Sunday, December 20, 2020

SOME DAYS : Notes on Pandemic Life Nine Months In

Some days I feel like I am holding my breath.

Some days I breathe easy.

Some days I don't want to answer my phone.

Some days I don't want to look at my email or texts.

Some days I avoid the news.

Some days I just want to watch the birds at my feeders.

Some days I miss my family and friends so much my jaw aches.

Some days I am grateful for Zoom, Skype, FaceTime.

Some days I wish they had never been invented.

Some days I walk with a friend.

Some days I walk by myself.

Some days I get lost in a book or a jigsaw puzzle.

Some days I write.

Some days I knit.

Some days I can't settle to anything.

Some days I try to do some good.

Some days I can't think what that could look like.

Some days I know that my cup runneth over.

Some days I can't feel it. 

Some days I am grateful.

Some days I pray for those who suffer in body, mind, or spirit.

Some days I remember that is everyone.

Some days I want to weep.

Some days I want to sing.

Some days I wish I were a frontline worker doing some good.

Some days I am (selfishly) glad I am not.

Some days I grieve for those who have died.

Some days I rejoice to still be here.

Every day I wait to see what will come next.












Saturday, November 28, 2020

I DIDN'T THINK IT WOULD BE SO HARD: Reflections on a Covid Thanksgiving

I didn't think it would be so hard.  I thought I could do a quiet Thanksgiving. I did all right for a while. And, then, without warning, the melancholy set in. All it took was the placing of two (and only two) plates on the table for me to become sad.  Very sad.  

I think I have tolerated the pandemic pretty well.  I am good at entertaining myself.  I like to spend time alone.  Sure, there have been bad days, but it wasn't until Thursday that the loss of human connection due to the pandemic really hit home. 

I don't usually like big gatherings - I prefer to take people one-by-one or, at most, a handful at a time.  But Thanksgiving - Thanksgiving is different.  It is my favorite holiday.  No presents - just lots of food and a jigsaw puzzles and beloved people.

This year we had the food and the puzzle, but there was no need to set up a card table for the puzzle--it fit just fine on the dining room table.


Sitting there, just the two of, it felt like my husband and I were surrounded by ghosts.  Yes, we said our gratitudes, and there was and is plenty to be thankful for.  But, then we found ourselves naming those who have sat around the dining room table over the years - always some combination of our kids and their families, extended family, friends, even ex-spouses.  (They are always family when you have kids together.)

And then there was the fact that we had to do all of the cooking.  In recent years, Mara, my youngest, has taken over the kitchen while I have followed her around doing dishes.  And those who have joined us have always made contributions to the groaning table.  

Even in years when we have not hosted at Thanksgiving, we have always spent it with others.  Never alone. 

And, yes, I know, that many have suffered much greater losses. There are those who have lost loved ones or jobs or homes to the pandemic.  There are those who live alone and are unable for a variety of reasons to get together outside with others for a walk or a visit.  There are those who can't visit loved ones in hospitals or nursing homes.  There are also exhausted health care workers who are putting their lives on the line for us every day, even as people refuse to wear masks and insist on gathering. 

So, on this day, two days after Thanksgiving, with Christmas just a few weeks away, I offer thanks for health and friends and family and a warm and comfortable home.  And I pray that we will find a way to come together as a nation to take care of those who are suffering the most during this challenging time. 



Sunday, November 8, 2020

ON KINDLY UNCLES AND BREAKING GLASS CEILINGS

Ok, I'll admit it.  Biden wasn't my first choice.  And yet I have spent the last 24 hours awash with joy and relief.  Here's the thing.  I have come to believe that Joe Biden is just the kindly uncle we need right now. Sure, he knows his way around the White House and has lots of experience working across the aisle and, sure, he will work on the issues that matter to me - addressing climate change, striving to make  the American dream available to those who have been left out and left behind, getting everyone health care, conquering the virus.  But, really, the best thing about him might just be his avuncular manner.  

Yes, that comes with him telling long-winded stories about his youth and, well, being old.  But, so what?  He isn't unhinged.  He won't be throwing tantrums in the White House.  He won't be calling women pigs.  He won't be calling Mexicans rapists.  He won't be whining and poor-me-ing when he doesn't get his way.  

We all have a crazy uncle or grandfather or friend.  The one who comes to Thanksgiving dinner and won't shut up about every divisive or embarrassing topic he can come up with.  Or the one that comes to the White House and stays for four years.  

We have traded in that crazy uncle for a sane one, one who will at least try to calm things down and bring us together.  And that would have been enough for me today.

But there's more.  He has invited a woman, a Black and Asian woman, for Thanksgiving dinner.  And to the White House.  

