I saw this key next to a brochure promising, “Real Love,” sitting on a bench this morning when I took my walk. It seemed as if they were ‘planted.’ A little contrived, I thought. And yet? There was no one around but me. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could find ‘real’ love on a park bench? Walk up, read the tract and then. . . just turn the key?
Once, while counseling a couple of almost 40 years, the husband suddenly turned to me and said, “You know? I just don’t ever want to argue with her. I love her too much.” Thousands of songs have been written about love and the platitudes are endless: love is holding hands and not caring if the other person is holding too tight or not tightly enough. It is not having to prove you’re right or prove anything at all because there is nothing to prove. Love is not making the other person happy but sharing in their joy. Love lifts you up. It doesn’t break you down into your lowest common denominator as if you were a mathematical equation or squeeze you into a box. It always has your back—because you matter more than any scale of justice.
And while there is truth in all of those, there is one sign that always resonates with me. I saw it in that couple. ‘Real’ love is being with someone who smiles just because they’re looking at you.
Had lunch with a friend this afternoon at a local restaurant and we were seated in a booth. When the food arrived, I suddenly realized just how low my seat was. My chin was almost even with the plate. I asked the waiter for a booster seat. He just looked at me.
“A booster seat?” I asked again. “Do you not have one?”
“Um. Yes. We do,” he replied still staring at me.
“Would you bring me one, please?” I asked again. “Or maybe you have some pillows?”
“Well, I see the issue. This booth has the lowest seat of all the others in the restaurant but we don’t have any pillows.”
“Then just bring me a booster,” I repeated for the third time.
“Um. I’m not sure you’d be very comfortable in one,” the waiter said.
Finally, I understood his reticence.
“Are you trying to tell me politely that you don’t think my butt will fit in one?”
He went violet.
“Um, yes. I guess. I mean they are for kids.”
“Just bring me one and let me decide,” I said firmly.
Reluctantly, he returned with a booster. I put it under me and maneuvered myself in. I’ll admit the fit was snug but I finished my entire lunch sitting in it.
When the Supreme Court rendered their reversal on Roe vs Wade today, I was dumbstruck. This is not a matter of whether abortion is right or wrong. This is simply a matter of giving women the CHOICE of what to do with their OWN bodies. If men gave birth this would have never even been an issue. Never. Not once. Not in 1973. Not now in 2022. Not ever. Never.
Just bring me the damn booster and let me decide if I want to sit in it.
In 1880, when my great grandmother was born, life expectancy was 40. A Chicago ordinance banned people who were, “diseased, maimed, mutilated, deformed, unsightly or disgusting.” If you were deemed too ugly to be in public, you had to pay a fine of $1 to $50 or go to the poorhouse. Women didn’t have the right to vote. There were no child labor laws and 2 million kids, aged 10 to 15 were working full time jobs. People with mental issues were either shocked into submission or lobotomized. 65,000 mentally ill Americans were sterilized.
When my grandmother was born in 1900, one in three children died before adulthood. No one survived a burst appendix. People died from milk because pasteurization didn’t exist. Breathing radon was considered a cure for tuberculosis. Doctors said cigarettes helped asthma. Parents were encouraged to give their kids heroin-laced cough syrup made by Bayer. Cocaine was marketed in the Sears Roebuck catalog as a treatment for toothaches and depression. Syphilis was treated with mercury.
When my mother was born, life expectancy was 53. There were no antibiotics and penicillin hadn’t been invented. There were no governmental agencies like the FDA to certify a product’s safety. There were no vaccines like polio nor refrigeration to keep it viable. Water wasn’t chlorinated but came straight out of rusty, lead pipes. Few had indoor plumbing. Dead animals and feces were everywhere on the streets. The KKK was such an open, accepted part of American society that they publicly sponsored festivals and beautiful baby contests. Executions were public and in 1936, the last one in this country was attended by 20,000 people.
By the time I was born, there had been two world wars and Vietnam had just started. Life expectancy was 66. When my children were born, life expectancy was 76. However, there is a widening gap between our Life Span & our Health Span. Many are shuffling into old age decrepitly. Geneticists envision a future where we’ll be able to self-scan our bodies for impending disease and Immunotherapy and Artificial Intelligence will further help close that gap.
