In the nick of time

Have you ever started one thing and then gotten so engrossed in something else you forgot the first? Usually that’s okay. But, when the first thing is hardboiling eggs, it’s not. I’ll admit I’ve lost two pans over four decades and am lucky that’s all I lost. I now set a timer, not the one on the stove or microwave, but one I can put in my pocket. Turn on the burner, set the timer, put the timer in my pocket, walk away. Of course I am then startled when the timer goes off. If often takes a couple of seconds before the word ‘eggs’ takes me back to what I’d started 20 minutes earlier. 

In the 1980s portable phones expanded our multitasking options while having a conversation. Now our phones themselves multitask along with us. Even as I use it to send a text, my phone is my diary and archive, my calendar and camera. It connects me to google and social media, my work and personal emails. It could be my timer, if I could figure that out.

It’s hard to do just one thing anymore. I remember when television was new and seemed like magic, so we sat in rapt attention. Now I can’t just watch TV; my hands need to be doing something. After I took a class in using leaves in artwork, a walk was no longer a walk. I had my eyes out for useful specimens, then when I started birdwatching, it was hard to know whether I was in search of leaves or birds.

Studies tell us that we are not as good multitaskers as we think. I can have music on the the background as I write, although like this musing, if I don’t have an end in mind, I can find myself tapping my foot and paying more attention to the tune than the keyboard and screen. Do you find that if your mind is not set on one thing you can easily get distracted. Oops, there’s the doorbell. Catch you next week!

Marilyn

Labels

If you had a one-word sign in front of your home that told the world something about you, what would you want it to be? A new yellow sign popped up on my route to the office and it got me thinking about all of the labels that broadcast things about us. The fact that I wear BIFOCALS is a label as is my GREY hair. Our WARDROBE is a type of label, and some of us want the inside label to be just as noticeable as the clothes themselves. TATTOOS and PIERCINGS represent the challenge of thinking about labels, for to me, the trend is about the balance of fitting in while expressing one’s individuality.

We have learned that some of the obvious labels can hurt or be used against us. Labels like LEFT and RIGHT have polarized our nation. The bullying childhood taunts of FATTY, SKINNY, GEEK can still ring in our ears. Think, too, of Hester’s A or the Star of David BADGE Jews were once required to wear. But as hurtful as those can be, it is the internal labels that we hope no one sees. The ones like INSECURE or ‘FRAIDYCAT that our inner voice shouts or whispers. The one we fear says UNLOVABLE but that we know can say LONELY.

If only we realized that we share more labels than the ones we wear trying so hard to be unique. It was the word DEAF that got me started on this train of thought. That sign is now there to make drivers aware and afford safety to at least one person. But we are all DEAF to something; we all have a BLINDSPOT. Let’s focus on the labels that could make us all more aware and safe.

Marilyn

Reflections on storms

It was a clap of thunder early Saturday morning that served as my alarm. I awoke remembering what I was thinking when I feel asleep, maybe because it was related to what was happening. I had been wondering about the difference between isolated and scattered. While I could intuit a definition, I googled, just to be sure, and sure enough, I was mostly right, I just didn’t know the percentages. Isolated is when only up to 20% of the region may experience the storm and scattered is up to 50%. Anything above that falls under the category of things being likely.

On my current morning route, chances are isolated that something will delay my early arrival at the office, unlike the afternoon when irritants are likely. A visit to the library will generally prove likely that I will find something that catches my interest, and I’ve learned when I might be able to easily buy gas instead of waiting in a long line. The dating apps have figured out some calculations that the programmers hope result in likely, though I’m sure that some subscribers have experienced more isolated success. 

Now, if only there were predictors for flat tires, broken hearts, a fall down the stairs. And, even more, for going from percentages to certainty, such as knowing that the things out of sync in our society will be righted with one election. For knowing what happens at the moment of transition from life to death. But we humans must rely on faith, logic, science, the law of averages. We have choices, but mostly we have and have to rely on each other. Sometimes isolated. Sometimes scattered. Sometimes likely.

Marilyn

There are no words

When you learn that someone you know is terminally ill, there are no words. When a baby is born, there are no words. When someone watches as a river of lava approaches their home, there are no words. Yet, we try to fill the silence. Even when we know that what comes out of our mouths is inadequate at best and insulting at worst, we say words. Inadequate because grief, joy, disbelief are so difficult to describe in the moment. Insulting, for what we usually do is shift the focus to ourselves. 

Their experience reminds us of our own frailties and fears that we want to keep tapped down. It can be awkward to sit in silence with the hurting for we want to do something to ease the pain. But silence is more helpful than the story of what we did when something similar happened to our Aunt Bessie. What is best is to simply say that there are no words, share a hug, and then go do something practical like cook a meal.

