The Human Experience

Something about Nora Ephron’s death has touched me deeply.  I think it’s partly her wonderful snarkiness which is being remembered, and the way she celebrated women’s experiences as captured in her screen plays and movies.

But, the most touching detail of all about her life to emerge is her list.  Her collection of essays entitled “I Remember Nothing” included two lists: things she will miss and things she won’t miss.  Among the things she won’t miss are—dry skin; taking off makeup every night; panels on women in film; Clarence Thomas…read the whole list for yourself.  Among the things she will miss are—her kids; fall; reading in bed…

The list ends “Taking a bath; Coming over the bridge to Manhattan; Pie.”  That closing raises such a lump in my throat.  And, then I realize—what she is saying she will miss is the human experience.

It is such a trite and obvious observation that it hardly seems worth noting but the only way we experience anything is through our existence.  We are born humans and that is how we perceive and know all we know.

A while back in this blog I posted a poem I had written in 2006.  Herewith—

Knowing

This is a road on which
The only detour is death.
The body ages undeniably
There is no turning back
So helplessly you watch—
As skin sags
And flesh congeals
But you keep on living
The lure of living is knowledge
In death there is no knowing
So you live because you want to know.

By Donna F. W.
© March 2006

Among the comments I received on that post was one from my father who suggested: “how about writing a sequel to "Knowing", about life after exchanging this land of the dying for the land of the living, one pointing to eternal death, and eternal life?”

Well, I never did write such a poem.  I am firmly planted in this life’s experience.  I do not deny that some people believe in another existence to come.  It simply is for me that whatever we believe is born out of our human experience and understanding in this world.  We can’t really KNOW if there is anything else.

So, Nora Ephron’s list touches me deeply.  When the human experience draws to a close, there will be things we will NOT miss and things we do miss.  Perhaps the most compelling thing is the ability to experience any of it.

A Simple Matter of Fairness

I am grieving tonight.  

This evening, I attended the viewing of an acquaintance of mine.  This man was one half of a couple I have known for quite some time.  He was too young to die--well, he was 60 but that is too young.

He had lived for more than 30 years with a debilitating illness--multiple sclerosis.  But even so, his death was unexpected.   I didn't even know he was sick enough to be facing death.  But for my husband happening by chance to read the obituary in our local paper, I would have missed the news altogether.

But it is not his death that has me grieving.  I am privileged to consider this man's partner a dear friend of mine.  And that is why I am grieving--perhaps you guessed it.  This couple happen to be a gay couple.  The particular cause of my grieving is that when the man died, he was in the hospital.  And his partner of more than 30 years was not immediately allowed to see his "significant other" until after five hours had passed.

My friend told me in so many terms--"because I wasn't family, I was not allowed to see him immediately."  

A simple matter of fairness.  If you are reading this, and you are married, when you die or when your spouse dies, you will be allowed to see your departed loved one.  Why? Because you are married.

Why couldn't my friend see his partner?  Because he wasn't married.  Why wasn't he married?  Well, you know the answer.

What a cruel inequity our society imposes on people such as my friend.  And it grieves me.

The Great Divide

Our recent river trip through Germany took us across a continental divide.  While not so grand as the North American continental divide (think the Rockies), the rise took us from sea level at the North Sea to the Black Sea.  To traverse this continental divide we traveled through a series of locks, first rising bit by bit, then—after crossing the divide—descending the same distance. 

So, why this musing on the European continental divide?  Well, I am deeply troubled these days by the great divide that has grown in the U.S. over the past decade or so, that only seems to be deepening.  Part of what troubles me is trying to think how we might extricate ourselves from our current poisonous political environment and find a way to move forward as a country.  And the analogy of the series of locks to traverse the continental divide came to mind.  Isn’t that what we have lost?  Locks operate by incremental movement.  Need to achieve a rise of several hundred feet (or meters)?  You can do so by moving up a few feet or meters at a time.

I recently heard Thomas Mann and Norman Ornstein, who have collaborated on a recent book with the intriguing though depressing title of It’s Even Worse Than It Looks, note that presently in the U.S. the Republicans in Congress are functioning as though we have a parliamentary system.  Allegiance to the party’s mindset overcomes and “trumps” any thought of working together or compromise.

I can’t claim to have thought nearly as elegantly or as compelling as that observation, but it did strike me early on in President Obama’s presidency that some Republican leaders had hit upon a perfect way to defeat him.  Senate Minority Leader McConnell announced, practically from day one, that his only goal was to make Obama a one term president.  To accomplish that—block every initiative put forth by the president. 

While we have had previous times in our history where the country has been pulled this way and that by hyper-partisanship, today’s impasse strikes me as coming close to what led to our Civil War. 

