 

    Our early spring this year has me yearning for more outdoor time, but the copious tree pollen has aggravated my allergies and the intermittent dusting of snow has killed the joy of weekend forays into my wild garden. But nature is nothing if not patient. Though that mouse seemed to my eyes to be in a hurry, she had the whole rest of her day ahead of her. I wonder what plans she had in waiting, and I wondered whether she would be there the next day at the same time. Now, rather than walk aimlessly, I will look for her in the early mornings, to see if she is scurrying along.

While You Were Gone

 

Photo: a deep indigo sky is framed along the bottom by black silhouetted trees. In the far background is a ribbon of light sky and dark clouds floating by. At the top of the frame is a blurred but brilliant moon. 

    I do not believe in writer's block. Either you write or you don't write. To you, it might have seemed I was on a hiatus. For me, it was more like a low-atus. There was so much to tell but I didn't want to say anything.

    So many things have been rolling around inside my brain. We're living through a worldwide viral pandemic; so many have lost friends, loved ones, family; work is hard, school is hard, not having work is harder, not having school is harder still; there's unease and social unrest. Has anyone emerged unscathed during this trying time?

    Two weeks ago, we marked the one year anniversary of my mother's passing. Our relationship was complicated - there were times when we were close, but the last few years had me acting more like the worried parent and she like the rebellious teen. We had reversed roles. Now that both my parents are gone, there's no one to call to let them know I made it home safe from a trip, no one to give me unsolicited (but probably well-deserved) advice, no one to run a crazy idea or a major purchase by. I didn't feel like an adult as much as I felt like a child trying to act grown. 

    One week ago, the world waited with bated breath for the jury's verdict in the trial of the murderer of George Floyd. While the outcome was a relief and a vindication, there was no joy in the justice. Mr. Floyd became a present-day symbol of oppression that started with the birth of this nation and still persists. Though he had become a touchstone for accountability and activism, his family had lost a son, father, brother. No one would sacrifice their loved one for this kind of symbolism. 

    A few days ago, I returned to a women's writing accountability group, not because I required the bolstering and advice of others, but because I knew that holding myself accountable was easier if I made public my goals. Though I love to write, there are never enough hours in the day to make myself do it. When I am on a roll, it feels effortless like floating. When I stop, the heaviness makes it hard to get started again.

    Today, I received an official nomination to run for public office in my small town. It is heartening to know that I can try to make a difference in our little corner of the world, but it is also a great responsibility to work towards representation and public service in a time of uncertainty. 

   Tomorrow holds a lot of promise - it will be a brand new day, unfettered by yesterday but still rich with the experience. Anything can happen. And probably everything will. There will be much to tell and I will have to find a voice to speak it.

Taking Back Our Flag

Photo: a slowly unfurling American flag braves the snow on a winter morning. The flag, high atop a flagpole, is surrounded by bare trees and framed on the left by an evergreen powdered with snow. With red for courage, blue for justice and white for innocence, the Stars and Stripes means different things to different people. 

     There is something inherently powerful about the symbols of America - the vivid crimson, white and navy of our stars and stripes rippled by a steady wind across a summer-blue sky, the majesty of a bird of prey with a pure white head and tail, and a terrifyingly sharp golden beak. The strains of our "O, say can you see" over loudspeakers at games and festivals; the monuments of our national heroes - Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and King.

    When I came to the US, I was five years old and starting kindergarten. I memorized the Pledge of Allegiance in school, learning to hold my hand over my heart while I recited it along with the other kids in my class. Then, as a teenager, recognizing that, though I was outwardly different from the other kids, I could also sport a US flag sticker on my bookbag or as a decal on my first car. I felt a love for this country, though it is not the one of my ancestry, nor the one of my birth.

    For my parents, mainly my father - who was the one who expressed his patriotism wholeheartedly and avidly supported the country they had chosen to emigrate to, America signaled the freedom to do as you wished. They came here for the standard of education, for the spirit of capitalism which said you could have anything you wanted if you worked hard enough for it. They left behind everything they knew to forge a new identity for their young family, in a place where - though foreign and sometimes excluding them, they could realize their wants and dreams through steady determination and unflagging temperance. 

