I’ve had a tough couple of weeks, so I’ve been stressed and feeling down, which set off specific food cravings that none of the restaurants here could satisfy. So, I checked supplies to see if I had the ingredients necessary to make the properly baked macaroni and cheese I needed. (Don’t be giving me your slimy mac with no crunchy, oven baked love! Take the time to do it right or call it something else, because it’s not real macaroni and cheese, even if it tastes good. Hmmph! ISWIS)
Didn’t have everything I needed, so I hopped in Flicka, and made the 15 mile drive to my nearest supermarket, where I’m always greeted with a hello and nod from the sushi guy, a hug from a dear young bakery worker, and waves and smiles from others in the bakery, produce, fish, departments, and by Bakery Kid’s adorably dour cashier girlfriend.
Today, the line I chose was long and moving quite slowly. I chose it so that I could say an encouraging word to the new young woman who was being slammed at the register, hoping to give her a little lift on a busy day, working a register that often seems not to actually register well.
A small, grizzled man in my age group circled and stopped in front me, wondering aloud if it was Wednesday, the day for senior discounts. I don’t know if he realized that he’d spoken out loud, but I informed him that it was only Tuesday, and we both laughed, him explaining that he works nights and loses track of days when he’s off. Having worked nights, I nodded in understanding, noting that it gets worse with retirement. This led to him telling me that he was contemplating his third retirement but didn’t know if he could stand having nothing to do.
By this time he was behind me, and we were starting what would become a most amusing conversation between strangers sharing space for a few minutes.
He was exactly the type of character I gravitate towards: curmudgeonly, dry humored, quick witted, and obviously to me, a kind and gentle soul. I’ve had a soft spot for, and can recognize such old guys since childhood: the gnarled elders who brook no nonsense, talk tough, and will freely give the shirt off their backs, jump to protect the vulnerable, slip candy money to a kid, or something towards the rent for a struggling mother or widow. I know them instinctively and can quickly draw out the sweetness that hides behind the cranky exterior. I see it in their eyes and have been wrong maybe once.
This particular crank was almost bragging about being known by everyone in the store for being a pain in the ass, “Just ask them” he said, nodding towards the Customer Service booth. I saw right through him and laughed. Referring to me as “Young lady” in his working class English accent, I asked his age, countering his $500 bet that I was much younger than he. He’s three years older, so I won, but as expected, he didn’t pay up. Instead, he answered all my questions about him directly, honestly, and with a shared understanding for life experiences. He’d had a long career in the military, a couple of retirements, and was now working security at a local hotel.
He told me about being RAF attached to an American squadron during the Vietnam era, rising up the ranks, retiring as an officer. I told him about my lifelong desire to skydive, causing him to face me with a look of complete seriousness on his face.
“What do you think’s the hardest part of skydiving?”, he asked.
“Landing,” I answered, thinking of my recent knee surgery and back pain.
“No!” he scoffed, his eyes merry. “It’s being pushed out of the plane!” I laughed along with him, and learned that his name is Phillip, H……or H……- he seemed unclear about which he wanted to go with at the moment, perhaps realizing it might be imprudent to give his name to a random stranger in a store. We somehow discussed the US Marines he’d flown with, and a bit about my connections to the Corp, both of us being uncharacteristically careful in what we said, both respectful and appreciative as only people who’ve experienced multiple sides of something can be, knowing that critiques required contextualization impossible under the circumstances.
He told me about his anger at having to work with a racist, and his gleeful pleasure in being pivotal in having the man fired. We talked of many things on line and as we left the store together. A short, but unexpectedly intimate encounter between passing ships.
Before leaving, I made the cashier smile and saw her spirit lift, and I waited for Phillip to check out his few items. We continued talking as we headed towards our cars, mostly about his lifelong hatred of racism and other bigotry, as well as the joy our grandchildren bring us, our antidotes to the poison spewed so freely these days. Our hopes to see a better world while we’re still in it.
Before we parted, I asked to hug him, a quick but heartfelt embrace of a kindred soul, doing his bit to make the world around him a tiny bit better, with no expectation of praise or reward. In fact, I’m sure he’d be mortified that I wrote this, and meet my scribblings with the sarcastic humor of a self effacing man. Any pleasure would be hidden well behind smart remarks and pity for a girl so silly as to take him seriously.
But that particular grizzled old Brit made my day a lot better, and I’m smiling on the inside now, thinking about how often angels have passed through my life cleverly disguised as crabby old gents and ladies.
Despite having Chris Stapleton’s encouraging song as my theme for an entire year, and despite getting up, bathing, dressing, and sometimes even going out, I’ve been unable to restart my life since my husband’s death in 2021. I acknowledge that part of that inability is having had no real desire to continue. My dear family has kept me from the darkest points and they’ve inspired me in trying to recover some sense of self and maybe consider the possibility of joy again.