People - I am a nearly-71-year-old woman who did not think she would live to see this day.  Women's suffrage was not quite 30 years old the year I was born.  The idea of a woman in the White House was not even on my radar during my childhood.  Men were Presidents.  Women were homemakers.

It took second-wave feminism to make the idea seem plausible, although it soon became clear that there would be many obstacles thrown in the path of female candidates.  I watched Shirley Chisholm run in 1970 and cheered for Geraldine Ferraro in 1984.  But, after Hillary's defeat in 2016, and listening to Trump and Pence express their troglodyte views of women in front of cheering crowds, I figured we wouldn't be seeing a woman in the White House any time soon.  

So, today, I celebrate not just the repudiation of mean-spiritedness and purposeful divisiveness, I celebrate the first female Vice President. The first woman of color to serve in that role. 

Last night, I had tears in eyes as I listened to Kamala Harris.  Women my age have waited a very long time for this day.  Today, my daughters and granddaughters have a role model. And little black and brown girls can look at the White House and see someone who looks like them.  

The 1950s called and we said, uh uh, we aren't going back.

So, tomorrow we can resume the hard work of making this an America for all Americans.  Today, let's pause to rejoice. 

                        Gif by Kaho Yoshida


Tuesday, October 20, 2020

DESIGN FLAWS: SOME THOUGHTS ON SLEEP AND OTHER ANIMAL ODDITIES


I have in in some past posts looked at my fellow humans and asked, "why do they do that?"  This time, I want to ask, "Why did Nature/God/the Universe do that?"  These are questions we rarely ask because they involve the given ground rules for our being.  This, however, does not stop these questions from arising for me, so here I go.  


SLEEP.  Let me begin by saying that I love sleep.  I love crawling between clean sheets and arranging a nest of pillows.  I love leaving the waking world for a while and, on a good night, waking up refreshed. But last night as I got into bed, adjusted my pillows, and put earbuds in to listen to a podcast that would, hopefully, ease me into sleep, it suddenly occurred to me how odd it is that we willingly lie down and make ourselves defenseless and vulnerable for 6 to 8 of every 24 hours.  (And, mind you, we humans generally do this when the world is in darkness, adding to the vulnerability.)  


If you were designing say, an electronic device, would you create something that was incapable of functioning for one-third of every day while recharging? 


SEX.  Yep. I like sex too.  I like the intimacy. I like the pleasure.  And it is a good way to leave behind the petty annoyances that can wear on a relationship.  But, face it, there must be a less-complicated way to reproduce.  I think my eldest came up with the best response to the oddity that is sex when she was four.  After asking her father how a baby gets into "the baby tummy," and being told the daddy has a seed and the mommy has an egg, she waited exactly one day to ask me how the seed got to the egg.  When I told her, she responded, "Penis in vagina--that's too silly for me."  And so it is, when looked at from the point of view of one who has yet to experience its pleasures.    


FOOD.  Again, I like to eat, although I don't much enjoy preparing food. (Click here for a description of my freakish cooking jag early in the pandemic.) I love Mexican food.  And Italian food.  I love chocolate. And I have missed gathering with family or friends over a meal during this pandemic.  But would you drive a car if it required you to spend hours every week shopping for and preparing its fuel?  


ELIMINATION.  This inevitable aftermath of eating food as fuel is a very complicated process, requiring (for humans) toilets and sewer systems in order to avoid disease.  And then there are our pets - We need poop bags for dogs and kitty litter for cats.  I can't believe that Nature could not have come up with a better system.  Couldn't she have set us up with the equivalent of an oil change every six months and left it at that?


CLOTHING AND SHELTER: How come we are the only animal designed with a need for multiple garments to protect our skin and keep us warm?  And don't we win the award for elaborate shelters?  Perhaps the Universe wanted to give us something to do with our time. (As if the food thing weren't already keeping us busy enough.)  And, yes, there is creativity here -- fashion design and architecture, for starters.  Look, I love my home and am willing to clothe myself, but couldn't the powers that be have provided us with the basics -- kind of like a minimum income, only in this case it would be minimum bodily protection, so that a huge swath of humanity wouldn't have to suffer during temperature extremes?


It would seem that Nature has set us down without protection and with a whole bunch of complicated needs and let us have at it to see how we would fare.  


How would you say the experiment is going so far?  

 

                                      photo by Kinga Cichewicz on Unsplash
                                 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday, September 2, 2020

IF I RULED THE WORLD (And Possessed the Requisite Superpowers)

           The standard workweek would be four, seven-hour days.  There would be as many 12-step groups for workaholism as there are for alcoholism.  