It’s perhaps unusual for a writer to say that there are no words, but I’m talking here about when words are inadequate. We had yet another example this week of a celebrity tweeting something stupid, and, here, too, I recommend silence. Let the current Humpty Dumpty realize that life as they’ve known it is over. Yes, lots of words are written, said, and rehashed, but the silence for them now comes from the voices that are no longer calling. From opportunities missed, doors now closed. Michael Richards, Paula Dean, Mel Gibson, et al, may reinvent themselves, but there will always be a segment of the population that looks at them in righteous silence and thinks, “There are no words,” and walks away.

Marilyn

Patriots

It was through writing this piece that I realized a few things about patriotism. One is that each generation learns in its own way what it means to be a patriot. For us, it started in kindergarten, when we stood at attention and recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning. We learned the words to the Star Spangled Banner and the Battle Hymn of the Republic. By high school we were debating the difference between our enemy, the Communists, and the enemy of our parents’ era, the Axis, and soon after graduation, my peers were drafted and shipped off to Southeast Asia. That’s when my ideas about patriotism started to shift and have continued to do so. 

You may have guessed that some of the headlines last week started this train of thought. The fake patriotism plan that was proudly announced by the NFL does nothing but remind us that the athletes who took a stand in 1968 - their patriotism in action - have not seen the changes they had hoped for. The prejudices my generation (and some of our elders) thought we’d worked through with our marches, protests, demonstrations and sit ins - our patriotism in action - are really still festering under the surface. 

It was my generation that learned the hard way to hate the war but not the warrior, but until we discovered that, we did much damage to those peers who served. We all need to remember that lesson and transfer it to the social and economic justice issues that we thought that we’d, if not resolved, at least made giant advances in changing. True patriotism is disagreeing with, even hating the stand that an opponent may take, but honoring their right to do so. True patriotism is a dialogue, not a shouting match.

Marilyn

As good as it gets

As good as it gets. An interesting phrase whose meaning ranges from acceptable to perfection. We’ve all had experiences, from meals to vacations to studying for an exam and used that phrase. We look at the arts and can stand in awe and wonder if Van Gogh is as good as it gets in brushstrokes and color or Melville with the opening of a novel? Luckily artists learn to emulate, experiment, and do their own as good as it gets in whatever medium they choose. In this musings, mine is words, and I think of one sentence Louis Penny wrote in The Long Way Home. In describing an artist she said, ‘he turned his pain into paint.’ That’s as good a description as it gets. Six words; the addition of one letter. 

Over the weekend there was the royal wedding, with its picturesque setting, picture perfect weather, and a wonderful blend of cultures, sentiment and sentimentality. That may be as good as it gets for true romance. We also had Pentecost and are in the midst of Ramadan, two important markers of major faiths, potentially representing some as good as it gets moments to some believers. Other people got married, there were baptisms, anniversaries and birthdays, and for some, those may be as good as it gets moments with family.

Unfortunately, some people in Texas experienced as bad as it gets moments and are now planning funerals. When it comes to too many critical issues in our world today, we have allowed leaders to settle for less than the acceptable aspect of as good as it gets in order to push deals through congress and with other governments. From gun control to opioids to education to the environment, we need sane voices from all sides of the issues to come together and broker more acceptable solutions. I wish we could hold out for perfection, but I’ll settle for better as good as it gets sensible answers than what we have now.

Marilyn

Treehuggers

Out at the Morton Arboretum I have scores of favorite trees. They appeal to me on some deep level for their shape, their color, their burls, their uniqueness. In New Zealand I saw trees that were alive two thousand years ago and have enjoyed being part of a ceremony where a young tree was planted in memorium. Somewhere there is a photo that shows an impish adolescent me after I successfully climbed a tree in our backyard. 

Trees, like our parents, come in all shapes and sizes. Some have roots that go deep and the sap that flows through them is passed to the sapling it inspired. Some are resilient, learning to bend with the changing winds. Others are mostly for show and have a short season; others offer shelter, shade and protection year round. While my mother and I were not close, a love of nature was something we shared. We could oooh and aaah over that sycamore I shimmied up and both get excited about the maple tree in the fall. 

Now that I have more age rings myself, I’m trying to focus on the positives and commonalities, so I’ve created an image in my mind. My mother is on one side of the blossoming Hawthorne tree my father planted when I was born; I am on the other. We both put our arms around the rough trunk and our hands clasp. I can forget that I wasn’t the daughter she dreamed of and that she couldn’t nurture as I needed. Here we can stand united, hugging a tree, and by extension, each other.

Marilyn