But nothing has sustained any momentum built, and each day has continued to be a re-grieving, as I wake up and reach for him and he’s not there. This week is always particularly difficult, as our birthdays- four days apart- were always celebrated all week, sometimes culminating in a group “Gemini Party”at our house. I’ve consequently alternated between sadness and anger, failing miserably at my attempts to distract myself and be cool.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend with whom I‘d reconnected a year or so ago, called me out of the blue to deliver a message he’d received from Spirit. The message was, “Don’t hold hands with the dead” repeated several times.
Now ordinarily, I’d have taken that as metaphor, a reminder that like it or not, I’m still on this side of the grave and that I need to somehow let go or something like that. And to some degree that is how I decided to interpret it. But in reality, his words hit me like a baseball bat, because about a month before his call, I’d held my late husband’s hand.
This came about after one particularly intense bout of tearfully crying out for him to return to me or take me to where he is. Wracking sobs and entreaties led to the sense of his presence. I often sense him to be here, but lately I’d been making a conscious effort to move away from magical thinking and to accept this as a psychological manifestation of my grief.
So on this particular night, still sobbing, I yelled out “You’re not really here, you’re dead and I have to stop this! You’re not coming back and I have to get that through my head.”
Turning away, I heard his voice: I am here, Anjana. I love you and I’m here.”
Then, “Hold out your hand, Anjana.”
Cautiously, I opened my hand, wondering what it meant. And just then, as I lay on my bed with my arm extended and palm open, I felt my husband’s hand in mine. The weight, the warmth, the texture of his hand, first simply on mine, then encircling my fingers, as he’d done ten thousand times. And I felt the most profound sense of peace and love I’d felt since his passing.
Shocked and joyous, I sat upright and said, “You’re here! You’re really here!!!”
Quietly, he responded in that sweet voice I knew so well, “I’m here, Anjana. I’m always really here.”
Happy, but confused, I asked why I couldn’t see him, why I’d never felt him so corporeally before. And he began to explain the tremendous amount of energy such manifestations require, and how it was not something he could or should do regularly.
This made sense to me and fit with things I’d been taught when young, so I accepted the gift of his presence and basked in the sense of him and the love that permeated the room.
Now this might be a good time to add a bit more about my husband. Although everyone saw me as the spiritual leader and more advanced soul, I knew that my husband had some special qualities that I’d felt only with a very few spiritual teachers and other folks. He was almost always cheerful in his quiet way, and had an amazing ability to calm my rather high strung nerves simply by entering into my presence. As he was doing that night, he would simply hold my hand and my blood pressure would drop 10-20 points to normal. I’m not talking about the grounding that comes from being with someone you love, I’m talking about what yogis would call a siddhi, and being my walking valium wasn’t his only power.
Perhaps my favorite was his ability to keep me warm. While most men tend to have warmer bodies than women, Ray could aim and project his heat. He’d ask where I was cold and without moving a muscle, I’d feel toasty radiant heat in whatever area I’d specified. I asked him once how he was able to do it, because it really was extraordinary, and he said he didn’t know. He simply thought it and it went there. In 37 years, I’d never had cold feet or hands and my first winter without him came as a complete shock, requiring socks, extra blankets, and a portable heater.
When he died, a dear friend who is a Buddhist monk, did a traditional seven day ritual for his spirit. At the end of that period, he contacted me and said “You know Raymond is a bodhisattva!” I answered that I wasn’t surprised, and he continued, “He has offered to remain in this realm in order to help others, and you can call on him whenever you need him. He’ll be here for you and for others.”
I openly wept, because being of service and helping people was what he always wanted to do. I managed to say only “I can believe that.”Going through his notebooks after his death, I found plans he had for starting a business dedicated to helping elders and invalids, providing the services that often fall between the cracks: running errands, household chores that cleaners might not do. Just generally being useful and bringing his air of patient kindness and respect to everyone he met.
So I took my friend’s message not to hold hands with the dead quite seriously, even as I mentally rejected it, because I knew in my heart that if my husband wanted to hold hands with me, we were going to hold hands. That intense act had brought me the most fulfilling sense of peace and of being loved that I’d felt in nearly four years, and with respect, I knew I’d always take his hand whenever he extended it to me, just as I had in life. It was the one gesture he would use that could cut through my anger or hurt or fear and bring me back to balance and comfort and love. If he added his exaggerated, big eyed, tilted head look, he knew I’d laugh. It was, for whatever reason, a locus of his considerable ability to divert my anger and remind me of how much I always loved him, even when he was being a complete asshole or fool. He always knew that once I took his hand, I’d be his, always. And resist as I might for a while, at some point, I was going to take the hand that waited patiently and confidently for mine.
And no, I wasn’t going to lie to myself: if he graced me with his physical presence again I was sure as hell going to hold his warm, cushy hand. But I did make a decision to practice being more present in my life and to make an effort to accept being alive and find ways to seek joy in that. Best I could offer, and still not an easy row to hoe. But I’m trying, and today was one of those remarkably sweet days, starting with listening six times to a song my friend wrote for his beautiful wife one Valentine’s Day. And as I listened, I almost heard Raymond singing it to me, exactly the kind of song he’d sing for me to make me smile or rock me to sleep.