Many issues seem to be at the heart of the great divide.  We battle over how to spend government money, we battle over how to raise government money.  We have elected officials who are badgered by non-elected self-appointed guardians of democracy who extract pledges never to raise taxes, before the elected official even takes office.  We have values issues, where one group's values become the dictates to another group’s freedom of conscience.  We have issues where choice means you cannot choose, and other issues where choice means you can opt out of public participation in something as basic as education.

And so I come back to the great divide.  I confess to a great heaviness of heart.  What does this ever-widening chasm portend for our country?  Forgive my Cassandra tone, but I am looking, very seriously looking, for someone who can lead us toward the locks that gently elevate us, and then lower us—to help us cross the great divide.

Mad for Mad Men

In our house, we are late comers to watching the marvelous series "Mad Men."  But, we have worked valiantly to catch up--we ordered the past seasons, watched them all, and then joined the viewers who are watching the current season 5.

There are many reasons to enjoy this series.  As people who came of age during the 1960s, my husband and I keep remembering the original events that inspire the on-screen escapades and interactions of highly believable, if not always likable, characters.

But the theme that wrings truest for me, and causes me great psychic pain, is women's liberation.  Oh, that is almost an out-dated term, but there was a time not so long ago when women really were second class citizens in America.  What is so maddening is that, even as we watched women struggling in the series "Mad Men" to be taken seriously, all around in our current political environment we seem to be fighting these battles again.

This past week's "Mad Men" episode was especially painful for me.  The episode was titled "The Other Woman" interweaving three story lines.  If you don't watch the series, I won't go into the particulars, but suffice it to say that one story line involves a woman who works in the advertising agency at the heart of the show being asked to sleep with (OK, have sex with) a potential customer just to land the contract.

As the story unfolded, my immediate and strong reaction was -- ewwwww!  Oh, yes, I remember such times.  Of course, I never encountered such a bald proposition as the one posed on "Man Men" when I was in the workplace.  But I certainly recall the obvious way women were looked at in the workplace.  I recall having conversations with male co-workers where the subtext had nothing to do with my work abilities.  I recall the presumptions that women had one particular place and value, and it did not center on a woman's capacity to think.

I remember a conversation I had with our daughter when she was a young girl.  The external pressure on girls is so strong to BE pretty, and not brainy.  I told her--if you have to choose between beauty and brains, pick brains.  Beauty fades, intelligence doesn't.  At the time, she was young enough that she must have thought her mother was daft.  Who would ever pick brains over beauty?

While reliving a fictionalized version of women being oppressed in "Mad Men" I got to thinking of the political swirl of issues now that seems bent on marching women back to "the good old days"--days that may have been good for men but certainly weren't good for women.

How can it be that we are now seriously considering going backwards.  Congress debates renewing measures against domestic violence.  Really? Is anyone in FAVOR of domestic violence? Congress debates rolling back "equal pay for equal work" laws.  There is mounting pressure to limit or even ban birth control.  Seriously?

Along about this point in my mental meanderings, I find myself speechless.  I cannot fathom WHY we would want to go back to the mad days of mad men.
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Photo from http://www.amctv.com/shows/mad-men
 

Tell Me A Story

As anyone who has been a parent to a small child—or a friend to a small child—knows, one request you will no doubt hear from said child is:  tell me a story.

We humans are hard-wired to want to hear story telling.  I used that human need when I was teaching—nothing got the attention of students quite so fast as telling a story.  One of the first writing assignments I would give was to write a narrative.  The simple task of the assignment:  tell me a story.

No doubt, our human love of stories originated around cave campfires.  The nights can stretch long and cold in northern winters.  It is easy to picture a small group of cave people—men, women, old and young, huddled together and then someone begins to tell a story.

We know, for example, that some of the earliest literature we have began out of an oral tradition.  Stories that would be told, perhaps even sung, by professional story-tellers who would travel around, weaving their magic in words.

Sometimes it seems that when we grow older, and more sophisticated in our modern way, that we think we don’t need stories anymore.  But, the recent news of Maurice Sendak’s death struck a deep sad chord within the hearts of those of us who grew up either reading or hearing “Where the Wild Things Are.”  Sendak grasped the power of the story.  Not for him the faux emotion of a happily-ever-after-sugar-coated Disney tale.  He told stories that placed a firm finger on children’s deep inner fears—and made them seem … normal.  It was OK to have wild things romping around in your kingdom room.  It was OK to be afraid.  It was OK to peer into the darkness.

And just today, I heard of another use of storytelling.  An NPR story (there’s that word again) talked about Alzheimer’s patients or even anyone with dementia.  One of the sad losses they experience is the ability to communicate.  And it begins when their memories grow spotty so they can’t recall things.  Loved ones who long to communicate try to prompt them to talk about something they remember.  But, it’s the failure of memory that frustrates them and sometimes renders them mute.