           In the pacific-northwest, sunny days in January and February would be holidays for non-emergency workers. 
        
           Better yet, there would be no rainy days in January and February.  (Super powers, remember.)  

           Rain would fall overnight, every other night in the summer, but never during the day.  Watering would be a thing of the past.

           The contributions of writers and other artists to society would be celebrated and financially supported by grateful and proud fellow citizens.  

            No child would ever be encouraged to choose a vocation that is “practical” over the one that captures their heart.    

            Corporate executives and others who earn sums in a week or month that ordinary mortals would not dream of earning in a lifetime would suffer intolerable shame, and feel compelled to prove their worth as human beings by devoting 90 percent of their income to good works.  This would still leave them with more income than 99 percent of the residents of planet earth.  (Note to conservatives – this is not socialism; it is self-correction.)

            There would be no organized sports for kids under the age of 10.  Informal games, such as stickball, would be encouraged.  Parents who behave badly at their children’s sporting events would be assigned to a program to help them develop their own interests. 

            The basic food, housing, education, and healthcare needs of all world citizens would be met before a penny was spent by any nation on its military.  (Meeting said needs would undoubtedly reduce the need for military spending.)  World leaders would be trained to "use their words" instead of their weapons.

            There would be no "bad schools." Tax revenues would be pooled to provide equal funding across school districts.  

            Advertising in schools would be illegal.        

            Junk food in school cafeterias would be illegal.  Knowledgeable un- and underemployed cooks and chefs would be paid a living wage to create enticing and nutritious meals for kids.

            Children would not be allowed to carry more than ten percent of their body weight in their backpacks.

            All automobiles would have to get at least 60 mpg. 

            There would be a stiff annual surtax on SUVs.  Persons who could demonstrate that they actually require such vehicles to navigate rough weather conditions could apply for a waiver.    

            Anyone leaving their car running while stopped for more than a minute would be fined.

            It would at least as difficult to obtain a license to bear arms as to obtain a license to drive a car.  

            The owner of an unsecured firearm used by someone else to cause injury or death either purposely or accidentally would be charged with a felony.

            Owning an assault weapon would be a felony.

            Pesticides would be controlled substances that could not be bought without a prescription from a person certified in integrated pest management.

            Companies that sell themselves as lawn services and indiscriminately bomb lawns with a chemical mix would be illegal.  The owners of yard care companies with the words “chemical” or “chem” in their names would be declared illegal aliens and returned to the planet whence they came.

            Bad pruning would be a crime. The first offense would be a misdemeanor, punishable with mandatory pruning school.  After that, the crimes would be classified as felonies--treeslaughter, intentional arborcide, involuntary arborcide etc.

            Airline seats would be large enough to comfortably accommodate average-sized adults.

            All malls would be dismantled and replaced by greenways.  

            No child would have to compete with an electronic device for their parent’s attention.  Same in reverse.  Use of cell phones would be forbidden during all meals.  Always.  Everywhere. 

            Christmas would be more like Thanksgiving – food, family, friends, fun, and less like, well, Christmas as we know it, with its emphasis on shopping and presents.

            Households that had the TV on less than 10 hours a week would get an income tax deduction.  Those with the TV on less than 5 hours a week would get an income tax credit.

           Chocolate would be the major source of protein and would contain no calories.  
            
                  
   photo by Church of the King on Unsplash      


            

Thursday, August 13, 2020

WHAT DAY IS IT, ANYWAY? (and other pandemic questions)

In the last few years of her life, when she was in her 90s, my mother would sometimes call to ask me the time.  Although I have a few good years left before my 90s, I do find that the pandemic has left me also feeling a bit untethered from the usual markers of time passing. 

Sometimes I can't remember what day it is.  The other morning, I woke up thinking, "Is today Thursday or Friday?"  I decided to work backwards.  "Let's see, was yesterday Wednesday or Thursday?"  

I couldn't answer either question.

When I recounted this to a friend, she said, "I know what you mean. What we need are those day-of-the-week panties that we wore when we were little girls." 

Anyone else remember these?



Or maybe what we need are day-of-the-week socks.  That way, we could discreetly check the day without disrobing.

Of course, we would have to figure out which pair to wear on any given day.  I think the trick would be to check the day when putting on the first pair, then store the socks in order, carefully putting on the next pair each day.  (Just don't let anyone near the sock drawer, or we will all be doomed.)

And shouldn't time be passing sloooowly during this lockdown?  
How is it always Saturday?  Where do the weeks go?  Is the pandemic eating them?

And how is it mid-August already? Did we have a spring?  I can't remember.

