Tag: #cometravel(virtually)withme

Postmarked: Pure Delight

Postmarked: Pure Delight

Meg

The other day my 20 pound “guard dog” lost his mind barking at the front door – standard protocol for walkers, cars, other dogs, pretty much anything that threatens his domain (i.e. happens into his view). This time, though, there was actually a bright yellow DHL delivery van idling in the driveway – something was afoot after all! The driver was still standing on my front porch scanning the bar codes and tossing packages to the ground when I opened the door. I was stumped because I couldn’t remember having ordered anything at all recently, let alone 4 things.

“Are you sure those are for me?”

He glanced down at the packages. “Yep, your address but a different name on each package. Have a good one.” And off he went.

I gathered the packages up and brought them inside. I double checked the address labels before he pulled away. Definitely for us. The packaging was all the same gray, plastic bagging but none of the packages were exactly the same shape or size. Some were almost lumpy to the feel, others more regular square shapes inside. And DHL? I was perplexed. A real mail mystery.

I have always loved good, old-fashioned snail mail. The love affair started before email existed, of course, when writing letters by hand was the primary way to stay connected with others. Connection being my driving life force, you can maybe imagine the novels worth of letters I have written across the decades. When I lived in the north Maine woods and only went to town once per week, collecting mail from headquarters was the highlight of the trip. Besides ice cream. That was also a thrill. When my kids were away at summer camp – no tech allowed – I semi-stalked (in the nicest, most sane way) our mail carrier every day to ensure I received any incoming letters at the earliest possible moment.

Back then, the mailbox was a magical portal. You never knew what might show up – postcards, letters, junk mail, packages, absolutely nothing at all. It was all a surprise, every single day. These days, ever since I set up a stop delivery with the postal service while I was on vacation, I get daily email notifications about what’s coming my way. Needless to say, very little arrives in the mail that’s a true surprise.

Which brings me back to those packages…

Remember when I mentioned the force that is the Wrexham AFC marketing department in my prior post about the football club in North Wales featured in the show Welcome to Wrexham? Well, here’s your proof. Just in case all you international fans had forgotten us, here’s a little reminder and shot of goodwill to go with it. Totally brilliant. And a two-fer of a surprise -not only were packages arriving out of the blue, but we also had no idea what was inside. As the Brits say, it was like a lucky dip (in American, that’s a grab bag)! Hats, water bottles, coasters, pins, a stuffed animal of the dragon mascot Rex. The women all got wallets. Why? No idea. But this random gesture sparked so many good feelings. This seems like the marketing equivalent of a random act of kindness. It was this happy little thing that dropped in and brightened our day. It made us all smile and think good thoughts about the football club and the people of Wrexham, Wales. Sometimes small gestures go a very long way.

Crossroads and Goalposts…or Two Roads Converged (at the Racecourse Ground)

Crossroads and Goalposts…or Two Roads Converged (at the Racecourse Ground)

Meg

You know the Robert Frost poem The Road Not Taken, where two roads diverge in a wood and Robert Frost takes “the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference”? It’s one of my favorites. I’ve always been that person taking the road less traveled – and I am certain that those choices have indeed made the biggest differences in my life.

But, lately, I’ve been thinking less about diverging paths and more about what happens when roads converge, when parallel lines inexplicably but inevitably meet at the vanishing point, when connection happens in a place and time that seems to be almost predestined. That’s magic.

I don’t usually write about a TV show. Heck, I barely watch TV. It’s rare to find a show that everyone in the family enjoys, but sometimes a show captures your attention and your heart and doesn’t let go. For our family, that’s been the case with Welcome to Wrexham. If you haven’t watched, here’s the quick version: it’s a docuseries about the Wrexham Association Football Club (AFC) – aka soccer – in North Wales – the oldest club in Wales and third oldest in the world – that was relegated (i.e. demoted) due to poor performance season after season. They got stuck in a low level semi-professional league for almost a decade and a half. The club was bought several years ago by actors Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElhenney, who are attempting a fairytale comeback and documenting it as they go. Kind of a real life Ted Lasso.