So some bright person thought—why not get them to tell a story about a picture they look at.  The picture can be anything: an ad from a magazine, an illustration, a painting—whatever.  The prompt is simple—tell me a story about what you see in this picture.  And since there’s no wrong answer, no challenge to recall details, they can talk.  They construct stories about the scene in the picture, adding details and thoroughly enjoying themselves.  No doubt, their loved ones are also gratified to hear them communicating again.

So, tell me a story.  It’s the human thing to do.

M-O-T-H-E-R

Do you remember that old routine the Smothers Brothers did on their show?  I think Tom wanted to recite that verse* about Mother--you know, M is for...
Then Dick (the younger) would say to Tom (the older)--go ahead, Tom, say the poem.  So Tom started out:
M is for the Many things she gave me--(pause)
O is for the Other things she gave me--(another pause)
T is for the Things she gave me--(awkward pause)

And, then Tom would stop.  Stuck on H not really knowing the verse about "Mother."  Predictably, that would earn Dick's derisive scorn.  Of course, the routine stopped there--Tom never finished his version.

Well, Mother's Day is one of those days which the predominant culture lauds and bathes in positive association.  All of us had a mother--whatever other relatives we have, we all have for certainty two: a mother and a father.  But not all of us have happy memories attending this day. 

I know this has been the subject of a previous post--for, you see, my mother died on Mother's Day.  Of course, I still celebrate this day.  I honored my mother on this day when she was alive, and now that I have a step-mother, I honor her.  I have honored other mother figures in my life.  And I have been honored as a mother.

But, still, the day brings a moment's reflection--it raises a lump in my throat, quickens a tightness in my chest.  No day is a good day for the premature death of one's mother--but to have that death occur on Mother's Day?  Well, the overlapping of happiness with grief inevitably arises.

No need to belabor the subject--but each Mother's Day I naturally think of my mother, and I also remember her death.

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* In case you don't know the verse (actually the lyrics from an early 1900s song)--here it is:

M Is for the Many things she gave me,
O Means only that she’s growing Old.
T Is for the Tears she shed to save me,
H Is for her Heart of purest gold.
E Is for her Eyes with love light shining,
R Means Right and Right she’ll always be.

Put them all together, They spell MOTHER.
A word that means the world to me.

The Face is Familiar...

I was charmed recently while listening to Terry Gross conduct an interview on Fresh Air with Anna Quindlen.  Quindlen has long been one of my favorite writers.  She knows how to turn a sentence as one would turn a prism--slowly, holding it up to the light, giving time for all the colors to sparkle.

I was a huge fan of her writing when she wrote opinion pieces for the New York Times.  To my great dismay, she announced in 1995 that she was giving up writing a regular column.  It turns out she was devoting her writing energies into writing novels (she has written 5 thus far) and non-fiction.  And then in 1999 Newsweek recruited her to write the last page column which she did for 10 years.

When I was teaching, I used one of those articles Quindlen had written about plagiarism.  An article she wrote had been lifted, almost wholesale, by Wayne Newton when he was asked to write a guest column.  She called him on the appropriation of someone else's work (which is what plagiarism is) and his defense was--my, isn't it interesting how our minds were so in tune that our words matched.  Um....no.  I had to stop using it, however, when students asked me--who is Wayne Newton?  Oh my.

Well, I had best get to the reason for my rumination.  Her most recent work is a book, a sort of personal memoir, titled Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake.  It was the publication of this book on which Terry focused her interview.  Among many topics covered, Terry queried Anna Quindlen on one admission in her book--she has had Botox injections, and some facial fillers.  Why? Terry wondered.

And I wonder too.  Quindlen's reasons are her own, and they are perfectly good reasons.  After all, any decision to alter one's appearance is personal.  Quindlen compared her periodic Botox injections, to relax muscles on her forehead that tighten and give her an unintended scowl, to periodic eyebrow waxing.  Small tweaks to improve an overall appearance.

Let's face it.  Our society puts a great deal of emphasis on how we look--but the pressure is greater on women than men.  Sometimes, when I watch a news show and see a male reporter with a face that shows every wrinkle acquired over decades of living, I can't help but muse that a female reporter with a similar road map of life on her face would not be on television.  Think Morley Safer--is there a woman reporter whose faces shows as many decades as his does?

It is a rare woman in public life who has not felt the pressure to have "some work" done.  Some women trumpet it, making sure that every tweak is noted, while others deny, deny, deny all the while their looks belie.  Sometimes the results are gentle and hardly noticeable, sometimes the results are disastrous.  And sometimes, she no longer looks familiar.