    Even as a young adult and a parent, I would still get misty-eyed at the sight of a waving flag over a night sky bursting with fireworks. America was a country, but also a concept. America was the melting pot where people from all over the world could pool their resources to the common good and that would take care of them when times got hard. I finally got my US citizenship at the age of 30, after living in the US for 25 years, long after my own parents had become citizens, after I had married an American, and had two American children. I wept on that warm day in San Antonio, Texas, dressed in a crisp blue dress with large white polka dots and holding a rolled up piece of parchment that was supposed to be my certificate of citizenship. I wept because it felt like the country I had pledged to had finally opened its arms to accept me.

    The more I learned about life, the world, and my country, I began to see the cracks in the veneer: the flag covered all manner of sins. It shrouded the evils of enslavement, it buffeted through gales of discrimination and oppression. I began to see the flag as the Native Peoples would have seen it. I felt the waves of unjust treatment of undocumented immigrants whose only crime was being born too many miles to the south, or too many years after the border between countries encroached on the ancestral lands that weren't theirs any longer.

    I learned that the Civil Rights movement was not a granting of fair access, but a hard-fought battle to wrench back entitlements that were somehow taken. I learned that the reason I did not know, as a full-grown adult, the whole story of Harriet Tubman, of Rosa Parks, of Ruby Bridges, was because I was never taught. These stories made me doubt the allegiance I had stated. If the flag I had pledged as a child denied liberty and justice to all, was it even worth my pledge?

    Suddenly, the flag had become a symbol, not of freedom for all, but of freedom for some and bondage and exclusion for others. 

    Over the history of humans, symbols had become corrupted by flags. The swastika, for thousands of years, symbolized "well-being" for Hindus, Buddhists, and Jains. Their fervor for this happy-good-luck symbol was imported to the US in the early 20th century and it was used in advertising, for decoration, and even the Girl Scouts called their magazine Swastika! When Hitler adopted the symbol - black hakenkreus (hooked cross) on a circle of white, surrounded by red, everything changed. Now that symbol, and indeed that flag, signifies hatred to the world, and terror to Jews, who were murdered under the sanctity of that flag.

    Even in this country, we've seen a symbol that was barely used during the American Civil War - the Confederate "battle flag" become a standard for white supremacy and racist opposition to civil rights. Some say that it means good-hearted "rebellion" to them, and that it stands for Southern Heritage, but at the time of the Civil War it was not considered the flag of the Confederacy. For Black Americans, the sight of the flag provokes the same fear, distrust and terror that the swastika flag does for Jews. 

    Fast forward to today, when flags, like the "Thin Blue Line" that flies over the Madison County Sheriff's office - to the opposition and distaste of anti-racism groups, symbolize to some the persecution and mistreatment of people of color and immigrant groups. Flags continue to be heavy symbols, bringing a lot of baggage for such placidly waving things. When a flag stops being a point of pride and starts being a representation of oppression, mistrust and fear, then it has ended its usefulness as a symbol. 

    But I believe that the American Flag - Old Glory - has a future as an enduring marker of freedom, equality, valor, and unity. For that to happen, however, those who have felt betrayed or suppressed by this flag must endeavor to take it back. Immigrants who made this country singularly great, descendants of formerly enslaved peoples who built this country, Native peoples who gave up everything to watch a new nation born on their shores, LGBTQ people who face discrimination still, and anyone who feels that the flag does not stand for them, should know that it does. And by taking back a symbol that bears so much hope, we can begin to unite a country that is separated by rural and urban, wealthy and modest, young and old.

    It is only through efforts on every American's part that our Star-Spangled Banner will continue to "wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave." Though the flag is complete, our work is not yet finished.

It's the People

 

Photo: This shot was taken along the Appian Way/Via Appia Antica in Rome, Italy. In the foreground, a road paved with large black stones, in the near distance, a pair of legs traversing the way. The ancient road, built around the 4th century, has large interlocking stones of basalt - a glossy black rock, and provided navigation for people, carts, commerce, and trade. It still does. Sometimes the simplest things last forever.