With an energy I haven’t felt in some time, I got two loads of clothes washed and folded, completely rearranged the pantry, and most significantly, cooked in a way I haven’t since my husband died. I cooked as though he was here and I could see the complete rapture with which he ate my food, making me feel like the most revered chef in the world. I made two of his favorite dishes and a big pot of coffee, just the way he’d like. And I felt love for myself in taking care of me as he did, cooking all day for the first time in four years and taking care of things I’ve neglected or done only minimally.
Love uplifts and love sustains. Real love might make you a little crazy sometimes, but love weathers even the tsunamis of grief. True love never ends.
Y’all might be tired of me, but I just want you to know that yesterday I finished physical rehab for my knee. To celebrate and test out their assessment that I could resume normal activities, I decided to check out a park I sometimes pass but have never entered. I’ve missed being in wooded areas, and figured I have a good chance of fighting off or bullshitting any scary people I might encounter.
Besides, I’d had another mini adventure on Tuesday when, while in an area of town I’ve only been to twice, I somehow thought I might be near a BBQ place the ladies at the phone store had recommended when I first arrived in SC. Turned out to be only eight minutes from my errand, and I was thrilled to finally feel I had a sense of location in relationship to anything here, in a place that does not run along the NY grids I’ve known for most of my life. Looking forward to seeing if it was as good as I remembered, I entered and proceeded to act as goofy as many tourists would when I lived in New York. I somehow managed to always be going the wrong way where people were trying to go, had too many questions that the very busy, yet patient staff tried to answer, and managed to bump into or cut in front of the same gentleman three times. After the third time, I could only laugh, apologize, and say, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” And fortunately, he was amused and witty, quickly replying with a serious face, “Why?” giving us both a good laugh and relieving my very uncharacteristic awkwardness.
Today, being a bit hyped when I left the physical therapist, I decided to make my way downtown, maybe have, or pick up some lunch, be around friendly people, and enjoy this beautiful, sunny day. As I headed there, I again noticed the sign for the park I’ve never been in. One of the things I’ve missed most while being incapacitated has been my pretty regular walks in a nature reserve not far from my house. So this seemed like a good time to check out this park, walk a little bit, but mostly just enjoy the woods and the sense of peace it brings to my soul before heading to our adorable downtown area.
As I entered, it appeared to be somewhat similar to my local, but with a worse entrance road. The scenes I glimpsed through my right-side window as I carefully made my way to the parking lot were inviting, with tall trees, and what looked like a lake or stream from the car. I said hello to the trees and thanked them for being here, happy that the recent wildfires hadn’t reached this area, and that these wetland woods were being preserved.
The parking lot was empty except for one car. No entrance station, but one picnic table a few yards from the information sign and a fence leading to the main trail. I surveyed the desolate area, clear in my mind that this would be a short exploration for both physical and safety reasons. Got out to explore, knowing that I wasn’t going far with my cane, but remembered that I keep trekking poles in the car, and retrieved them, figuring that I could get closer to the cypresses that so fascinate me and take a photo, but not get close enough to fall in or have any problems.
As I got closer, I realized that although it fed into the Waccamaw River, this area was, in fact, swampland. Now folks who know me know that I’m a bit phobic about swamps. I can appreciate them and their mysterious beauty, and I’ll fight for their preservation and for the critters that make those swamps their homes. But I do NOT enter swamps, willingly. Driving my son one day during my first year here, he noticed that I was close to the yellow line and made a remark, thinking that I needed to be warned. I in turn explained to him that I had a mortal fear of driving into the swamps that line the sides of the roads and around which there are no barriers. Surprised, he said, “You could get into a head-on collision, isn’t that scarier?!? You’d probably survive a crash into a swamp, Ma.”
I’m not sure if I said exactly what I was thinking, but I made it clear that the likelihood of death was less disturbing to me than the possibility of winding up in the swamp. My phobia might be born of stories from my elders, or just the fact that the water is murky and a repository of who knows what. Whatever its origins, it is visceral and real.
In the years since, I’ve become more secure, and very consciously stay in the middle of my lane rather than the edge furthest from the swamp, but my feelings about swamps remain.
When I entered the park and from what I initially saw, I had no idea that I was heading towards swampland, but once I did, I decided to be brave and athat I wasn’t leaving without trying to get that photo if it could be safely accomplished.
I began to make my way very carefully down the incline, checking for critters, but also anything that might cause me to trip or slide. I stopped every few feet, checking for safety, but also enjoying the scenery at each angle. As I continued down the hill, I noticed a lovely circle of trees, like a giant fairy circle in the woods. It looked like a perfect spot for my photo, and I made my way over to it, quietly asking permission of any inhabitants, and assuring them that I intended no harm to any. As I settled into the circle, I had a good view of the water and noted the fallen branches along the water’s edge. Now two things I learned early on in the South when I spent summers with my grandfather in North Carolina: ya don’t swim in dark/murky waters, and every log isn’t a log! I’ve been reminded of both since moving here, but since I seldom enter anything other than my son’s pool or take an occasional trip to the nearby ocean, these bits of wisdom were in the recesses of my mind. Until today.