I know I am not in the public eye, but a long time ago, I vowed--my face gets to age as it will.  No nips, no tucks, no tighenings.  That way, perhaps the face will stay familiar.

A Thing of Beauty

Keat's lovely poem assures us that:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness...

Having written in the last blog about the darkest hour of Germany's history, I want to leave you with some images of the many beautiful sites we saw.  We sailed from Amsterdam to Vienna, sailing on the Rhine River first, then connecting through the Main-Danube Canal, and finally ending our journey on the Danube.  The scenes below are arranged geographically along that trip, from north to south.

After World War II ended, there were many cities in Germany that were largely destroyed.  Think Berlin or Dresden.  Of course, such places have been rebuilt.  The winning side mounted various programs to force along the rebuilding.  But not all of Germany suffered such devastating damage.  


We visited many smaller towns that did not have military significance during the war, and were not part of the war machine.  Their lack of significance in the war effort meant that many of these places were largely untouched:  Rüdesheim, Miltenberg, Würzburg, Bamberg, Rothenberg, Regensburg.  


So, before we leave this trip--take in just a few of the scenes of beauty we enjoyed.  

Those Who Do Not Remember the Past

It was the philosopher George Santayana who was credited with the saying: those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

That sobering thought haunted me as we spent a day in Nuremberg.  This city's name is now associated with the aftermath of World War II, and the Allies' efforts to hold the Nazis responsible for their horrific "crimes against humanity."  It was here that the Nuremberg trials were held--the first time that the conduct of a war was put on trial.  Twenty four major leaders of the Nazi war effort were tried, with many of them being convicted and some being sentenced to death by hanging.  Some, such as Field Marshall Göring, the most prominent Nazi to be tried and convicted, requested the honorable death by firing squad.  That request was denied, so Göring cheated the Allies anyway when he procured an ampule of cyanide which he bit into and died.

The windows of Court Room 600 where the Nuremberg Trials were held

Nuremberg was chosen as the site for these trials precisely because of Hitler's having used the city as a staging location for his huge Nazi rallies.  We visited two sites where these rallies took place--Zeppelin Field and Congress Hall.

The interior of Zeppelin Field

A photo of the projected appearance of Congress Hall

The interior of Congress Hall today, a deteriorating shell of a building that was never completed

These two huge structures were planned for construction.  Hitler had designed an 11 acre site with a wide sweeping avenue, a huge field (Zeppelin Field) for assembling the thousands of Nazi party faithful and Hitler Youth along with members of the SS, and Congress Hall where rallies would be held.  Zeppelin Field is the site made famous in Leni Riefenstahl's "Triumph of the Will".  For these Nazi rallies, the field was decorated with Nazi flags, and featured row upon row of gathered Nazi faithfuls, all held in the thrall of Adolph Hitler who emerged from the center of the stage.  Congress Hall was designed and building was begun but never fully completed.  The architect for this grand project was Albert Speer, one of those also tried and convicted during the Nuremberg Trials.

What is so sobering about this visit to Nuremberg?  Well, I kept having two thoughts:  first, what happened in Germany that led up to the atrocities committed?  and how could an entire nation be pulled into seemingly blind compliance.  Second, can it happen again?

Historians have written tomes pondering the first question.  Germany too has begun to come to grips with this question.  For a time, immediately following the war, a kind of national shame gripped the country and people did not want to talk about what happened.  Denial was in surplus supply.  Now, Germany has begun serious efforts to face its own past.  Now housed within the Congress Hall is a museum called the Documentation Center  Nazi Party Rally Grounds.  We spent a portion of one morning there--and could really have spent much more time there.  It is an overwhelming experience.  The rise, expansion, domination and eventual fall of the Nazi party is the central focus of this museum.  

As we moved from one display to the next, we could barely absorb the enormity and horror of all the information.  Frankly, it becomes mind-numbing.  And, the temptation is great to just turn away.  But we kept moving along, reading the descriptions, looking at the video clips, trying to take it all in.

It is, of course, the second question that really troubles me.  Because, I think those of us who are citizens of the United States have been honing our forgetting skills.  We repeat our own mistakes, and we also seem to repeat other nations' mistakes.  

I was particularly troubled to read in the Documentation Center how the press was used to distort the truth.  Please understand--this is not a screed against the so-called liberal media.  Frankly, I think the touted image of the media as liberal is completely bogus.  What I am most frightened by is the way in which media is used today to convey a pre-determined point of view.  The fact that a national news channel would use as its slogan "fair and balanced" and then do anything BUT report in such a manner should scare us all.