    A friend recently quipped that her favorite part of travel is the people she meets during the journey. Indeed, the way you meet fellow travelers, helpful locals, and experience chance encounters is often legendary and lasting.

    When I was a baby, my parents took an epic trip, overland from London, home to Sri Lanka in a camper-van. They met the Balboul family in Bethlehem, Jordan. A Muslim family, the Balbouls, had come to frolic at the salty Dead Sea at the weekend. My parents visited because it was a holy site for Christians. Their children - two school-age girls and a baby about the same age as me, were the common ground and the tending to, and watching of, children transcended language, culture, and formed immediate bonds. The Balbouls insisted that my parents stay with them, in their home, meeting their loved ones and feasting on their family's favorite foods. They ended up staying for three days, and even then their hosts were sorry to see them go. They kept in touch with annual holiday cards until a few years before my father passed away as Mr Balboul had also died.

    When our children were young, we were fortunate to make a trip to England and Paris. It was our first international trip as a family and came about due to the proceeds of a small retirement account I cashed out early. Best return on investment, ever.

    We were connected through a friend of my parents to a family living in the center of Paris. We intended to meet them at the train station and have them direct us to a decent, and economical, hotel. When they arrived to greet us, they insisted that we stay with them rather than in a soulless, overpriced hotel. We did so, with a little trepidation - mainly from the idea of inconveniencing them so. But the meeting turned out to be amazing - they showed us a side of Paris that would never have been found in a travel guide: a several-course homemade traditional French dinner, replete with bottle after bottle of wine and complete from des œufs to des noisettes. They drove us around Paris at night to see the Champs Elysees and the Eiffel Tower flooded with lights. We took with us, as we explored the city and visited the Cathedral of Notre Dame the next day, delicious tuna sandwiches they made for us on fresh baguettes from the boulangerie on the corner. We still keep in touch with them for holiday greetings. 

    If there were some way to pay them back (that they would accept), we would have gladly done so. But such things are better left to pay forward. 

    On that same trip, we sat near a young man on the train heading back to London. He had lived in Austin, where we were from, and we got to talking, comparing notes about our home town and his travels there. We shared a bottled beer, some bread and cheese with him.

    A few years ago on a trip to Seattle to visit our son Josh and his hubby James, we stayed in the Airbnb home of a couple whom we immediately bonded with. They reminded us of friends back in Hamilton and we had long talks, in the late evening or early morning, drinking wine or coffee and recounting the day's adventures. After only a handful of days, we felt like we'd known them for years. Now any visit to Seattle means we get to see them too.

    The great philosopher Shirley MacLaine once said, "The more I traveled, the more I realized fear makes strangers of people who should be friends." Yes, it is true that being too trusting can lead to trouble, but if you rely on your instincts and be aware of sketchy offers, you may end up with more than snapshots and postcards, for the best souvenirs are glorious memories of people who have gone out of their way to show you their hometown, or share their culture. There's nothing quite like a local to show you what life is like in their part of the world. There's no tourist attraction or landmark that can even compare to the joy of connecting to people who will show you the way that ordinary lives entwine with the most extraordinary places. Then, when you meet a traveler in your hometown, it becomes that easy to give them a taste of your culture - and you'll get to pay it forward.

    

Longing for My Secret Garden

Photo: Japanese butterbur flower, all 'leaf' and little bud, is an early arrival in my garden. The entire thing is a flower! When the plant matures, it produces giant leaves that crave shade. The image shows elongated, pointed petals in pale green forming a radius around small, white poms at the crown. The earth below is strewn with dry leaves, brown twigs and old pine needles.

    As the snow lay thick in my yard, blanketing all visible signs of grass, low-lying plants, and flower beds, I dreamt of the warming breezes of spring. This year's abundant snowfall had persisted though we had become accustomed to the freeze-and-thaw conditions of recent winters. One of my favorite spring rituals is the gentle clearing away of leaves and the heavy mulch of winter. It is like unwrapping a delicate present - carefully removing the outer layers to reveal the tiny, tender growth emerging from warming soil. I do this with my gloved fingers and a miniature child's rake.