Oh, yeah, and how about the fact that every time I look up, it is 3 p.m.? And speaking of 3 p.m., how am I always finding myself at that hour with nothing to show for myself?  Shouldn't I have accomplished one of the many projects I was always going to take care of when I had time?

Bonus question:  If time seems to be flying by, why does it feel like November 3 will never arrive?

These are pandemic mysteries that I will leave you to solve.  I, for one, am off to order some socks.


Monday, July 27, 2020

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

At a family dinner for my birthday last November, one of my bonus sons** suggested that everyone take turns describing me in one word. And so they did, each in turn, going around the table.  It was lovely and interesting and touching.  When it was my son-in-law Peter's turn, he did not hesitate.  "Curious" was his word.

I was flattered. I am, after all, as the title of this blog makes clear, not getting any younger.  To be seen as curious feels like a high compliment.

And, indeed, I am.  Curious.  I love to learn new things, to read about stuff I heretofore knew nothing about.

I love discovering new words, new writers, new poems and novels.  I love being surprised by new ways of approaching old problems.

I am the kind of person who asks questions of the dentist when her mouth is filled with equipment.

Curiosity seems a fine way to ward off aging.

Here is something cool my curiosity recently led me to.  I have been doing research for a writing project.  This involves reading about 19th-century Glasgow, as well as reading books written during this period. In the course of my reading, I came across the word speir.   When I looked it up, I learned it means inquirer.  Thus, my name --Speirs -- reflects my curiosity.

I love this.

Before discovering its meaning, I never much liked my name.  For one thing, no one can spell it.  Even when I spell it out slowly, it gets written down as Spiers or Spears or Speers or Speris.  For another thing, people think I am German, which would be OK if I were German, but I am not. I am Scottish.  My folks left Scotland for Canada shortly before my birth, and Speirs really is a Scottish name.

Here's proof.

When I was in Scotland last autumn, I took a picture of this street sign not far from my aunt's home in a suburb of Glasgow.



And then there is this Edinburgh-based estate agent company (realtors to Americans).



And, finally, there is Glasgow's Speirs Wharf.

Regardless of my background, I am, of course, an American.  But being a naturalized citizen, my roots feel very close. And now that I know its meaning, I feel more warmly toward my surname.

There is still, however, the matter of my first name.  Growing up, I was the only Marjorie among the Lindas, Cathys, Barbaras, Carols, Marilyns, and Susans.  No one under the age of 80 had my name and it has not come back into fashion during any decade of my lifetime.  

Is it not odd that we don't get to choose the name by which we present ourselves to the world? On the other hand, if the choice were not given to our parents, we might wander about without a given name for years. And what are the odds we would want to live with a name we might have chosen at, say, age three? 

When I became an American citizen at age 19, I considered changing my first name to Heather.  (This could easily have been accomplished as part of the citizenship paper work.) I would simply ditch Marjorie. After all, as with my surname, who could spell or say it?  To this day, when I order a sandwich, I give my middle name to avoid hearing the person behind the counter yell out "Mayjorie" (no 'r') or "Margarine."

I am glad I did not make the change to Heather for I would have been stuck with a name that, for me, lost its appeal over time.  A decade or so later, though, I again semi-seriously considered changing my name. This time, I toyed with Anne (my middle name) Thomson (my mother's birth name). I quickly realized, however, that I would still have spelling issues.  I could imagine myself repeating, "That's Anne with an 'e' and Thomson, no 'p.'"

And so I (mostly) made peace with my name (just don't call me "Marge") and gave the name Anne to my first daughter and Mara to my second born. Simple names, I believed, and yet, Anne, while living in London, introduced herself to someone and was met with, "Your name is "N"? And I sometimes have to correct those who would pronounce Mara ( properly Mahrah) as Mayrah, with a long "a" in the first syllable.  

I conclude, therefore, that there are no simple names.  I am sure that people can find a way to mishear and misspell or mispronounce Smith or Jones.  I can hardly begin to imagine the plight of those Americans who do not have European-sounding names.  And I am certainly aware that any challenges presented by my name are nothing compared to the challenges of those whose "Black-sounding" names keep them from getting job interviews or other perks of our white-centered culture.  Sure, there was a time in my youth when my female first name might have kept me from opportunities, but at present the only prejudice Marjorie is likely to evoke is the assumption that I am ancient. And now that I am getting up in years, I can't even complain about that.

And so I will sign off here with the full name given me by my parents -- Marjorie Anne Speirs.  

And just out of curiosity, I will ask:  How about it, readers -- what have people done to your names and would you change them if you could?  