Of late, during political campaigns, comparisons to Nazis are liberally applied.  You may hear some politician or some pundit opine that doing something--oh, such as passing the health reform act--is just like what the Nazis did.  Well, no--my friends.  What the Nazis did was to target almost every group of people that was outside the proclaimed norm of the white so-called Aryan race.  So who did that include?  We know it included Jews--but it also included gypsies, labor union members, epileptics, homosexuals, Jehovah's Witnesses, pastors both Catholic and Protestant.  

While our river cruise trip was lovely, relaxing, and refreshing, it was also sobering.  We need to remember the ugly truths of history, and not just enjoy the beauty of a reborn nation.  If we remember the past, perhaps we are not condemned to repeat it.

Cruising Down a River

When last we chatted, I hinted at an upcoming vacation.  Well, vacation has come and gone.  My husband and I went on a cruise--more precisely we cruised down (and up) a river.  We began in Amsterdam on a river boat cruise which first sailed on the Rhine River.  Through the ingenious use of linking canals, we eventually ended up on the Danube at our final destination Vienna.


Over the next several posts, I will share bits of this trip.  In addition to being a much welcome break from the stresses and physical exertions of helping my dad and step-mom close out their retirement cottage and move into a sheltered care apartment, this trip appealed to an historic curiosity I had.  More on that in just a bit.

Amsterdam is one city we have visited several times.  Its reputation for tolerance is well-deserved.  You quickly learn, for example, that a coffee shop does not JUST sell coffee.  This history of tolerance gives Amsterdam a special place in our families' histories.  Both my husband and I come from families whose ancestors left Europe--specifically Switzerland and Germany--centuries ago.  They were Anabaptists, people whose beliefs clashed with both Catholic and Protestant reformers.  They were persecuted by both sides, and were sometimes killed for their beliefs.  Consequently, they fled their birth countries, traveled UP the Rhine River (which flows into the North Sea) and landed in Amsterdam.  Just as with the so-called Pilgrims from England, they stayed in Amsterdam for a time before making their way to the New World in America.

Even today, the Rhine River is a superhighway.  We saw many other ships, mostly hauling cargo.  These ships costs millions, so few individuals can own their own ship.  Instead, those who operate the ships are under contract with larger companies.  Many families live on their ships.  We saw most ships with one or two cars on the back--transportation for when in port.  Ships have living quarters as part of their construction, and even had play yards, all glassed in.  Several times, we saw children playing on board--talk about going along with dad or mom to work.

In the course of our trip--from Amsterdam to Vienna--we went through 66 different locks.  The tallest of these locks were some 80 to 90 feet high.  Sailing west to east, we first went through locks that slowly increased our elevation.  We eventually crossed the continental divide of Europe, at which point the rivers flowed into the Black Sea.

On our second full day of sailing, we sailed along the Rhine River Gorge.  This is the most picturesque portion of the Rhine River, complete with tunnel entrances disguised as castles, as well as REAL castles.  The story on the tunnel entrances had to do with bombing during World War II.  Allied bombers tried not to bomb any ancient buildings intentionally.   Rail travel was so vital to the German war effort; consequently, the German High Command ordered tunnel entrances disguised as castles.  Apparently that Allied resolve did not always hold--think of the leveling of the city of Dresden.  

The other constant scenery along the Rhine were vineyards.  Rows and rows of grape vines.  Our trip was early in the spring, so the greenery was just beginning to sprout.

We had daily stops along the way, and as you journey with me, I will show you some of the enchanting little towns and villages we visited.

All aboard for the rest of the journey--cruising down a river.
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P.S. this post is my 601st--so I have now passed the 600 mark.

Taking a Break

No, no--dear reader. Do not panic. I am not giving up blogging. I am literally taking a break.

After a couple of months of planning, and about a month of preparation, the move now accomplished, I feel the need for a break. 

So how does a river cruise sound? Excellent, I would say. Destination and timing not to be revealed at this moment. But the next several blogs will take you along...only with words and photos, of course. You will have to plan your own getaway if you are due one.

OK--carry on.

The Big Move

This post is just a brief breaking into the Lenten interlude that I am observing.

I have been occupied for the last several weeks with getting things ready for my father and step-mother to move from their cottage in a retirement village to a two room apartment in a sheltered environment.  Any moving process requires much preparation, but some take more time than others. 

As it turns out, my father has lived in this location longer than he has lived ANYWHERE in his whole life.  He and my mother bought their cottage in 1987.  And he has lived there since their move there in the summer of 1987.  Twenty-five years.  Longer than any other place he has lived.

My dad grew up as a missionary child.  He was born in Pennsylvania, and then when he was a bit more than a year old went with his parents to southern Africa.  He lived there until he was ten.  He moved around with them, living first in Oklahoma for several years, then in southern California, where he lived his teen years.  Southern California reminded him very much of southern Africa--and he loved living there.