    There is a wonderment in this process. I had, just a handful of months ago, eased these flower beds into slumber, by cutting away the overgrowth, nipping back the season's spent foliage, and tucking the soil in beneath a layer of dry leaves and compost. And so my garden slept, waiting for the joyous act of awakening. And I waited, too.

    In spring and summer, I am busy - like the bumblebee, like the hummingbird. I hardly know where to go first! Soon as I get there, I am thinking about where I should go next. I want to do it all, I want to welcome each sprout, greet every tendril curling from the rich earth. There will be the old favorites: friends I planted years ago risen from their rest, and there will be first-years: little cuttings gifted by garden buddies that have finally taken root. Each year, they surprise me, even the plants I've had for more than a decade. It is sheer exhilaration to witness the pointy green horns of hosta emerging, frilly primrose peeking out, and fronds of soft ferns curling towards the sun. Last summer, I planted three small hellebore plants I received from my friend Sue. Like snowdrops, crocus and daffodils, these showy blossoms are early risers. Others, like trillium, forget-me-nots, and bleeding hearts sleep in a little longer. Warming days, temperate nights, and sprinkling rain showers will make it all happen. 

    While the winter lingers long here in Zone 5, the longing begins - I almost can't bear to look at a seed catalog without feeling that hunger for cultivation, growth, and the unbridled exuberance of nature. Sometimes, I venture out into the garden as the snow melts and gives way to moist and mossy earth, where insects and worms and snails are busy, and I pretend not to remember what was where last year. It is a dear and special surprise to rediscover your own secret garden each spring.

    I will start with one flower bed and advance to the next, unveiling, peering, loosening, allowing and enabling the way that nature will advance and proliferate. Rather than try to control it, like I tend to do in so many aspects of my professional life, I allow my garden to do what it will, and gently attempt to guide it as you would a gifted child - nudging but not imposing, abetting without interrupting.

    My garden gives me creative play, the rewards of witnessing growth, and the therapy of hands in soil. It allows me the opportunity to put winter's pent-up energies to use, to create space for the plants that will emerge, mature, blossom and make way for their neighbors. What starts out in cool shades of periwinkle, cornflower and chalk blue, turns into butter-yellow, bright-white and canary, evolves to mauve, magenta and claret and settles into crimson, scarlet and marmalade. Even the foliage brings color and variety to each bed as the contrasts and textures overlap and accent.

    Each year, I attempt to bring a little order to the chaos, try to tame plants that tend to grow wild and crowd their neighbors, train the babies to move a certain way, and be not only visually pleasing, but also to offer evocative scents and variations. I also don't turn down an occasional enthusiastic and pleasant 'weed' when it appears. It is all part of the magical ecosystem of my garden. Perennials are long-term investments that pay huge dividends. And when the stock splits, you can share the profits with a friend.

Sometimes Justice Comes at Sunset

Photo: a winter evening sky, facing south west, is streaked with rose, smoke-grey, and gold. The black outline of bare and evergreen trees cast a sharp silhouette against the vivid sky.

     In 1997, T. Rivers was 21 years old, hooked on drugs and barely able to read. He had snatched the purse of a woman walking down the street. While he was able to grab the bag and run away with it, probably taking a paltry sum of cash, he caused the 85-year-old woman to fall. Two weeks later, the elderly woman died from her injuries. Though the evidence presented at trial establishes that he never intended to kill or even harm her, Pennsylvania's concept of "felony murder" said that his crime would keep him in jail for life, without the opportunity for parole.

    Today, Rivers is 43 years old and has spent more than half his life in prison. Growing up in a rough part of Philadephia, he didn't understand the concept of "life without parole" when it was handed to him. In prison, he took classes, he received drug and alcohol treatment, worked with hospice patients, and mentored the many young men who were arriving at the facility. "The student has become the teacher," he said. 