A brave, new world is coming! Or so I thought. I was feeling pretty lucky to be in this present one until Putin single-handedly drew us back into the Dark Ages: bombed cities, burned landscapes, babies among the dead bodies and unprovoked destruction in every direction. Now, I must sadly ponder the life expectancy of Ukrainiansand long for the return of their golden sunflowers.
The closer I get to death, the more I want to live. It’s as if I know there are a certain number of miles left on my feet so I MUST keep moving them in hopes of squeezing in even more. I dance down the aisles of the supermarket. Sing at full volume with the radio. Breathe in every flower in my path and lean out the window to smell honeysuckle at the drive thru Starbucks. Nothing must get past me—not even a stranger. I meet someone new EVERY day. Everything makes me cry, even the death of someone else’s puppy. Everything makes me laugh because I don’t know when I will experience it again. I can barely sleep at night because what might I miss in the dark?
But as punch drunk as I am about Life, Putin’s death march has been sobering. It’s not easy to find and hold joy as you watch a sick, psychopath wield his tiny saber and conduct a killing spree. His cold, tight-lipped stare says it all. There is no child he won’t slaughter, no city he can’t rubble and for what? More land? He’s already poisoned what he has with treachery and bodies. In his wake, there is only twisted metal, burning buildings and blood. It was one thing for Hitler to get away with his butchery in a world safe from the glare of a TV camera or iPhone. But now? We are all witnesses. How much destruction and how many will be buried before he is stopped?
A friend gave me this stone last week and it’s not just any rock. It is a Shiva Lingam stone found in only one place at only one time of year: at the Narmada River in India. Centuries of erosion have made it smooth and cylindrical. It is said that it came from the debris field of a meteorite which crashed into Earth some 14 million years ago. I crashed into Earth the exact, same year that Putin did. While I want to wring every second out of every breath, he wants to wring every breath out of every second. You can’t squeeze water from a stone, any more than you can negotiate with a serial killer. If I were David, I’d put my stone in a slingshot, take Goliath down and be glad of it.
Homeless people have been around since I was a young girl in the 60’s wandering the streets of New York City. Back then, they were few and far between, sitting quietly beside a sign that read, “Spare change?” Now, they are up front and very center across America. On any given night, half a million people are laying their heads on the ground, exposed to the elements, disease, filth and predators. Statistics say it’s due to unemployment, unaffordable housing, drug use and mental health issues. And while those things do affect the numbers, there is something deeper at work: they have lost connection with others. Sometimes that connection is lost by accident. Other times it is a purposeful break due to violence, trauma, or family alienation which now affects 27% of us.
13 years ago, a Stanford graduate fell off the grid. His concerned classmates, after a long, circuitous hunt, found him alive and sort of well living on the streets of New Orleans. That story had a happy ending. Most don’t but often it’s not for lack of trying. My own mother spent her later years walking the streets of Long Island pushing a shopping cart. At night, she slept in a baseball dugout. Despite getting her into housing, she always bolted claiming that she needed, “fresh air and freedom,” both of which came at a price.
Homelessness is a broken connection. It cannot be simply fixed by relocation, housing or even treatment. There is no one size fits all when you are talking about people. If you want to repair a broken circuit, you first have to turn off the power to it, troubleshoot which breaker has malfunctioned, replace and rewire it. On a plastic panel, it’s a simple process. In a human being, the breakers are endless and finding the right one to re-wire is often a crapshoot. This crisis across America will take a multiplicity of interventions connecting together at the same time.
I’ve spent the last few weeks in Hawaii. It is not the paradise I remember from 25 years ago. Now, I cannot go a single block without encountering a homeless person. I often take the bus but have yet to be able to sit at the stop, since there is usually someone sleeping on the bench. Once, I was chased into the street by a man who threw his socks at me because I didn’t have a light for his cigarette. But I’ve noticed something: The police are tolerant and the locals leave food and coffee by their camp sites. Yesterday, a blanket and a cooler filled with water and bananas were left on a park bench. This morning, I added my own pair of worn shoes. As Iyanla Vanzant so poignantly said, “You have to meet people where they are and sometimes you have to leave them there.”
Just when I think I’m at a stage of life where things are straightforward and clear, I get a curve ball. I’m doing a quick shop at Trader Joe’s. As I enter the produce section, there is a man fondling the bananas. Yes, fondling. He eventually pulls off only one. I’m intrigued. His clothes are ill fitting and shabby and the seat of his trousers seems oil soaked. When he turns towards me, his long, stringy, unkempt hair frames a gaunt face that is missing several teeth. I peg him as homeless.