As I looked at the logs, one in particular caught my eye, pricking my Spidey senses and causing me to focus my myopic sight as keenly as possible. Remaining still and silent, I watched that log intently. Nothing. But something told me to keep watch, even as I was considering how best to make my way up the slope and back to my car, should the need arise. I remembered hearing that gators couldn’t make sharp turns, and I accessed my ability to “run serpentine” thinking that as slow as I am, the gator might be confused by a human running at angles and in slow motion, thus giving me the chance to make my getaway. I don’t know if gators can laugh, but I imagined that the ridiculous sight of a semi-crippled old lady imitating the funniest scene from “The In Laws” might evoke surprise and amusement enough to slow it down.
And immediately after I had that thought, the log blinked! I in turn blinked, and then, without alarming it, and as quietly and quickly as my arthritic legs could move, I skedaddled!
I’ve had encounters with elk and once with a bear, and I’m respectful towards all living beings, and try never to disrespect their ways, homes, or relatives, so it seemed wise to leave this creature to its territory, because I don’t know much about gators or crocodiles, but I know damned well that even with an adrenaline burst, I can’t outrun one!
Now I’m here to tell you that South Carolina is a beautiful place, with wonderful people, but I am not a lowlands kind of person. I do not like heat and humidity, and ancient as I may be, I do not belong in physical proximity to prehistoric reptiles! That’s a big, fat NOPE for me. Anoles, yes, gators/crocs, no! I’m not a person who tends to panic or lose control, but you can believe that my progress was as swift and steady as I could make it, twisted humor and all.
Once safely ensconced in my locked car, I vowed never to explore the woodlands here alone again. For the foreseeable future, I’ll stick with my local forest reserve, the beaches and finding good places to eat. In my many decades on this earth and in spite of my extensive vocabulary, I have never had cause to say “skedaddle” and I hope never to have such again.
Moving to South Carolina was hard, but having spent summers in North Carolina and 17 years in Virginia, there were a number of things to which I looked forward.
The Spanish moss didn’t disappoint: I’ve loved it since I was seven and first saw it hanging from the trees around my grandfather’s house. Completely infatuated, I bundled as much as I could gather and packed it into my suitcase, carefully placing it on the maples and oaks on my New Jersey street. My mother gently suggested that it might not grow there, knowing full well that it wouldn’t, but I insisted on trying, assuming that my love would be enough for it to thrive. It would not be the last time I would make that mistake.
Other wildlife has been abundant here, and I swoon to the flight of the abundant raptors: hawks, owls, gliding vultures, as well as the ospreys and many smaller birds like bluebirds, cardinals, and chickadees. But to my surprise, two of my favorite critters seemed to be missing. Three years on, I’ve never seen a crow in our area, although I see them in other neighborhoods. I love crows and assumed that I’d have some corvid friends here as I have had in every other place I’ve lived. They make great neighbors and their absence augments my loneliness and sense of not belonging.
Even more surprising, I’d yet to see a mockingbird! If any bird represents the South in my mind, it would be those adorable little feisty, funny birds and their sometimes hilarious, always curious, medley of songs.
This morning I had a grueling physical therapy session, leading my therapist to teasingly say, “Did you forget that PT stands for Pain and Torture?” We both laughed at that, an amusing, momentary distraction from discomfort. I pressed on, knowing how necessary and helpful the sessions have been, but having a particularly hard time, needing to rest and ask for water, something that’s happened only once before.
But I made it through and feeling both relieved and energized, I stepped out into the most beautiful spring day imaginable: sun a shining, gloriously fluffy white clouds dotting a perfectly blue sky, trees green and flowering, azaleas cascading in shades of pink.
Removing my mask and breathing in the fresh, mildly fragrant air, I heard it: the loud, persistent chirping that rapidly changed tunes without a pause. My heart lifted along with my eyes as I scanned the tree it was in, hoping to catch sight of this spirit bird who was clearly moving about, belting out its alternating staccato, fluid, and insistent sounds.
I came cautiously closer, but it was deeply entrenched and perfectly blended into the foliage, allowing me only a quick peep of movement.
But I basked in its glorious fussing, and thanked it for letting me know that like me, despite whatever led to its fussing, it still existed and it was still making its presence known. I aspire to a mockingbird’s level of confidence, assertiveness, and panache.
Three years ago, I was in the final three days of packing in preparation of boarding a plane, and for two and a half months, moving in with my son and his family. It was an unhappy move born of necessity.
Nearly a year before, my husband of 37 years shockingly died, and I stopped eating or wanting to live. Eventually seeing the concern in my son’s eyes at my weight loss and grief, I’d agreed to eat at least one nutritious meal a day, and I honored that promise, despite the fact that my desire to live didn’t return. I also had to accept that I could no longer care for our house, large garden, and flock of chickens, despite the kind and generous help dear neighbors lent.