    In 1965, 26-year-old P. Davis was a captain in the Special Forces, leading a team of specialists who fought alongside a ragtag company of South Vietnamese volunteers. A grenade blasted out some of his teeth and blew off part of his trigger finger. As enemy fire took out his lead sargeant, then the demolitions specialist, then the only medic, he fired with his pinkie finger, and despite being shot five times, rescued teammates and refused to leave the fight. He somehow made it out alive and was immediately nominated for the military's highest recognition - the Medal of Honor. But somehow the Army misplaced his nomination.

    At first, his commanding officer resubmitted it, and time and again the paperwork was "lost". His teammates pursued the nomination over the next few decades, but each time the request was met, they said, "with silence and indifference." Today, Davis is 81 years old, long retired from the Special Forces, and lives in Alexandria, Virginia. He harbors no ill will, but recognizes that something was not right about what happened to him.

    I heard about both stories in a single morning, felt heartsick with compassion for both situations. You could say that they are at opposite ends of the spectrum - one at the point of causing the end of another's life, and the other at the point of risking his own life to save others. But the two men have something in common - they are both Black. At such young ages, they made decisions that would affect their entire lives. Why was the inquiry into the fairness of their situations so late in coming?

      Tyreem Rivers acknowledges that what he did was wrong, and that someone died because of his actions. "I would like people to know that I am not a bad person," he says, "I made bad decisions in the past. I have a sense of regret and remorse for my actions, and I am a man of change." Where other states have sentences of 2 to 10+ years for manslaughter and give the chance for parole to allow a person to pay their debt to society and become "reformed", Pennsylvania does not. There are currently two groups suing the state on behalf of Rivers and five other people who were convicted in their late teens, who have already served a total of 200 years in prison. The Center for Constitutional Rights and the Amistad Law Project argue that the felony murder punishment is cruel and unconstitutional.

    There are those who say, "let 'em rot in prison" but would those same words apply if it were your son, your brother, your cousin, whose bad decision, or reckless action, as a young person had resulted in the death of someone else? Why do we assign offenders to a "corrections facility" if there is no intention to see to their reform? Even the act of placing someone in jail for the safety of others requires that there be some result of that jailing. There are countless cases of Black men aging in prison for minor offenses like stealing a television set, or food from a convenience store. While some argue that this is essentially making an example for others, many agree that such harsh sentences only lead to a loss of hope - and hopelessness only leads to more recklessness.

    The comrades of Ret. Col. Paris Davis received a sign of hope, after 55 years of trying. In January, Acting Secretary of Defense Christopher C. Miller personally ordered a review of the nomination to be completed by March. If it makes it up the chain of command and all sign off, he may finally be recognized for his bravery. In a recent interview, Davis shakes his head and smiles, downplaying the delays and oversights, "all this stuff, medals and all that," he says. "People need to keep on keepin' on. We've got to make this a better world. That's how I feel."

    Can we make a better world? Can people change? Can we make a difference? 

    I believe that justice, even when it comes at the sunset of someone's life, is still due, and that it is often bittersweet when it finally arrives. If we cannot treat people compassionately and fairly, that says much more about us than it does the person on the receiving end. And just like sunset, at the close of the day, we all deserve to have a reckoning of our actions and be allowed some peace at the end.

The Before Time

Photo: the red stems in the foreground are a bright contrast to the white snow behind, and further back is a stand of mature spruce against a cloud-streaked winter blue sky.

    In a moment of frustration and melancholy, I lamented aloud to my family during a phone call whether we will ever see each other again in person. Don't get me wrong - I am fully aware of the lingering danger of this virus pandemic and dutifully wear my mask wherever I go. We have continued to avoid gatherings large or small, and the last time we were socially in the presence of actual human beings was on New Year's Eve when we gathered with a few (read: three) neighbors for a socially-distanced campfire and snacks out in the snow. It was bracingly cold that day, but the warmth of the fire and the longing for company made it feel practically balmy as I gratefully played host.

    But this people-person's patience is wearing thin. Our video dance card remains full, with almost daily Skype calls with our grandson in Austin, twice-weekly phone calls with our son in Seattle, online game-nights with extended family, Zoom chats with friends near and far, and as many business video calls as a person can handle. My husband and I are fortunate to have each other as we binge-watch streaming TV episodes and first run movies all from the cozy comfort of our living room. We play cribbage and mancala, we listen to music and do craft projects. We plan meals - elaborate culinary creations and comfort-food feasts. Even as we enjoy these activities and diversions, I miss the good ol' days. 