But when he graduated from high school, his parents moved back to Pennsylvania, and he along with them.  Only--he was not to live with them.   Hard times called for hard solutions.  His parents had three younger children, and they basically told my dad that he was on his own.  So he worked on farms as a hired hand for a while, until he saved enough to go to college.  When he was able to, he returned to southern California to enter college. After completing college, and getting married, he and my mother went to Africa as missionaries.  That was 1946.  They were to stay there, returning to the U.S. twice for vacations, until 1965.

Back to Pennsylvania once again--where he lived until 1972 when he and my mother moved to Indiana for a decade.  The last stop for a few years before my dad retired was some time in Ontario, Canada.

So, the long journey of moving around as a child, then as an adult, finally ended with retirement in Pennsylvania, and the retirement cottage in which my parents lived.  1987 until 2012.

Twenty-five years--of house furnishings, of personal possessions, of memories, of joys, of sorrows.

Tomorrow, my father and step-mother will move within the same complex from one living arrangement to another.  The big move. 

Giving Up for Lent...

I grew up in a church tradition that had its origins in the Anabaptist movement of the 16th century.  Among other aspects of Anabaptist belief was an avoidance of the high liturgical elements that has characterized both Catholicism and mainline Protestantism over the centuries.

One of the results of that upbringing was that I had little exposure to the concept of Lent.  My childhood experience of Easter was that we raced toward it, beginning with Good Friday, and then -- BAM -- there was Easter.

I have been a member of a Presbyterian church since 1970, and, with that change of denominational affiliation, I first began to learn about Lent.  When our church had its latest pastor come as our minister, now 15 years ago, he introduced an even more pronounced emphasis on Ash Wednesday.  This is the day that marks the beginning of the 40 days of Lent.  Anyone who is Catholic has had long exposure to Ash Wednesday, and probably wonders why a Protestant would be such a late-comer to the holy day.  Other people probably ONLY know about Ash Wednesday because is preceded by  Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, or--if you are Pennsylvania Dutch--Fasnacht Day.

On that first Ash Wednesday that our "new" pastor was at our church, he asked us to fast on Ash Wednesday, all day, and then attend church in the evening.  At that service, he used imposition of ashes (for the first time at our church).  As he drew the sign of the cross on our foreheads, he pronounced our first names and said "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."  I find this service profoundly moving, as noted here.

But, the whole point of this blog is to write about GIVING UP.  Lent is seen as a time for serious deep contemplation on the nature of the events that lead to Easter.  And, in many traditions, it is also a time when we are urged to give up something--a kind of mini-sacrifice on our parts.  I have never been one to follow that practice.  Mostly people give up things like sweets, pastry, or other food items.  The point is, of course, to give up something you like.  However, this year--I might have to give up something...the time I spend blogging.

Oh, I am not giving up blogging.  And, truth be told, I will only be tapering off.  And, further truth be told, this is not so much about Lent as it is about a very busy life.  I will be working on several critical family projects over the next month.  So, maybe YOU will have to give up reading my blog ... for Lent, or for lack of anything new to read.

After the Fall

Well, I did it again.  I fell.  And, since I indicated "again" obviously it's not the first time.


I should interrupt myself briefly to explain that I am not talking about the usual falls a person can take--growing up, learning to ride a bike, roller-skating or ice-skating, playing sports, climbing trees.  Those falls can, of course, be dangerous and result in broken bones.  What I am referring to is falling as an adult who is not growing any younger.


The first time I fell, I mean really fell, was a number of  years ago during our first visit to Paris.  My husband and I were out walking around.  I am an inveterate map-reader, and that's what I was doing.  I was reading a map of Paris' convoluted streets trying to get us back to our hotel.  In my preoccupation, I did not see that I had just stepped off a curb.  I knew I had fallen only after I was once again upright, sitting on my butt on a Paris sidewalk.  My husband, who witnessed the whole graceless event, said I bounced.  And what I bounced on was my right shoulder.


Over the next several days, my upper arm began to discolor until it was an amazing array of colors that resembled a piece of modern art--all shades dissolving into each other.  I found out in short order how incredibly dependent we are on having two working arms.  Small tasks were now almost impossible:  I needed help getting in and out of a bath, help fastening my bra, help pulling a shirt on and off, help doing so many things.


When we got home, I decided against seeing a doctor, as clearly nothing was broken.  But over the next several weeks, I favored my right arm so much that I began to lose range of motion.  Finally, I showed a doctor friend of ours how I was not really able to raise my arm much beyond straight out from my side.  He practically ordered me to see an orthopedic doctor, which I did.  True, nothing was broken, but the severely injured shoulder and my favoring it was likely to lead to long-term inability.  He marched me off to a physical therapist and several weeks of restorative exercises.