**I have three stepsons.  A few years ago when I was casting about for a term that would indicate our relationship, without making them "step" or claiming to have raised them, a friend suggested "bonus sons."  This seems to cover the pleasure of my having them in my life, without my taking any credit for their awesomeness.  I guess that makes their wives "bonus daughters," and the man one of them married, another "bonus son."  Such bounty.


Tuesday, July 7, 2020

THE ONE, TWO.THREE, FOUR, ISOLATION COVID BLUES


As I ponder the Covid lockdown, an Elvis song that was popular when I was a kid has been running through my mind.  With apologies to The King, here is my updated rendition. (Now, I just need someone with a guitar and a voice to sing it for me.)

The One, Two, Three, Four Isolation Covid Blues

(sung to the tune of Elvis Presley’s Occupation G.I. Blues - If you don't know the song, do click on the link before reading  my lyrics.)

I live in a house 
with a beautiful garden out back
I live in a house 
with a beautiful garden out back
Gimme a day with friends
To cheer up this sad sack.

I’ve got those one, two, three, four
isolation covid blues
From my uncut hair to the toes of my unworn shoes
And if I don’t see a new face soon
I’m gonna blow my fuse.

We eat healthy meals
at the kitchen table each day
We eat healthy meals 
at the kitchen table each day
I’d blow my whole IRA
For a meal in a restaurant, say.

We’d sure like to help
but all we do here is wait
We’d sure like to help 
but all we do here is wait
And they can’t say how long
We’re gonna be stuck in this state.

I’ve got those one, two, three, four
isolation covid blues
From my uncut hair to the toes of my unworn shoes
And if I don’t see a new face soon
I’m gonna blow my fuse.

I’d meet you today at the beach
but folks won’t wear masks
I’d meet you today at the beach
but folks won’t wear masks
So we’re stuck in the back yard
‘til there’s a vaccine at last.

I’ve got those one, two, three, four
isolation covid blues
From my uncut hair to the toes of my unworn shoes
And if I don’t see a new face soon
I’m gonna blow my fuse.



Wednesday, June 24, 2020

YOU TAKE THE HIGH ROAD AND I'LL STAY AT HOME: Confessions of a Reluctant Traveler

      "East, west, home's best."  - Anne Shirley

It has been over three months since the start of the pandemic lockdown. Even before George Floyd's horrible murder brought thousands into the streets to demonstrate for racial justice, people were starting to chafe.  

I, as a person over the age of concern, have been careful.  I wear a mask when I go to the store and avoid getting close to people who are not doing the same.  


Now, things are starting to open up. People are gathering. People are getting their hair cut.  People are going to restaurants. People will soon be comfortable flying again.  

To be honest, it's the flying-again part that is giving me the most pause. The truth is I am fine with not being able to fly.  I don't love to travel. I know -- many people dream of traveling in retirement.  What can I say?  It is not at the top of my list.  Covid is an excellent excuse not to fly.  

When I told a friend I was going to write about this, she said, "But you travel all the time."  Well, I do travel.  I travel because I want to see friends and family and some of them live 2000- or 3000-miles-away.  I will keep traveling to see them.  I just won't love it.  

When I am away from home, I miss my house, my garden, my bed, my pillow.  By the end of the first week, I am thinking pretty steadily about home.  Yes.  I am a travel wimp.  

Look, I'm not afraid to fly; I just don't like it.  I don't like the crowded seating (and I am a fairly small person - how do large people manage?); I don't like sitting around the airport listening to people speak loudly on their cell phones as if everyone around them were part of the conversation; I don't like airport food; I don't like large airports where you have to take a shuttle to get from one terminal to another.  I don't like arriving somewhere by air and then having to wait in line for a rental car.  

Last September, we flew to Scotland to visit my cousin and for me to do some research for a writing project.  I loved spending time with Judy and her husband.  I loved being in Scotland.  I did not, however, love going without sleep for 24 hours (flight plus time- change).  I can't sleep on a plane. (Who are these people who can sleep on a plane?)  I did not love the jet lag in each direction. I did not love the eight days it took me to feel I was back in my body after arriving home.  When I returned from this trip, I felt that I would probably never fly overseas again.  (The Pacific NW is very far from Europe.)  Of course, as was the case with pregnancy, I am likely to forget the unpleasant parts and repeat the experience.   

And, yes, this is a first-world lament. I know there are those who would give their lives to put their children on a plane to safety.  I would gladly give my seat on a plane to someone who wishes to flee a war-torn place.  I just don't know how to make that happen, other than to donate to international relief organizations. (I am open to other ideas.)