    I long for the days when we can just invite people over, share a meal, have drinks, hug friends, mark holidays or go on vacation with family, go to the movie theater, go to art events, enjoy live music - in short, get back to normal.

    In the Before Time, we took so many things for granted, but as it goes, you never know what you have until it is gone. Now that those times are gone, I fear that they will never be the same again. Our friends are getting their vaccines, so I know some of the fear and trepidation will be fading. As a member of the younger cohort, it will likely be summer before I qualify for the shot. So, they will likely want to protect me. But I will likely resist their protection in exchange for some interaction.

    There is a sense of PTSD - pandemic trauma stress disorder, in the way we've recoiled at continued closures, for some - the refusal to wear masks, and how soul-crushing it feels to be so distanced. In a time when a hug would mean the world it is firmly out of arms reach.  There is a lot of death and dying. Last year, my family alone lost three elders and several family friends. Whether they died of COVID or not, the fact of the matter is that nothing at all was normal. We couldn't have the customary gatherings with potlucks and story-telling. We didn't have the traditional send-offs, with flowers, blessings, and goodbyes. We could only gather feebly around a cellphone camera or a video screen at the other end.

    Some say that life will never return to its former hue, that one virus after another will color our society, and that nature at its best has always been hell-bent on destroying us. On one hand, I can't blame nature - for we are the most obtrusive and rude creatures. But we can also be nurturing, sharing, good stewards of our surroundings. 

    So, I beg Mother Nature: let us be, let us live, let us thrive. If we wear our masks, wash our hands, trust in science, and trace our contacts, can we puhleeeze have our old lives back? I promise I'll be good.

A Stitch in Time

Photo: Peter Max "Running Man in Space" from 1970s lithograph by artist, made into an embroidery kit for kids. Man, clad in rose-colored jumpsuit, is running past the outline of a ringed planet while sequin stars populate the background.

    Over the holidays, in a funk of missing our kids and their families, I hauled four boxes of 'memories and treasures' up from the basement where they'd lain for sixteen years between six jostling relocations. There I found old report cards, field day ribbons, photographs, birthday greetings and love letters - things that I collected over the last 39 years. I also found a partially completed embroidery kit from my childhood. 

    I'm not sure how it survived this long. My parents weren't overly sentimental like me so they weren't inclined to save things, but somehow it had meant enough to me that I held onto it well into middle age. I remember receiving it as a birthday gift, at a time when I was intrigued by my mother's sewing and crochet projects. This kit was the gateway to stitchery, something I could practice on my own.

    Long forgotten until I stumbled upon it, all that was left of the kit was the unbleached cotton cloth, imprinted with faint blue guide lines forming the psychedelic art of Peter Max. Max was known for vivid colors, fantasia designs, and exemplified the aesthetic of the day. It was wrinkled and faded, stitches incomplete and the work betrayed the gratification of child's play. It was stardust.

    My 56-year-old stitches were a bit more tidy than my 10-year-old ones and I felt the momentary urge to fix things, to replace sloppy shortcuts. But it just felt sacrilegious to pick out the earnest work of a kid who had no idea that her wizened adult self would correct her hasty efforts decades in the future. 

    I grew up in the 1970s, in Southern California. It was the time of free-love hippies, trippy music, bell bottom jeans and TV dinners. Somewhere beyond my periphery was Nixon, the Vietnam War, the oil crisis and attempted assassinations. I was too young to care about the wide world, but curious enough to learn as much as I could about everything, giving special-alert-ears to grown-ups' talk.

    My parents had emigrated to the US in their mid-30s, with a kindergartner and an infant. They left the security and comfort of their motherland to see their children educated in an advanced country. Life in America, rather than being easier for them, was undoubtedly more difficult: back home in Sri Lanka my father had his own business, my mother didn't work, they had domestic help and the safety net of family. They lived in a beautiful custom-built home in a nice part of the city, had cars, and lived a comfortable existence. 