So, with the announcement that I did  it "again" you guessed it.  I fell.  This time, I was out walking our dog who, in her rambunctious spring fever, pulled so hard on her leash that I tripped and went down splat on the sidewalk.  I did a great three point landing--left knee, left palm and right elbow. When I returned home, my husband immediately rigged up two ice-bags that he strapped to my knee and my elbow.  His quick response helped ameliorate excess swelling.  Also mindful of my  prior experience, I keep moving my right arm, raising it over my head and forcing the muscles to expand as much as possible.


Of course, I was embarrassed to go splat on the sidewalk, but even more I am concerned to remember to walk as carefully as I can.


Falls are serious business.  Many a senior has begun a health decline following a fall.  Now, maybe I am not quite yet to that age, but I don't want to be fool-hardy and ignore the consequences of a fall.  According to the CDC, the LEADING cause of unintentional injury in the U.S. for all age groups is falling.  Imagine that--for every age group, falls cause the moist unintentional injuries.  Ahead of vehicle accidents.  Ahead of insect bites and stings.  Ahead of poisoning, cutting, dog bites, fires, and all the other calamities out there.  


So, I will redouble my efforts to walk carefully.  

Getting Ready for Oscar

I bet you thought I forgot.  Admit it.  Didn't you?
Yes, dear reader, it's time for the annual review getting ready for the Oscars.  
A disclaimer first--we haven't seen all the movies.  OK--now that the confession is out of the way, let's get down to business.


Now that the Academy allows up to 10 nominees for best movie, it is getting more difficult to see them all.  First, we just don't go to that many movies.  Second, by the time the nominees are announced, some of the theaters around here have already shown some of the eventual nominees, and for whatever reasons have not rebooked them.


And the nominees are: The Artist, The Descendants, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Help, Hugo, Midnight in Paris, Moneyball, The Tree of Life, War Horse.


So, we want to see, but have not see, Hugo and Midnight in Paris.  Even if  Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, or The Tree of Life were to return, I am not sure we would go.  


I may as well take them in the order listed above.
The Artist--if my husband and I were Siskel & Ebert (yes, I know Siskel is dead) we would have one thumb up, and one down.  I liked it; my husband didn't.  Here's what I liked:  the way the actors were so expressive, without words; the way that black and white seemed so...colorful; the dog; the dancing; the sweet story line; and the way a silent movie told the story of the demise of silent movies.


The Descendants--two thumbs up.  Loved it!  Simply loved it--and, it goes without saying, this is my pick as winning movie of the year.  Here's what I liked:  George Clooney; the young actress who plays the elder daughter; the magnificent scenery of Hawaii; the wonderful story line; Beau Bridges; and the denouement of the plot.


The Help--two thumbs up.  Since this movie is an adaptation of the extremely successful book, it had a high bar to meet.  Here's what I liked:  Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer; Emma Stone as Skeeter; a strong female cast (you don't see that often); the chocolate pie scene (you know what I mean); the interweaving of historical events from the civil rights era--a light touch, but still it's there; the denouement of the plot.  I recently heard Viola Davis on Fresh Air, and I am now rooting for her as best actress.


Moneyball--sort of two thumbs up.  This is a thoroughly engaging story, but not really "best movie" material, in my opinion.  What I liked:  Brad Pitt; Jonah Hill; Philip Seymour Hoffman (who is always good, but in an atypical role here); a bit of an inside view of baseball.  What always mystifies me is how I enjoy movies about baseball when I don't really enjoy the game of baseball.


War Horse--mostly two thumbs up.  Oh, yes, it's formulaic, and at times gory, but there's a gorgeous horse in it...  OK, what I liked:  the horse; the happy ending; the horse; the thoroughly realistic and quite harrowing battle scenes; the horse; and .... the horse. 


And, now my picks for top prizes, understanding that I have not seen them all:
Best Movie--The Descendants
Best Actress--Viola Davis
Best Actor--Gary Oldman (in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy)
Best Directing--The Artist


Not having seen all of the movies does limit my choices.  Martin Scorsese might take best directing, Michelle Williams might take best actress for playing Marilyn.  But, you go with what you have seen.


Happy watching until February 26.  And, joy of joys, Billy Crystal is back!

What Flashes Before Your Eyes

This conventional wisdom that your life flashes before your eyes in a time of peril--well, it just doesn't happen, at least not to me.  What flashed before my eyes was a bright yellow car.