So, with the help of good friends and family, I packed up our lives, sold and gave away things I knew I would never need again, sent my flock down the street to the neighbors who already loved them, and prepared to move to a state I’d never set foot in, imposing on beloveds just starting their own new journey.
I was bat shit crazy during that time, and what I packed and had sent to me bore that out in sometimes hilarious ways. I received a box I’d apparently insisted to a stalwart and actively supportive friendabsolutely had to be sent directly to me and could not go to storage. Upon opening it and to my surprise, I discovered a bag of coffee and the coffee pot I had swaddled like precious newborns, as if I was moving to a cave far from civilization, where coffee was scarce, Starbucks didn’t exist, and my coffee drinking son would have no means to boil water to pour over those invaluable, crushed brown beans! We laughed uproariously, but I also began to realize how crazy in grief I’d been, especially since unlike hubs, I wasn’t even a regular coffee drinker.
My son and his family made me comfortable, and I was deeply touched by how loving they were when they’d just moved into their house two weeks before my arrival. I was a miserable, walking heap of wreckage, trying to act like a human being and failing. I’d cry between my online classes, forcing myself to “grip it up” and attend to my students, themselves traumatized from Covid lockdown, and sometimes personal loss. I decided to start each class with a few minutes for them to show me their pets or artwork, so that we all relaxed, shared a smile, and bonded as a community, making an anthropological concept a reality, despite being unable to be together. I hope my attention before, during, and after classes was as helpful to them as it was for me, because those hours were the only ones when I could consistently stay dry eyed and attentive to the needs of others.
Being with family made that possible, and gradually began to bring me back to life. My grandchild returned laughter and joy to my heart and gave me reasons to want to curb my furious anguish and adopt the patience and kindness her Abuelo and my own grandfather always displayed with children. With an inner chuckle, I began thinking “What would Ray do?” a Zen koan, reminding me of the zillion times he’d calmed my quick temper and had me rethink first volatile responses. He did it through his inherent calm, while my son did so via logic. Both have saved me many a time, and I thank them, my father and grandfather, all kind, and patiently loving men, along with mi hermosa nuera, an embodiment of loving patience. A good counselor, friends, and knowledge of things the women of my family survived all combined to get me through those hideous months.
Four years since his death, the pain hasn’t subsided nor the tears stopped. I miss mi Rey every single morning, throughout my days and nights, and have mostly accepted that I always will. I’m less obviously crazy, more able to enjoy bits of my life. Most importantly, I’m acutely aware that I am still surrounded in love, and I know for sure that the truly greatest gift really is “just to love and be loved in return”
I’m sleep deprived and have been waking up each day in a foul mood- a serious change from my norm that would be shocking to my husband, were he alive. My early morning, cheerful gregariousness chafed his pre-caffeinated soul, but I think he’d be saddened by its loss since his death.
I think I have a clearer perspective than many on the disturbing upheavals in our socio-political landscape, and while I’m disturbed and saddened by human actions, I’m not easily shocked by human behavior.
However, AI shocked the hell out of me this morning by announcing that “There are new musical releases from Arthur Rubinstein- would you like to hear them?”
Rubinstein was one of my two favorite pianists as a kid who fancied herself the incarnation of Beethoven, but dude has been dead for some 43 years, so dropping new jams came as an unexpected and unnerving surprise.
Now of course I know it means that either unreleased music has been released or previously “lost” recordings found. It happens. But my initial shock was real, even as my rational mind immediately explained it away.
And you know what else? It brought me joy. I listened to his beautiful renderings of Dvorak and remembered my complete love of music and the piano, my devotion to it, and the joy and peace music has always given me, despite the physical, emotional, and metaphysical pain one suffers throughout life.
For a short while, I was transported to the safety of my parents’ home, the comfort of what I thought was a sure path, my beloved teacher, and the encouraging people in my little world. For a short while, the melancholic passages allowed my tears to flow in release rather than my recent feelings of being stuck in loss, pain, frustration, and doubt.
And for a short while, I felt the sweet tug of aspiration and the hope that my slightly arthritic fingers might regain enough flexibility to mimic my musical hero again, not with the agility of youth, but with a deeper knowledge of what both composer and artist sought to say through those notes and phrases.
I am so sick of analogies of darkness being equated with evil/the bad/deprivation. I’m too tired to shriek, so here goes.
We and everything in the natural world were created in darkness. We cry when we’re spasmed out of that nurturing and soothing place into the bright light of turmoil. We adults forget that we need the darkness to shade our eyes, to rest and sleep, to be creative. We value the lotus, but scorn the mud. Yet it is that darkness that not only creates the flower, but continues to feed it and to hold it up to receive the sun. Without that mud, it shrivels and dies, and no amount of light will save it.
Although it exists, most seldom know the healthful balance between Dark and Light, not as opposing forces, but mutually sustaining. We draw sustenance and wealth from the dark, rich Earth, and She is nurtured by rays of Sun, and quenched by the loving Waters. In balance, all is fruitful and giving, and through them, we exist.