    When they arrived in the US, they were only permitted to bring $200 for each of us, and landed knowing no one, save some friends-of-friends in the vast metropolis of Los Angeles. What my father lacked most back home was freedom. He felt stifled by the government and limited by what was available in that small island nation. When my father got an idea into his head, he was hard to dissuade. Especially when it came to his family. Then he was relentless.

    Before long, they'd established themselves, got jobs, bought a house, a Chevy Impala, and enrolled my brother and me in parochial schools. Though life was not easy (the streets were not lined with gold, as predicted), they were happy. Most of all, they could Do. Whatever. The. Hell. They. Wanted. They could sink or swim, do or die, succeed or fail, all on their own merits and motivations.

    As I threaded the needle with vibrant embroidery floss, filling in with satin-stitch the areas that my kid-self only outlined, I didn't blame her for being in a hurry and doing a less-than-thorough job. I had the luxury of time-management now and the experience to fix imperfections. I could even throw the whole heap in the garbage, but I decided that lovingly working, with interest/with abandon, was the most rewarding thing of all. I simply couldn't stop once I'd started.

    My stitches still were not perfect, there were gaps and misses, there were areas I couldn't fix, and it was still an old piece of cotton cloth with small stains and a few tiny holes. But the whole of it was deliciously psychedelic, a bit abstract, and well - a blast from the past that I could work on still and make better. It was incredibly satisfying to Do. Whatever. The. Hell. I. Wanted. 

Photo: Peter Max embroidery kit from circa 1972; blue lines show where the stitches go. The kit also came with tiny felt dots, sequins shaped like circles and stars to be applied as embellishments.

The Future Holds No Room for Hate

 

Photo: Rhipsalis (similar to pencil cactus) with yellow flowers pendant from the tips. Small but striking bright yellow flowers seem to flow from the ends of stumpy green sticks.

   The middle of last week marked Holocaust Remembrance Day. One can hardly find ways to observe it because doing so means dredging up a truly horrific time in human history. And yet, it happened. And yet, we must remember lest we ever forget what some humans did to other humans, in seemingly modern times.

    If terroristic deeds that purposefully destroy life can be pinned onto a solitary person, then we can chalk that up to evil - the machinations and mayhem of madmen, but what can you call it when whole societies perpetrate the same evil under various names meant to deaden the senselessness of it?  What is it called when governments, leaders, and common people take up torches against others? Who are the people who turn in their neighbors, burn their houses, kill their children? Ethnic cleansing, civil war, lynching.

    My sister-in-law, who is Jewish, wants me to go to Auschwitz with her when we are once again able to travel. I want to go there, have always wanted to. It isn't the kind of vacation destination that you put on a bucket list or travel planner, but the idea of going to the place where so many innocents were murdered means that we have not forgotten the depth of the crime and that we will revere those who were killed there.

    Reading The Diary of Anne Frank as a child, I was appalled and hurt that such things could happen while there were "adults in the room". Where was their decency and compassion? Was there not one single person among them who was sufficiently shocked that they would refuse to participate? Were there not even a few who said, "no way, I'm not taking part in this!" Could that small group not grow into an uprising to tamp down the surge?

    It is 2021, nearly the span of a lifetime since the Holocaust. But humans are not quick to learn and are prone to repeat their crimes.

    Since the dawn of mankind, Earth-dwellers have fought with each other, over territory, over resources, because of jealousy or lust for power. Wars have raged and continue to, even though we've gotten more skilled at diplomacy and communication.  Is there no other way to solve a disagreement than to kill your opponent? But the heat of battle, the crimes of passion, are nothing like killing in cold blood, of feeling nothing when exterminating whole societies of people. 

    I, too, have hated. It is a human emotion. I have hated someone enough that I would like to punch them in the face. But could I continue punching them after they fell down? Even in a Hollywood fight scene, getting your opponent sufficiently punched that they know who you are is enough. But what makes someone hate a people enough that they want to murder all of them?