It’s not just about football or I would have checked out long ago, I am guessing. What makes the show special is how intrinsically linked the football club is to the community and the community to the club. Wrexham is a hard scrabble community that’s a bit down on its luck, quite like their football club. But they are a people who show up and cheer for (in their own special vitriolic way, as the case may be) their hometown team even when they continue to lose and disappoint. These are fans who live and breathe their team. They are a community that has gone through tough times economically and remain proud of and committed to their town, region, and sense of place. Wrexham is a place where people help each other out and make their own luck because nothing comes easy so they brew a cuppa tea and carry on with it.

If that sounds familiar, that’s because it is.

I grew up in Philadelphia, a city that is equal parts heart, hustle, and heartbreak. It can be tough, resilient, a little rough around the edges, gritty, and always full of character (and characters). Both Philadelphia and Wrexham are towns with deep history and beauty (as well as a touch of piss and vinegar). Both have been underestimated, overlooked and written off too many times. They also both feature crazy (okay, enthusiastic) sports fans, for whom every loss is personal. A guy I went to high school with once said that losing in sport was “the Philly man’s destiny.” Ouch – and also not entirely wrong. The history of sports heartbreak pervades the local consciousness. Still, sometimes, despite ourselves, we actually DO win, and then all hell breaks loose (in Philadelphia, the all hell breaking loose part happens win or loose).

So, yea, Welcome to Wrexham is fun and also it hit a lot of familiar notes.

If this were any other underdog sports story, though, I would have moved on by now. But Wrexham is different and this one stuck. Why? Well, props to the formidable force that is their marketing team, let’s be honest. And, also, of course, the Rob McElhenney/Philadelphia hometown connection is a blast. I get a kick out of the Philadelphia Eagles cameos and the description of the green Wrexham jerseys as “Philadelphia Eagles green.” Plus, would you believe that my neighbor in Boston grew up in Wrexham? You can’t make this stuff up. That’s a lot of roads converging. What do a Philly girl and a girl from North Wales have in common? A lot, it turns out!

The story of Wrexham AFC is not one just about sticking together and overcoming adversity no matter the circumstances, though it is those things, too. It’s about finding hope where and when you least expect it and rewriting the narrative. Welcome to Wrexham is the lens through which this journey is shared. It provides a window into life in North Wales and a proximity to a local football club that Americans don’t typically have access to. It invites viewers to feel part of a storied team that is the beating heart of a historic, resilient community. Wrexham’s magic is in building bridges and forging lasting connections, both of which are bigger and more enduring than the show. And connection, like I said before, is my driving life force.

Up the town!

Diolch (thank you!), as always, for reading.

The Wonder of the Imperfect

The Wonder of the Imperfect

Meg

Can you envision a world renewed by imagination and integrity? This is the vision of the W.S. Merwin Conservancy in Maui, whose mission it is to inspire innovation in the arts and sciences by advancing the ideas of poet W.S. Merwin – his life, work, house and palm forest – as fearless and graceful examples of the power of imagination and renewal.

I am highlighting this specific Merwin poem because anytime someone embraces imperfection, my ears perk up.

Be real, be imperfect, be compassionate, and live with integrity and imagination.

THE WONDER OF THE IMPERFECT

Nothing that I do is finished
so I keep returning to it
lured by the notion that I long
to see the whole of it at last
completed and estranged from me

but no the unfinished is what
I return to as it leads me on
I am made whole by what has just
escaped me as it always does
I am made of incompleteness
the words are not there in words

oh gossamer gossamer breath
moment daylight life untouchable
by no name with no beginning

what do we think we recognize

– W.S. Merwin, from The Moon Before Morning (2014, Copper Canyon Press). Used by permission of the publishers.

Maui Beach photo

Photo from http://welltraveledkids.com/2016/03/6-great-family-beaches-maui-perfect-kids/

Sometimes Asking is Giving

Sometimes Asking is Giving

Meg

The other day I was paddle boarding with a friend on a particularly hot and blustery day, stuck on my knees because the wind and chop were so strong that I risked tumbling into the lake if I stood up. After 20 minutes paddling into the wind, I looked up only to realize that I was a few feet further out from shore but still parallel with the dock. So much effort, so little progress, and, honestly, that relentless wind made me feel vulnerable and exposed even though I could have just let it blow me back to shore and call it a day.