Two aisles later, we pass in the frozen food section. His walk is jerky and odd. Definitely not Parkinson’s, so I wonder if he might have Tardive Dyskinesia. I vaguely remember it has something to do with taking too much anti- psychotic medication. I smile at him as we pass and he smiles back.
Later, as I stand in the checkout line with my small bag of five items, he comes up behind me, still carrying one banana and a small bottle of water. I offer to let him go first.
“You only have two items,” I say. “I have five.”
He insists I go first. I thank him and checkout, silently wondering if it’s perhaps he is getting his food free from the cashier.
As I maneuver out of the parking lot, he crosses in front of my car with that stumbly gait. I wait for him, assuming that he might be going to the homeless encampment half a block away. However, as he gets towards my side, he gestures at me to roll down my window. I do.
“I was wondering if you’d like to come over to my house for dinner tonight and watch a movie,” he asks sweetly. I’m stunned to almost wordlessness.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I reply, “but that is sweet of you to ask.”
“Ok,” he says and goes on his way.
I wrestle with myself all the way home. Does he really have a house? Is he delusional? Am I? Then I realize that it doesn’t matter. For the whole time I was judging him, he was looking at me with hopeful kindness. I saw only a burned out car and missed the fact that it was really a BMW.
There is perhaps no more mournful place in American than the local gym. Where else can you see a sea of grimacing, grunting faces in various heave-ho positions? It could be all the mirrors. I’d be depressed if I stared at nothing but myself, too. When folks aren’t staring at their anatomy they are deeply involved with their cell phones. Deeply. From my observations, the average gym goer spends more time looking at their phone than actually working out.
If you go to the gym, do NOT attempt to converse with anyone, particularly those with ear buds. They do NOT want to be disturbed from their very, serious business. Also, do NOT attempt to ‘work in’ with those who have laid sweaty bandanas across the equipment or placed a water bottle at the base. They plan to occupy that territory for as long as it takes them to do 10 reps, then pause for 5 minutes to look at their phone, do 10 more reps, etc. They are not in a hurry to work out. They are, in fact, camping out. This morning, a man sat on the same piece of equipment while I swam a half-mile. After I showered and changed, he was still sitting there!
I dare you to go into a gym without your phone and ear buds. You will get more done in half the time. You’re also more likely to start up a conversation and burn social calories. (Yeah, that’s a thing.) I also dare you to ride a bike without staring at the TV. Talk about feeling the road. Distractions are just that. They keep you from doing the work. If you don’t do the work you won’t get results. If you want results, stay out of the gym.
If you do go, here are some ways to make it fun:
But WHATEVER you do make it fun. Life is too short to take yourself that seriously.
OMG! Hasn’t life been SO much simpler since we reduced words to three letters? I checked the AQI this morning and decided not to go outside. Since I don’t take PED’s, I had to do something so headed to the GYM. (My acronym for Get Yourself Moving)
FYI, more people stare at their phones there than exercise. So, while they’re texting LOL’s to their BFF’s, I wait and fume. Finally I say, “Hey. I’m getting OBM. Can I work in with you before I GOP?” A guy wearing a JDI shirt is sprawled in the middle of the mat doing nothing. I ask if he would mind moving over. He doesn’t budge. RUS? I say, “Don’t wear a JDI shirt if you’re not gonna DI.”
I head to my car and pass a woman and her mom having coffee at an outside table. The mom stares at her phone and says, “Honey, what does EMF mean?” (Had she not told her, I’d have had to look it up). TMI? In the car, I turn the radio on. WTF is up with all the commercials? If you have a UTI, STD, PTSD, BPD, ED or OCD, you’re in luck. There’s a drug for you. If you just wanna listen to music, however, you’re SOL!
Back in the day, cops put out APB’s if you were wanted. You were DOA at the morgue and SOS meant ‘Help!’ Now? We’re living in a 3-letter world. OIC. Don’t believe me? Consider this: Ariana Grande’s last song was ‘POV’ and 60 Minutes just did a whole segment on NFT’s.
FTR, I had lunch today with an older friend who doesn’t own a computer or cell phone. As she struggled to recall where the Red Sea was, I opened my phone.
“Hey Siri?” I ask. “Where is the Red Sea?”
“It is an inlet of the Indian Ocean between Africa and Asia.”
“Isn’t that cool?” I brag. She looks askance.
