I was just there

Several weeks ago, floral and balloon tributes appeared on a local overpass I drive by every day. I learned that a young girl had jumped to the expressway below even as police tried to talk her down. In August, a colleague returned from vacation and showed us pictures of her favorite town square in Barcelona. Different pictures of that same spot were transmitted around the world just a few days later. Last month I was in Las Vegas. I'm sure something has happened that made you utter, "I was just there!"

Tragedies are somehow more real when we feel a personal connection. When there is a personal connection, we pay closer attention. Unfortunately, even with some type of personal connection, our attention span has become short. I think we move on quickly from these terrible stories because after an initial reaction of horror, what we then feel is despair and helplessness. To block the anguish and those hopeless feelings, we go numb. And, when we go numb, we move on.

If numb was a place, I feel as though "I was just there" so many times in the past year. Together we've been bombarded from the left, from the right, from the crazed, from the elements, from the digital and cyberspace worlds. Some of us have taken health, relationship, financial or career hits. In a recent conversation, one person commented that nothing will change, while another said there are things we can do. Since January, we've marched, met, talked, shook our heads and stared in disbelief, so suddenly, with the thought that there might be something new we could do, there was a flicker of hope. When the first answer that was tossed out was that we can write letters, the hope diminished, there was silence, and we moved on to other topics.

We need new tactics to connect to the "I was just there" and to counteract the pervasive numbness. I have no clue what they might be, but I guess we need to pay attention to when those flickers of hope appear, do what we can to keep that flame alive and the conversation going. I'm tired of being numb.

Marilyn

What's in your closet?

It's that time of year when we here in the midwest switch out summer clothes for heavier wear. Turtlenecks, vests, and corduroy slacks now hang where shorts or lightweight shirts and pants spent a few months. These seasonal switches allow us to to assess, sort and remove worn, out of fashion and no-longer-the-right-size garments. Yesterday as I began the process, I realized there were categories to what I saw.

My semi-organized wardrobe represents pieces of my life. Even though dress codes have changed, I still have clothes I mentally label casual vs. business casual. There are clothes for when I need to feel authoritative or simply need a pick-me-up. I've a few items for those rare dress up occasions and some that are festive or solemn.

My closet holds memories. There's the new t-shirt from vacation, that great jacket I got on sale and what I wore to a big event. As I smiled at a sweatshirt that says New Zealand, I acknowledged that sometimes I have held on to a piece of clothing much longer than appropriate because of association with an event or person. 

When I'm honest, I see poor decisions. Whatever made me think I can wear lime green? It doesn't matter that it was a great deal. What matters is I didn't pay attention to that little voice in my head at the time. Now, there it hangs, having been worn once.

Finally, I see opportunities. I see the chance to get a boost by doing something that I know makes me feel good - getting rid of stuff. I'm going to part with those blankies on hangers, those items with warm memories but which haven't been out of the closet for years. I see items for consignment, for Goodwill and even a couple that are appropriate for the rag bag. I am keeping the one that helped me win the ugly sweater contest a couple of years back, but out goes the lime green one. So, now that I've started, let me ask, what's in your closet? 

Marilyn

Tall, short, deep, wide

If you've visited any historical homes, you've probably seen the beds of past eras and replicas or the actual ones where famous people slept, presumably comfortably. although I remember seeing the bed where Lincoln died and reading how he had to be laid diagonally across it. Last spring I went shopping for a new mattress. I was clear on what I did want (firm) and did not want (pillow topper) and thought my knowledge of bedding was up-to-date. But I soon discovered I had missed something important. Mattresses and box springs have gotten bigger. Not just from full to queen to king, but higher or deeper, however you want to look at it. From my 5-foot perspective, it's taller. It was difficult for me to even try out some floor samples. Once I made my decision I choose the option of a 2 inch bunky board instead of a box spring so I wouldn't need to take a running leap to jump into bed every night.

On my recent vacation I discovered that the trend in tall beds goes beyond the showroom. I was barely able to fall onto the bed in our first two hotel rooms. When we got to the vacation home we were renting for four nights, I saw that I would need a step stool to get into the bed in the two main bedrooms. I settled for the bottom of a bunk bed. It was perfectly comfortable, and actually much easier to get in and out of than the previous hotel beds. When we moved to the next vacation home where it was my turn for the master suite, I had another surprise. There is something larger than a king, and this particular one was positioned in a huge wooden frame with an emorous sleigh headboard so big that the bed had to stand away from the wall.

Yes, I can chuckle and hope you did as well, but there a purpose here. A little research indicates that over the last 100 years we human beings have gotten taller, well, bigger overall, so I get that it makes sense that mattresses have to keep up with that growth. I also get the idea of luxury, but as I looked at pictures of sodden mattresses at the end of driveways, in trees, floating down the street, I wonder if they need to be so big that if they had a door, they could be a room. I may not be a great environmentalist, but there is an issue here that needs some collective consideration. 

Marilyn

Bearing witness

As we rounded a bend in Dixie National Forest in southern Utah two weeks ago, we saw that two cars had stopped on the shoulder and folks were hurrying over to where a third car was off the road in deep brush. It was facing the wrong way and some smoke was coming from under the hood. Despite that drama, I was focused on the silver van that had been tailgating for several miles through the winding 2-lane road as we climbed and then started descending a fir tree covered mountain.

On Saturday, I approached a busy intersection and saw volunteers standing in the middle of the street. Once I was close enough to read the orange lettering on their bright yellow t-shirts, I recognized the annual Knights of Columbus drive. As I turned right, I wondered if in this day and age, that type of fundraising is relevant or effective. That night, as my concert companion and I were walking the four blocks back to my car, after talking about the highlights of what we had seen and heard, our conversation turned to the topic of aging, walking and falling. And then, her foot managed to hit the crack in the sidewalk wrong, and down she went.