    I read recently that the other side of hate is fear. If you stoke up enough fear - of Native Americans, of Black people, of Mexicans, of so-called "socialists and libtards" then there is fuel for hate to conflagrate and consume. I have often thought of genocide as atrocities that happened in the past - but we know of the extermination of Native Americans to take their land, we know the Ottomans killed half the Armenians, we watched as Serbians murdered Bosnians, we witnessed Hutus killing Tutsis, we know of Darfur, of ISIS, and of the systematic killing of Black people in our own country under the banner of law and order. There are too many examples of genocide to even list here. 

    We saw this dangerous tinder box opened again on January 6 at our nation's capitol. Among those who participated in an insurrection hell-bent on destruction, retaliatory killing, even assassination, was a lone man in a Camp Auschwitz t-shirt. A t-shirt! A t-shirt likening the largest extermination of a peaceful peoples to a summer camp?? Many were shocked, but some shrugged it off. Ultimately, there will be hundreds of arrests, and hopefully those who wreaked the greatest damage will pay society for their misdeeds. But what punishment can you give someone who has such little regard for a group of people? Could that man wear that shirt if he suddenly learned that his son was engaged to a Jewish woman? Would he be able to explain that shirt to his granddaughter who was learning about Anne Frank in school? 

    How we reexamine our past in terms of our present is one indication of what we've learned. How will we explain to future generations our actions or inaction during a particularly terrible time? Will we be able to recall being outspoken and outraged, or will we remember just how powerless and complicit we allowed ourselves to become? Let us all strive to conquer fear by becoming fearless. Let us work to eradicate hate by spreading love. Because as Martin Luther King said, "Only light can drive out darkness" and a future where hate is extiguished is a world that will be ruled by love. Is that even possible? Not only possible, but essential.

Detecting Patterns, Decoding Paradigms

Photo: my husband Duane at the Duanesburg Diner in Duanesburg, NY.  Coincidence...? I think not!

    My husband and I used to joke about the time that we bought a Honda Element - a relatively uncommon car - and as soon as we did, we began to see Honda Elements everywhere! It's the same as when someone becomes pregnant, and all at once, there seem to be pregnant women wherever they look.

    My son Josh, who lives in the Pacific Northwest, tells me he is finding circular references and themes in things he is working on. Is it a coincidence or a pattern emerging? He reminds me that he wrote a blog entry years and years ago (May 2004, to be exact) where his friend purchased a strawberry-rhubarb pie, which was relatively rare in Austin, Texas, and that they got to talking about this curious red celery plant. Then he starts a conversation with a random stranger on the bus to college the next morning who mentions that he recalls growing up on a farm where they loved the sour notes of gooseberry and... rhubarb. Later that same day, he is studying in a book about brain function and how contrasts "help the brain process more fully - like cooks combining sweet and sour, strawberry and rhubarb." The red celery, again.

    Clearly, detecting patterns has helped humans to survive and thrive. Our early ancestors realized that things that occur in similar settings, have the same structure or color, or simply happen around the same time are connected in some way.  

    They found food that way, predicted the seasons, and mapped the stars. But have we lost that ability to divine predictions and decode paradigms? Now our food is collected from grocery stores where all we need is a list and a credit card, both of which we'd forget to bring if didn't carry them with us everywhere. Our seasons are little more than wardrobe changes because none of us needs to know the perfect date for planting or the ideal time to hunt for meat. Don't even get me started on GPS, which has rendered us completely clueless about reading maps or learning directions. So now, when we witness coincidences and detect similarities, we're weirdly taken aback. 

    Is it human nature to find things that are the same? Is it evolution that has faded our need to make correlations or de-evolution that's robbed us of a survival skill? Some scientists and researchers in psychiatry believe that there are forces out there that lead us to find these similarities. Others believe that there is a synchronicity that drives humans to seek out similarities between themselves and others: we have an instinctive need to connect with people. But only when we are open to looking. 

    When we started thinking of getting a Honda Element, we had subconsciously begun looking for that car wherever we went. Because we were open to seeing them; we didn't cause them to appear. They were there all along.

    Makes me wonder: how many more things could we see if we were truly open to seeing them? If you start seeing Honda Elements or running into rhubarb - don't blame me, it's just your brain regaining lost abilities!