Fearing the dark has never made any sense to me. Anything that can happen under cover of darkness can happen in a well lighted space, and the light at the end of the tunnel is likely to be a train you won’t survive. I crave the quietness that comes with sunset- I love how everything in the natural world pauses at twilight before the night singers begin their chirps and croaks, how the ones who hunt at night have silent feathers to blend in with the hush of night. I love the time when loved ones share a meal and stories or simply sit or lie together. That our ancient selves know that work and stress should stop at night, despite our 24-7 societies now. That our bodies fail without the dark and the peaceful quiet that it brings. We ruin it with our lights, and noise, and activities, our bombs flashing, and led lights, but our bodies hold fast to their origins and fail to thrive amidst such things, our health and quality of life diminished and shortened with each additional assault.
I say these things in part because of colour prejudices I’ve heard my entire life, amped up every few years, and accompanied by vile and violent acts against other humans. I’m writing because every time someone equates darkness with evil/ignorance, they are subtly or not so subtly reifying tropes of superiority, inequality, and ideas about worth, and value in our cultures.
I say it for the more trivial reason that our “NY style wardrobes”have an abundance of dark clothing for which we are gently teased when in semi or tropical climes. I honestly find an abundance of bright colours jarring, albeit sometimes beautiful. There are colours I don’t want on my bed and bright patterns that would keep me up at night, without a doubt. In nature, bright colours delight me, but the manufactured versions seem out of place and never have the vibrancy of living things. How could they?
Where I come from, colours have energy and spiritual associations. White is the colour of Death- the loss of our rainbows and life, the ash and bones left in the end. It’s the North, where the Ancestors dwell- not to be feared, but certainly the end story for mortals. Black is Creation and the Source of all Life. It is Earth, the Womb, and Mother. Red is Life, the blood in our veins. Yellow is the Sun, our Father, and lover of Earth. Blue is the Water that sparks Life for all. Green is Sustenance and the Beauty of nature. All necessary elements and aspects of our full cycle, in balance. All are of The Good.
To malign any is to put your ignorance and imbalances on full display. It is a form of violence carried throughout societies for generations. It is a harsh denial of our real place and path in partnership with Earth and all within. It’s also grammatically unnecessary. If you want to say “bad” say bad. “Bad” and “ignorant” have dozens of synonyms you can use. Question your symbology, open or Google a thesaurus, and leave the Dark to her peace.
There’s no longer any chance that Senator Schumer’s “No Kings Act”- an obvious deterrent against Executive Branch overreach-will pass. Nor will any other legislation that benefits working Americans. Many of the usual forms of civil public pressure are unlikely to be effective after December, and it’s likely that even the most tame forms of resistance will be met with increasingly harsh repercussions. While resistance seems to boil up about every thirty years, there hasn’t been a viable third party coordinated with nationally organized protests since the 1930s.
Sadly, it’s unlikely that enough people can organize and come together for a general labor strike this year, and in other year or two, unions and even such basic actions could be illegal if we’re not vigilant, stalwart, and courageous. So rest, regroup, and connect with the natural world we hope to save. Rest is also an act of resistance in our hyper capitalist society, and a right to be protected. Connect as well with the established organizers/organizations already working and who have a track record in community action and alliance/coalition building with diverse communities and groups.
We’re not starting from scratch, folks. The struggle has been essentially the same for 405-532 years for many of us, so welcome aboard. If you’re new to a group, remember what the old folks used to say, “You have two ears and one mouth for a reason.” Be humble, listen, and learn before assuming…anything. While everyone is needed, it’s on you to learn where and when your expertise/experience might serve. It’s also on you to recognize your limits, of experience in diversity as well as personal energy. Humans don’t learn well on overwhelm, so while you want to expand your knowledge of self snd others, be aware of the emotional work involved and support yourself as needed- counseling therapy, yoga, massage, etc. Don’t expect to burden BIPOC with teaching you beyond required basics of the group(s) and don’t rely on allyship or other proximity to BIPOC to avoid the work of establishing new group or individual relationships. Allow time to grow real relationships: this is life work that didn’t start in 2016, and won’t end in four years.
We are always playing the long game, and thinking otherwise is counterproductive. Long term strategies combined with immediate tactics can lead to the systemic, changes necessary for long term, sustainable change and success. The ordinary people for whom integrity, ethical substance, kindness, and fair play matter will be the Marvel heroes and A Team, but only if united. The old ideas of aggressive competition and greed that have been centered since the 80s have led us to this sorry state: American vs American, ignorance of the largess and equality that is the New Testament’s central theme, and a very general unkindness and lack of compassion towards everyone. Antipathy towards science and critical thought mark our entrance to the new wave of the Dark Ages.
Much as many would like to deny it, this is who the corporate “we” have been, but it’s not written in stone and we can choose a different path. We can save what’s always been the best part of the American Dream and our greatest strength: unity in diversity.
I’m sick of Death. Worn down from the personal losses and the always at war world I’ve lived in all my adult life.