“I could’ve looked it up. Imagine all the other things I might have noticed along the way.”
Branson and Bezos just zoomed into space; a zillion dollars for 10 minutes of free fall but what did they see ‘along the way?’ Do we really need to spend that kind of money to “realize just how small we are and how fragile Earth is?” DTS. We’re on the expressway of knowledge but everything is flying by. Nothing is sticking. Initialism has become our self expression.
Recently, I helped look after the adorable fellows pictured above. Oh, how I loved listening to them use their words! Every syllable was a symphony to my ears. When the littlest dropped his toy and I said, “Uh, Oh.” He replied: “It happens.” Honestly? Isn’t life short enough without shortening it even more? IDK. I’m thinking of adding all the letters back in.It might just prolong my life.
Recently, I stumbled upon this lesser known Lautrec. The poor girl looks like she has listened to one, too many pandemic horror stories and been subjected to one, too many whiny diatribes from You-Know-Who. Turns out I wasn’t far off. Toulouse painted this exhausted, brothel girl after one of her clients left. He normally painted dancing girls and clowns. Frankly, we could use more of both in our present climate.
The media makes me feel like that girl: worn out and used. Once the bastion of fair and unbiased reporting, it has become a phony backdrop of half-truths and innuendo, propped up by financiers who pull the strings of pretty puppets and push private agendas. I don’t want to see some poor, old man’s hair dye running down his face. I’d rather watch paint dry. Between the political rancor and various ‘movements’ all jockeying for position, it’s a wonder any of us are still standing let alone sane.
So, in this year of closing down and closing in, I refuse to close up. * Since I must now provide my own levity, this has been my day so far:
I sat on my windowsill outside and made strange, bird noises in order to entice the birds to my feeder faster. An elderly couple, who walk by often, suddenly stopped as I twittered on. She raised a single, tentative finger as if to say, ‘Are you OK?’ I gave her a thumbs up.
Upon entering my local coffee shop, I said, to no one in particular, “Isn’t this just wonderful?” People stopped talking and looked up at me expectantly. “We’re still ALIVE!”
I walked on the ‘wrong’ side of the bike path because I felt like it. (Not to worry, there have been no bikes for weeks due to construction.) However, a haughty woman fast-walked past me and barked, “You’re on the wrong side!” “Oh, No! What side is the RIGHT side?” I asked her.
Turned on the news and hit MUTE. While the anchor carried on, different heads popped up in separate squares onscreen. I watched their mouths. It’s just like having my own flat-screen, goldfish bowl!
Yes, there are horrors around every corner but there is also wonder and hope. Honestly? If I hear one more death prediction or political slander piece, I’m going Toulouse it.
“Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood. Now is the time to understand more so that we may fear less.” Marie Curie (1867-1934)
10 years ago, I was so terrified of dogs that I rarely visited friends who had them. Then this little one came home. Skylar weighed less than a pound. She’d been taken from her mother too soon so I had to feed her with a dropper around the clock. We had high hopes that she would be a companion for our children who begged us to get her. Within a few weeks, however, she became my sole responsibility.
Having never owned a dog, I didn’t relish the task. My ignorance was boundless but she was patient with me. The first time I took her for a walk, I put an old cat leash around her neck and almost strangled her. When I dropped a sock out of the laundry basket and she brought it back to me, I thought she had super powers. “Look what my puppy did!” I bragged on Facebook. “It’s called fetch,” my friends replied. Apparently every dog could do it.
Skylar watched my hair turn from brown to gray. She transformed from a rascal who chewed up shoes into an obedient pup who thought sunflower sprouts were a treat. She was there through high school then college graduations, followed us into three, different homes in three, different states and hovered at my side through two, major surgeries. She made me laugh over little things like the face she always made when I brushed her teeth. When I played the piano, she howled along as if we were in it together and we were. At night, if I tossed and turned then sighed, astonishingly, she did the same. Yes, she barked at most everything from falling leaves to FedEx trucks. However, after she alerted me to a midnight prowler, I came to respect her every growl.
I often marvel how I ever managed to live so long before finding such a grand companion. Few humans are as unabashed in both their affections and distresses. Skylar was ALL IN for everything and everyone was a potential friend. For several thousand days, I have held her close against my heart and then, last week, as she took her final breath. The house is pin drop quiet now. Our long running conversation has ended but I will never forget how wonderful it was to have.