Of course, there are places I still want to see.  At least in theory.  And I am deeply grateful that I have been to Paris and to the Alhambra. But, even when we have taken a trip in search of sun during one of our rainy and gray winters; even when I have enjoyed wearing shorts in February; my favorite part of every trip is always arriving home.  Here's the bottom line.  I am a homebody. When I cross the threshold, I want to rub my back against the walls like a cat.  Everything I love and need is here.  

Except, of course, for those faraway friends and family members.  


Photo by Gerrie van der Walt on Unsplash



Friday, June 12, 2020

THE REMEMBRANCE OF BOOKS PAST; My Life as a Reader (Part II)

This post is dedicated to my book group - Bev, Catherine, Karen, Linda, (and Kay, who is smiling on us from beyond the veil.) Thank you for accompanying me for 30-plus years through the reading of books that we have loved or reviled.  (We certainly have learned not to trust the book-jacket descriptions, haven't we?)

Back in January, I wrote Part I of this post, fully intending Part II to be my next effort.  Instead, the pandemic came along and other topics began to feel more pressing.  Then, when I felt ready to get to part II, a post about books addressing racism niggled at me to be written, and so I put off the second part again.

Now, in order to finish with this topic, I give you Part II.

In Part I, I told you how many books I had read last year.  You might have wondered how I was able to come up with that number.  Well, about three years ago, having noticed that I would forget whether I had read a book or would remember I had read a book but could not remember what it was about, I started keeping a list of the name, author, and a brief description of each book I finished. So, when I wanted to count up how many books I had read last year, I had only to consult my list, which is organized by month and year.  

Once I started keeping this list, I found myself wishing I had begun it when I was 12 or 13 or whenever it was that I moved beyond the young-people's section in the library.  What I wouldn't give for such a list.  So, I decided to take things a step further and try to make a list of all of the books I could remember ever having read.  I know.  I know.  This may seen a bit OCD or even, dare I admit it, nuts.  But, stay with me.  

Of course, there is no way I will ever remember all of the thousands of books I have read in my lifetime.  And, no, I did not sit down and try to do it all at once.  I simply opened a file and every time I remembered a book, I added it.  

And then it got to be a kind of treasure hunt.  In order to prompt my memory, I would periodically, envision myself at a time and place in my life and try to remember what I had been reading.

There I am at 11, reading Anne of Green Gables and all of its sequels.  At 12 or so, I am reading Betty Smith (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Maggie-Now).  

Now I see myself at 16, spending the summer reading A Tale of Two Cities and The Scarlet Pimpernel and Mutiny on the Bounty. (My adventure phase).

What was I assigned in high school?  I can remember Seize the Day (Bellow) and The Catcher in the Rye, along with the rest of Salinger's output, and that's about it, although I know there were many, many more.

There I am at 23, curled up in a chair reading Blackberry Winter by Margaret Mead and all of Margaret Drabble.  And, of course, pouring over the feminist bible - Our Bodies Ourselves. A couple of years later, I am sitting in a different chair in a different state reading The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing and all of Galsworthy's The Forsythe Saga, along with Fear of Flying by Erica Jong and a biography of Zelda Fitzgerald by Nancy Milford. 

In my early thirties, I see myself reading John Nichols and Herman Wouk and and Herman Hesse and Marge Piercy and who else?

Picturing myself in various armchairs in various apartments or houses only got me so far, so I tried other memory prompts. Here are a few of those prompts, with some examples of the books I came up with.

The books I read as a college English major:  All of Henry James, but especially The Portrait of a Lady; Mark Twain and Sinclair Lewis; Balzac and Mann; Fitzgerald and Hemingway.  When I call these authors to mind, I am struck by the fact that we weren't being offered much written by women, and, as I noted in my last post, there was nothing by black or brown authors.  I hope that has changed in nearly 50 years. 

The books I read during college that were not assigned:  The Autobiography of Malcom X; The Liberation of Lord Byron Jones (Jesse Hill Ford).

The books I might not have discovered if not for the voracious readers in my book group:  Telex From Cuba (Rachel Kushner);  Brown Girl Dreaming (Jacqueline Woodson).

The books I pressed on everyone:  How to Change Your Mind (Michael Pollan); Bel Canto (Ann Patchett).

The books I struggled to understand:  Astrophysics for People in a Hurry (Neil DeGrasse Tyson); A Brief History of Time (Stephen Hawkins.

The page turnersPillars of the Earth (Ken Follet): Lonesome Dove (Larry McMurtry).

I won't bore you with further examples.  You get the idea.

Here's the thing.  My life is full.  I do not have time for this project and I have mostly given up on it.  Nor can I recommend that you try it.  

What I do recommend is that you start now to make a list of the books you read as you finish them.  Looking back on the books I have read since I started keeping my list three years ago, I can see how one book led to another. I can see when I was looking for something meaningful and when I was looking for escape.  My sentence about each book reminds me which ones I loved, which were just OK, and which were a waste of my time. 