I’m beyond dismayed that diplomacy is no longer a tool used to prevent mass killings, that the united world we envisioned after WW2 has been trampled under the heavy boots of armies marching in the service of greed and racism and fascism. I am sick to my soul at the masses of children and elders murdered in Sudan, Mali, Central African Republic, and the other places some of you actually care about, like Ukraine, Palestine, or Israel. Every age yes, but kids and elders tend to among the most vulnerable groups and to have fewer choices in their locals, self defense, etc.
And yes, that was a note of bitterness, because the fact that only certain wars are reported and that only the lives of certain groups matter is at the root of so much of what continues to go wrong, on micro and mega scales across the earth. That some humans are equated with animals means that (A) you don’t know that humans are animals and (B) you think that the value and lives of some animals are less important than yours. Why? Simple: they don’t serve you/your purposes. You don’t understand them or their purpose, therefore they are irrelevant to your limited minds.
Humans don’t create anything but each other and poop (that for the most part isn’t even good fertilizer). You destroy plants and animals and then realize that they were necessary to the environment and therefore your life and its quality. Yet you persist in destruction with the obviously false arrogance that you’re the most valuable and intelligent creatures! No other animals foul their own nests and none attempt to eliminate entire groups of their own species out of greed.
And it almost always boils down to greed and envy: spices, gold, land, oil, minerals, and on and on. Scratch beneath the surface of all chest thumping, song rallying propaganda and rhetoric, and the envy and greed are always there. Always. We can’t unite in peace and love, but almost every nation, race, ethnicity, and gender will get behind mass murder and still show up to pray on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, with no sense of guilt or the least compunction.
And for that and nothing else, generations continue to be sacrificed, both as soldiers and as their victims. As the great Nikki Giovanni put it:
Most people seem not to understand the difference between love and relationship, or at least what people think is love.
There are people I’ve loved with a passion, but for various reasons, those people weren’t able to engage or sustain a relationship. Their unresolved or even unrecognized personal issues turned them into psychological manipulators, or distancers, or rendered them inept or unable to express themselves or engage with others in a meaningful way. With one exception, these were sad men, not bad men, and what they lacked-including the refusal to accept that they needed to learn a different way of being- was inherited and learned from people who themselves had never known intimacy beyond the physical.
Sex is not the only form of intimacy and without the others, it quickly wanes. I would never deny its importance and the joy it can bring within a relationship. Done well, it helps create closeness and trust, because in order for sex to be truly great, each partner has to know not only the other’s body, but their limits and fears and thresholds of pain, however that may be expressed. There’s a level of respect that creates trust and allows for further exploration and innovation and perhaps lovely surprises for both. It’s knowing which boundaries are firm and which might be nudged for greater satisfaction. It is playfulness and time traveling and an assortment of discoveries and joys that can extend the shelf life life beyond the body’s physical limits, because really good sex goes far beyond the physical body and into “the Real,” where souls meet and reconnect. It is a gift and the best fun I can think of, and it enhances love and intimacy. But it’s not the only way that relationships work.
The thing with relationships is that they play out in real time, in real dwellings, among real relatives and friends, at real jobs, in the real trivialities of our daily lives. It’s remembering to replace their ice cream when you’ve eaten the last pop, or that they have a meeting or assignment that they’re dreading. It’s letting them sleep while you walk the dog or change the kitty litter, let the chickens out of the coop. It’s alternating who gets up to rock the baby and get them back to sleep. It’s not teasing in ways that amuse you but annoy them. It’s picking up after yourself and recognizing the baggage you brought into the relationship and working on it, not expecting them to do your work on top of their own. It’s being appreciative of their support as you do work on your shit. It is knowing beyond a doubt, that this person loves you and has your back, ride or die, as no one else can or does. It’s taking the risk of showing someone every aspect of yourself over time and realizing that even if they don’t like it all, they still love you and will be there as you slog through whatever muck needs cleaning or ditching in yourself.
That last bit is particularly hard for people who have shame or guilt and they’ll often reject the beloved for loving them, crazy as that seems to others. It’s hard for people to see themselves through the eyes of the beloved when they’ve been criticized, judged, disparaged, or rejected by others, especially in childhood.
Or perhaps they did wrong things that they’re ashamed of, and are afraid to face that or have it known to the person they only want to see them with eyes of approval. They fear- consciously or not- that they’ll lose esteem or even see horror replace the love.
I’ve known folks who were in the military and by doing their jobs, were responsible for the deaths of other humans, and even years later, could not reconcile that with their inner morality/ethics. Some had survivor’s guilt that they had survived when good companions had not.
Some might have treated women badly at other points in their lives, and others could be ashamed of criminal or unethical behaviors in their pasts.
Some, like me, might have done things others would consider trivial and ordinary childhood events, but they still weigh on that person and seep into the relationship. It doesn’t have to make sense to the beloved, but they have to accept the reality of it for their partner and go from there. Comfort, reassurance, and professional therapy can go a long way in most relationships, because even when we understand and accept a person, we cannot fix another person. We can help to create an emotional environment of peace, acceptance, encouragement, and love that allows for healing, but part of having healthy relationships is knowing where to place the necessary boundaries and to know what is and isn’t yours or yours to fix/heal.