As I thought about these three experiences, I realized that it didn't matter so much if those volunteers passed out all of their tootsie rolls or raised signifiant funds. What was more important was that they were bearing witness, they were standing up to help those with disabilities. While I did not see the car go off the road, I will bear witness that I am still bothered that I could not safely stop to help. I feel like the character in the story of the Good Samaritan who hurried by the beaten and wounded. So, I utter thanks for those who did stop and hope there were no serious injuries. The other night, as my friend fell in slow motion and I was unable to intervene, no one else witnessed the accident. But soon a young woman walked up and asked if everything was okay. Here was one grey haired woman lying facedown on the grass and another kneeling next to her, so, no, everything was not okay. I said we were discussing calling 9-1-1, so she wished us luck and continued on her way. Unfortunately, there is a broken humerus involved.

I wonder if my tailgater even saw the accident or if the young woman from the other night has given a second thought to the incident. I wonder if the next time I - or you - have the opportunity to intervene, we will have the compassion, presence of mind, and even courage to act. I sure hope so.

Marilyn

Being topical

Many weeks when I get ready to draft a musing, I struggle. Should I comment on things happening in the world? Do I have anything relevant to say? What about when I want to ignore, or at least temporarily forget, the things going on in the world? Frequent readers know that I usually end up writing about one of the random thoughts that came to me during the week, which sometimes I am able to link to the headlines.

This week was no exception. Above me on the screen are the beginnings of a paragraph on step stools (three I have and one I need to buy), another on the eclipse, and one on the idea of having just been somewhere where something bad happens. That last one is based on a colleague having just returned from a vacation in Spain, where her favorite spot was the square in Barcelona that turned into mayhem two days after she got home.

So, you'll see that my thoughts are all over the place, which is often representative of our days. It can be hard to focus when there is a solar eclipse about to happen. It can be hard to settle on one thing in the news when there is so much to pick from. Mostly, for me right now, it can be hard to concentrate when my brain is ready for a break. 

Which is what I'm going to do. 

By my calculations, there have been nearly 350 Monday musings since they began seven years ago this week. If you do the math, you'll note that I have taken a few brief breaks over those years. Keep in touch and know I'll be back in a month. Until then, think about what you may need a rest from, for as Maya Angelou wrote, "Each person deserves a day in which no problems are confronted, no solutions looked for. Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us."

Marilyn

Who am I to judge?

If you are like me, you make a lot of snap decisions and you're good at them. Well, except maybe which express line to get in. As I matured, I've tried to pay attention to the consequences of my quick judgements in relation to people. How, by using appearance as the primary factor for putting others in boxes, I cut myself off from opportunities to connect with people whose life stories may seem to be vastly different from mine, but who, in truth, are on a parallel journey. I think I was doing a decent job of it in relation to gender, race, ethnicity, age, sexual orientation, class, and even political leanings. Then came the tattoos and piercings. When I became aware that I was forming an opinion about the young men and women I encountered on a daily basis simply because they had chosen to do something with their body that was contrary to the norms in my world, I realized I needed to stop my instant evaluations of body art and adornment. 

I'll admit it is still hard not to scrutinize and make assumptions. It certainly is often very difficult to not have my eye keep going to the nose ring or the ink. I've leaned that even though I might be intrigued about a design, symbol or word that someone is displaying, tattoos are quite personal and it's impolite to ask.

Yes, we older folks want to warn and caution the next generations about so many things, but we had to try so many things on our own as well, even as our elders judged us for rock 'n roll and miniskirts and protesting a war. And, speaking as one who knows that some people may look at me - short, round and greying - and jump to their own conclusions, I try to enter every greeting with an assumption that we are on common ground, for, after all, who am I to judge?

Marilyn

Diaries and journals

Do young girls still keep diaries? Or, to be inclusive, even little boys? That treasured book that comes with a key so secrets can be recorded and locked away? So older siblings can search for it and tease or tell? I was thrilled to receive a pink and white one for my tenth birthday, but the novelty soon wore off and it was left unsecured and unused in a drawer. 

Since then, I've received and even purchased some lovely journals. Leather ones. Ones from museums whose covers boasted impressionist paintings. Some had blank pages; others were lined and had inspirational quotes above the gilt edges. But, try as I might, I could not consistently record anything of worth. My ordinary days didn't belong in such a beautiful edition. Mostly, I felt that there was somehow a right way to keep a journal that everyone else had figured out except me. Was it a particular type of pen or book? Did it matter when you spent time writing? Or where? I struggled with the details of the process rather than the process itself.

What got me thinking about diaries was discovering that much of the fascinating story of the Wright brothers in David McCullough's book comes from what was recorded in their and other family members diaries. Now, I've had dear friends who've told me that should anything happen to them, my job was to get to their journals before anyone in their family did, and destroy them. What if that had been true for Wilbur and Orville? Much of what we know about history, be it of a family or a country or an invention, comes from the written word of people of the time. We know what everyday life was like throughout the eras because of the men and women who wrote about the mundane as well as the extraordinary.

The other day when I did my occasional look onto FaceBook, I was told that it was 279 weeks since I'd posted anything. Many people may not think about the diary they are keeping on FB or other social media platforms. Future generations are going to have so much more to sift through to find reality than McCullough did. Most of what I have written personally for the past nearly seven years is what is recorded here in these weekly musings. There is no right or wrong pen, time of day to write. All I've needed is a glimpse of an idea and my keyboard. And access to the internet. And you. Someone to read this public diary I've created. Thank you.

Marilyn