What I am creating is a sort of literary autobiography.  

So, if you too are an avid reader, you might try this method of creating your own record. It takes almost no time if you do it as you go along.  (And, who knows, you might find you are able to jog your memory of that book you kind of think you might have read two years ago . . .)




Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash











Saturday, May 30, 2020

READING TO SAVE OUR SOULS

Several times this week I sat down to finish a post about reading.  This was to be my long-delayed Part II to an earlier post.  But it had been a terrible week, and I couldn't settle to it.  I couldn't get the image of that white cop with his knee on the neck of a black man out of my mind.  I couldn't stop seeing that white woman in Central Park going off on a black man for asking her to leash her dog in an area where leashes were required.  I kept asking myself - How is it possible that a black man was arrested for allegedly trying to pass a counterfeit $20 bill and the white man with his knee on the black man's neck wasn't restrained by the cops who were with him?  And why wasn't the cop who kept his knee on the black man's neck after said black man had lost consciousness taken into custody immediately?  Let's go over that again:  A black man arrested (and killed) after allegedly trying to pass a fake $20 bill and a white man allowed to walk away after causing the black man's death.

Whose thumb is on the scale of justice?

Yes, I know the cop has now been charged, but the other three cops who stood by have not.  And why wasn't the woman in Central Park charged for making a false police report?  There should be consequences for white people who call the police because a person of color is conducting his or her life within their sight.

So, getting back to the post I was trying to write - I couldn't finish it.  It felt frivolous in the face of these events.  And then it occurred to me that reading (and writing about reading) isn't frivolous.  While reading can be pure entertainment, it can also open otherwise unseen worlds for us.

Books can teach us if we are willing to learn.

And so, I have put aside my unfinished post for the time being, and will approach reading from a different perspective right now.

A while back, I wrote a post about race relations.   There, I addressed women of color to see if we could find a way to talk.  To see how white women could be of help in the fight for racial justice.  Now, I think it is much more important for me to address white women (and white men).  Black people have enough on their plates.

So, because I can't think of anything else to do with my anger and sorrow right now, I'm going to tell you about the books that have helped to open my eyes to the effects of systemic racism in America.

But first let me admit that these books were not front and center in my reading life until recently.

I began my life reading that which was fed to me.  I don't remember reading any books by or about black people in high school.  I read dozens of books - fiction and non-fiction - in my years as a college English major, most of them written by dead white men about issues of concern to white men.  (There was nothing wrong with most of these books in and of themselves.  What was wrong was the dearth of books written from other perspectives.) I did read Malcom X and Toni Morrison and Alice Walker, but not for any class. In the years after that, I read more and more books by and about women. A few, but not many, of these books were by or about people of color.

It wasn't until three or four years ago that I began to seek out books about the experiences of black and brown people in America.**  Some of these I read with my book group and some on my own. I would like to use this post to share a list of some of these books. I do not share this list by way of self-congratulation. I share it because we cannot break down systemic racism unless we understand it.  I hope you will consider reading some of these important books, if you have not already done so, and that you will share your book suggestions in the comments. (Most of these are  newish books; some are older books that I have recently read.)

FICTION

The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead

Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson

The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Kindred by Octavia Butler

Sula by Toni Morrison

Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson (prose-poem)

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward

Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

The Bluest Eye by Tone Morrison


NONFICTION

Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates (a black man's letter to his son, describing racism in America)

We Were Eight Years in Power by Ta-Nehisi Coates (a collection of articles written during Barack Obama's presidency)

Stamped From the Beginning:  The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America by Ibram X Kendi

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin (Baldwin's essays about growing up in Harlem)

Becoming by Michelle Obama (autobiography)

The Hemingses of Monticello by Annette 
Gordon-Reed (the story of Thomas Jefferson's "other family")

Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson (about author's remarkable work representing death-row inmates)

The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America's Great Migration by Isabel Wilkerson (the story of the migration of African-Americans from the Jim-Crow south to northern cities)


Photo by John-Mark Smith on Unsplash


** I shared this quote from Maya Angelou in an earlier post and I will share it again now:  "Do the best you can until you know better.  Then when you know better, do better."








Saturday, May 2, 2020

THE SOLACE OF POETRY


Each morning, after waking and taking care of my ablutions, I do these things:  I return to bed and do some lying-down stretches. Next, I get out of bed and do some standing-up stretches.  

Then comes the good part.

I sit on the edge of my bed and pull out one of the books of poetry that lives on the shelf in my bedside table.  With pleasant anticipation, I open the book at random and read a poem.  Sometimes two or three, if I am not feeling too eager to get to my first cup of tea.