I can chant “there, there” or “sana sana” over a bad cut or broken finger, but professional medical assistance is still necessary, and there’s no shame in that, and there should be no shame if the required assistance is for mental health care either. We are not meant to cover every job in relationships. We are meant to want to help, find out how to help, and to the best of our ability, lovingly point the beloved towards the resources required for the particular issue. Hell, going together to the library to look up resources is a great way to express solidarity and for both to learn things.
There are no wrong or right ways, only what works for you both. And that will change over time, as you change. That’s why honesty is crucial from day one. You have to take into account changes that will have an impact on the relationship: returning to school/new job, wanting to move, have more kids or prevent having more. Big or small, your changes have or can have, an effect on your beloved and they need to be informed. Your partner shouldn’t the last to know if you’re unhappy or dissatisfied or disappointed or turned off in some way! Keeping info from them isn’t “protecting”them or “sparing”them, or any of the cowardly lies you might tell yourself when in reality (remember? Where we all exist..) it is denying them choice and agency. It is a sure way to ruin a good relationship.
Will you screw up? Inevitability. Again, that’s reality. We all do and will, mostly in silly, downright stupid ways that will annoy, perhaps anger, even inspire amused pity in the partner who wonders how they can love such an addle brained fool. In most cases, you’ll even have a good laugh about it and it might become one of those family stories, shamelessly dragged out with friends you trust, among the many stories from everyone’s enduring friendships. The person who screwed up might be first to tell on themselves, noting their own idiocy and fallibility. Those first years together are guaranteed to create such stories, and most are just that: the errors made in getting to know each other, innocent boundary crossings, silly missteps and mistakes. A friend and I both had husbands who used our cutlery for tools because the toolbox wasn’t handy! Annoyed, yes. Forgivable, absolutely! Funny? Most certainly, and the four of us had a number of loving laughs about the daffiness our guys shared. They, in turn, could laugh about our little foibles, like my insistence that you shouldn’t change directions when mixing batter. Believe me, I know it’s daft, and I shake my head at myself and laugh along. If I know nothing else, through my experience and professional training, I know that humans are bundles of contradictions and comically complex. Life gets a lot easier and far more enjoyable once we can own that and laugh at ourselves.
Bigger grievances, true hurts will obviously require real attention, and when trust is broken, if repair is still possible, understand that it can take a very long time and complete self monitoring to rebuild. The aggrieved party is the one who’ll decide when they’re satisfied, not the perpetrator. A real hurt might require that professional assistance we mentioned earlier. Automatically saying you forgive the person or even wanting to be able to forgive them is unrealistic. Boundaries and trust broken is a big deal and has to be handled with delicacy and commitment. Just because the offender gets tired of the dog house, they don’t get to push their way back into the main house of their partner’s heart. Their ego has to be put aside and they have to commit to making amends. And just as in AA, they have to understand that their willingness to make amends doesn’t give them an automatic pass. The loved one can continue to love you but they may not accept your offer until they know that their heart and peace and boundaries are safe. If that will happen or how long it might take cannot be predicted or limited. And if the person who originally ignored what was best for their partner is now unwilling or unable to make that commitment, they don’t really know what love is.
And that’s why knowing what’s most important to your partner and respecting that comes first. If you will not understand that and commit to that level of care, you can never reach those “higher”levels of intimacy and the satisfaction and happiness that they bring.
Is it always easy? Hell no. Is it worth it? Yes, beyond measure. I’m old and have done a number of things, seen a lot, heard more, made more mistakes than I care to admit, and I can think of nothing more important in any relationship, whether friendship or lover. All relationships go through changes. I have a couple of friends from my teens and over the years, we’ve lost touch, had disagreements, reworked how we know each other, and renewed and created new understandings of how we’re friends as we go through life and move further away from the kids we were. Aspects of those original relationships are there, bound by shared experiences, humor, and love, but if forced to remain the same and stagnate, respect and love would die.
My sister and I had a fourteen year age gap, so as adults, we very consciously worked on getting to know each other as individual adults with very different takes on our childhoods and parents. It allowed us to move away from the family story into our own sometimes shaky, but genuine relationship.
All good long term relationships require flexibility, adaptations, and humor. What makes them doable is love and commitment. I learned as much from my son as he from me and my love for him allowed me to rethink, even put aside at least some of my ideas about child rearing and the world. I continue to learn from him and his family, because their experience of the world isn’t mine nor is their world the world of my past. So I try to keep that in mind and work to resolve inevitable differences between our strong wills. We’re all worth the effort, because I know that they and all my loved ones enhance my life and make my world and the world a better place. They and I are worth my sometimes bruised ego or the pain of adapting to new ideas and realities, and I love them enough to sometimes request the difficult conversations.
We can change most easily through love. It never stops growing, and our capacities are built to accommodate that amazing, sometimes mind-blowing growth.
shamamaspeaks 