OK, here's the scene.  I had decided to take the two "orphan" cats to have their claws trimmed.  (I call them orphans because these are the two we rescued a bit more than a year ago.  Both had been found somewhere outside--separately.  But, to distinguish them from our other cat, I just use the shorthand--orphans.)  Anyway, their claws get quite...sharp, so a trim was in order.  We loaded them into their respective carrying cases, and--since the one cat gets car-sick--my husband said, take my car (a smooth riding Ford Fusion).  Regretfully, as it turns out.

I drove carefully, trying not to trigger the cat's car-sickness.  I looped around a local store, using a road that leads to the pet place, and pulled up at a traffic light.  When the light turned from red to green, I followed several other cars as we moved forward.  When I was halfway into the intersection, suddenly, from my right, I saw a flash of yellow.  A car moving way too fast to stop at the light that had to be red for the driver.  I had no time to do anything, not even brake.  I think I turned just a bit to the left, hoping not to hit him.

But hit him I did, smacking into his driver side with a hard BANG.  He then turned his car to the right, pulled off the road in a local restaurant parking lot, and I followed him.  Two other cars followed me.  As soon as I got out of the car, the other driver--a young man of about 30--asked, are you OK?

I was (so far, nothing else has popped up).  And so were the cats.  I called my husband, and told him what had happened.  He called the local police who came and did a thorough investigation.  The other two cars turned out to be witnesses whose first question was to me--are you OK?  Then, one of the men went to the other driver and said, dude, you ran a red light.  The young man was nonplused, indicating he was sure he had a green light.  Well, no, you didn't.

Meanwhile, my husband drove over, gathered up the cats, and took them for their nail appointment.  All's well that ends well.

But the ending is yet to come--on Monday, my husband will begin the task of calling the insurer.

The final coup de grace is this.  We got a call this evening from the police who did the investigation and write-up.  Seems the young driver not only ran a red light but was also uninsured.

Grrrr.

Unto Life Eternal

Yesterday, my husband and I attended the funeral of one of our church friends.  As is customary, the minister comforted the family members with the traditional words of the promise of life eternal.  

As I thought about our friend's funeral, one concluding irony occurred this morning, when I checked Facebook.  There was a suggestion that I might want to "friend" the woman whose funeral we had just attended yesterday.  So, even after our deaths we live on in many ways.  

We live on in blogs too--one of the first blogs I began reading was written by an incredibly brave woman who was slowly dying from ALS.  She had been a vigorously active woman in her life before her disease.  Her blogs were inspiring, warm, and full of a happy love of life.  But, over time, the entries she wrote became fewer and fewer--with longer distances between posts.  Then one day, there were no more posts.  I kept wondering--how was she?  And I kept checking her blog for news, any news.  Finally after a year of silence, there was a sweet final post--she had died.  Her name was Pam, and the final tribute to her was a quote from her: 

I have ALS, it does not have me

Art does.

She was an artist who, as she lost her ability to draw with her own hand, found new ways to express her creativity.  So she lives on in many ways:  in her art, in the memories of all who loved her --  her children, her grandchildren -- and in her blog which is still "out there" for anyone to read.


Some researchers assert that we humans are hard-wired from the moment humans began to exist to contemplate a life beyond our human existence.  Early burial sites are discovered that include various items placed around the deceased to ease passage to the next life:  food, coins, clothing, various objects to speed the journey.  Many religions have woven into their belief systems various concepts dealing with a life beyond earthly existence.  No one religion has a claim to an exclusive belief in the next life.

But, an amorphous promise of life beyond our present existence does not satisfy our human need to be remembered.  We want our existence to be acknowledged--some of us have children, and grandchildren.  That's one way to achieve immortality, for a while.  Some of us have places--roads, buildings, bridges--named after us.  Some of us give MONEY to make sure we have places named for us.  Some of us do great or terrible deeds, and history remembers us.

Please understand, this is not an invitation to argue the subject, nor is it even a challenge the assertion that we do or do not continue to exist.  This post is not to elucidate the merits of a belief in eternal life; rather it is my rumination on our human need to contemplate, and sometimes even insist, on a life beyond the life we know.  I suspect part of this drive on our part is the human need to be remembered.  After all, the only way we experience anything is through our lives.  When we no longer live, we wonder what comes next.  Do we continue? Will those who remain remember us? 

A closing thought--one of the theologians whose works I enjoy is Bart Ehrman.  His own faith journey has moved to a point where he now considers himself an agnostic.  When asked by someone whether it bothers him that his agnosticism robs him of the comfort of a belief in an afterlife, he responded--no.  Here's his reasoning: before he was born, he had no consciousness and was not troubled by that; after his death, he assumes he will have no consciousness, so why would he be troubled by that?

I know, I know.  I have tangled up two separate streams of thought--the need to be remembered with a contemplation of life eternal.  Are they different?