After this, I spend a few minutes meditating and/or praying (after a fashion).  

Each part of this routine is important to me, but today I want to focus on the reading-a-poem part.

A poem is, for me, the perfect reading material for early morning.  It is such a compact pleasure.  So much wisdom or beauty or humor or pick-an-emotion packed into a few lines or pages. Truly a poem goes straight to the heart of the matter, whatever the matter may be. 

And there’s this:  First thing in the morning, my brain is not yet fully online. And, where poetry is concerned, that is just fine.  Although my brain is engaged when I read a poem, it is not taking the lead. I more inhabit a poem than think about it.  In fact, too much thinking can sometimes ruin the experience.  Often the only approach is to let the poem wash over the heart and soul and see what is left behind.  What could be more suitable for the half-awake spirit?

I guess it isn’t surprising that I choose to start each day this way, for I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love poetry.  As a child, I poured over a collection for young people – Its title is lost to me, but I can clearly see its blue cover and black spine. I thrilled to "The Highwayman” (Alfred Noyes), mesmerized by the bravery of Bess, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, who gave her life to warn her true love of his impending arrest, and “Sea Fever” (John Masefield), which gave voice to my love of the ocean.

In high school, I discovered Robert Frost (“Some say the world will end in fire/Some say in ice.”) and Emily Dickinson (“I’m nobody! Who are you?/Are you – Nobody – too?”)  And then in college I discovered the English Romantics. The words of these men, almost all of whom died young, suited my sense of the dramatic.  I remember a day when I wandered the campus, desperate to find someone who might appreciate these lines from Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind”: 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 

As I said, these were my dramatic years . . .

As I awoke to feminism’s second wave, I turned from the drama of the English Romantics to that of Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.  (OK, so I was smitten with depressives.)  And I returned to Emily Dickinson as salve for a broken heart:  “After great pain a formal feeling comes --”

I also fell for e .e. cummings and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, John Donne and Theodore Roethke.  During these years, I memorized yards of poetry – not on purpose, but as a side-effect of returning to favorites again and again.   Here are a few lines from Roethke’s The Waking,” a poem etched on my heart to this day:

             I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.   
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?   
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.   
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

As the years went by, I discovered Adrienne Rich and and William Stafford, Denise Levertov and  W. S. Merwin, Donald Hall and Jane Kenyon, Maya Angelou and Rita Dove --  and so many more.

Now, in addition to whatever I open to in the morning, my taste runs to Rumi and Mary Oliver.  I repeatedly return to John O’Donohue’s To Bless the Space Between Us and Stephen Mitchell’s translation of The Tao te Ching.  

The poets have changed over the years, but the pleasure remains the same. 

A twin to the pleasure of reading poetry is that of writing it. In high school, I wrote a few tentative poems.  Then, in college, the dam burst.  I wrote things like this (note, if you will, the cummings-influenced disdain for upper case):

eyes
are the dwelling place
of truth (all
other sites –
after careful consideration –
having been dismissed 
as unrealistic).
for
smiles are only
paste-on things
to be purchased 
by politicians
ad men and the like
for the deliberate
pursuit of deception,
and 
words are oftentimes
subverted
by acts of awful treachery
while masquerading as
harbingers of love.

let others gather smiles and words
in bouquets of self-deception
i shall always listen for the truth in eyes.

And that should hold us on the subject of my youthful poetry.  I gave up the practice for a good long while, and then took it up again in late middle age.  Now I write things like this:
         
               GRATITUDE

This morning on my walk
I thanked each tree
for holding up the sky.

I thanked each bird
for splitting infinity
as it larked across my view.

I thanked January daffodils
for the startling audacity
of their faces against the fog.

And I thanked creation
for eyes and ears and tongue
with which to praise.

There is solace for me in writing such lines, in gathering my feelings into words.  Reading and writing poetry, I feel I am swimming against the current of endless noise and distraction that drowns out the soul’s voice, and finding my way to a quiet spot, where I may spend some time exploring the mystery at the core of our lives.  

Having, I think, taken enough of your time, I will leave you with these lines from Mary Oliver’s “Dogfish”: 

You don’t want to hear the story
of my life, and anyway
I don’t want to tell it, I want to listen
to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.
And anyway it’s the same old story – – –
a few people just trying,
one way or another,
to survive.
Mostly, I want to be kind.
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.
And nobody gets out of it, having to
swim through the fires to stay in
this world.
May the fires of which she speaks burn away all that interferes with our true paths through this world.  And may you, too, find solace in poetry as you make your way along your path.