As I dug my paddle deeper into the water to renew my effort to gain some forward momentum, it made me think about the extraordinary headwinds indigenous Guatemalan women deal with every day, and what it would be like to be stuck right where you are from the moment you are born, conscripted to a life of poverty, limited agency, and lack of opportunity. Young women in rural Guatemala face quadruple discrimination from the day they arrive on this Earth: they are poor, they are Mayan, they live in a rural area, and they are female. The MAIA Impact School works to change that by connecting the latent talent that exists in rural Guatemala but has been overlooked for generations with opportunity, starting with access to robust education through high school and aiming for university studies and access to formal work opportunities (as opposed to remaining in the informal economy, which is much more common, precarious, and poorly paid).

Each of MAIA’s Girl Pioneers (or GP’s, so called because they are pioneering a completely new path for themselves, their families, and their communities) trajectories has been astonishing. Though the wind remains incessant, there’s a flotilla of support, guidance, and information available to each of them about how to improve one’s technique, navigate challenges, find balance, and move forward.

Photo by Mat Brown on Pexels.com
Photo by Zadok P. on Pexels.com

In MAIA’s first class of high school graduates, a GP won a 4-year scholarship to college in the United States through She Can, an organization that builds female leadership in post-conflict countries. There are still so many hurdles for her to leap over and hoops to jump through before this opportunity becomes a reality, including the SATs, the bane of most high schoolers’ existences. Imagine being the first person in your family to go to high school, let alone college, and trying to take the SAT not in your first language, nor your second language, but your third language. More headwinds.

Because the US college process is so unique and challenging, with the SATs in one’s third language adding an extra twist, MAIA’s US Executive Director asked the Board if anyone knew someone who provides one-on-one SAT tutoring. I texted my neighbor, who is a college counselor, and he recommended Summit Educational Group. I googled them and cold called them, stumbling over my words as I tried to explain what MAIA is and does succinctly and clearly, who the GPs are, what the need was, all the while dreading the eventual question of cost. I asked not knowing what to expect and feeling like I was asking a lot. I was glad to be on the phone when I said the words “pro bono” because my face burned bright red and my armpits got sweaty. The gall of calling a complete stranger and asking for a favor – and then asking for it for free! Completely brazen.

But then, incredibly, they said YES. Yes, we will offer 22 hours of our time free of charge to provide the tools and resources this extraordinary young woman needs to continue along her path. That yes made my heart sing, astonished that this might actually happen and truly touched to experience the goodness, kindness, and generosity of other humans.

Several weeks ago, two MAIA staff visited the US for a conference. While they were here, we thought it would be good to meet and thank the Summit Education team in person. At our meeting we were able to give them a little more context about MAIA, rural Guatemala, and the GPs. It was the appropriate, polite thing to do in thanks to an organization that gave so selflessly on our student’s behalf.

But the part that struck and surprised me most that has stuck with me was how powerfully resonant and moving this connection to Guatemala was for them. Though they had no prior connection to MAIA or to Guatemala, while I was busy sweating through my shirt feeling awkward and queasy about my bold ask, they weren’t asking themselves if at all, only how. In fact, the response was more like:

“We don’t often get the chance to help a student like this.”

“This whole experience has been the highlight of my time here at Summit.”

It turns out that my ask was a give. Your read that right. By asking, I gave the gift of meaning, joy, and connection. By connecting, we build bridges and forge deeper understanding, expanding our own world and worldview. The wind may not die down, but if we work together we all make more forward progress.

Asking for help is hard. It’s challenging to separate a need from feeling needy. I find it easier to ask on behalf of someone else, certainly on behalf of a cause that’s bigger than me, but it’s still hard. It strikes me now that while it is so hard to ask for assistance in so many aspects of life, sometimes – often? – the asking creates an opportunity to give that is meaningful to the giver. As Lynne Twist writes in her book The Soul of Money, “this unlocking of a vehicle to change circumstances is a gift.” It’s a remarkable, empowering twist and the ultimate oxygen mask moment.

It’s A Dog’s Life: Lessons From My Dog Part VI (Don’t Look Back)

It’s A Dog’s Life: Lessons From My Dog Part VI (Don’t Look Back)

Meg

Sometimes you just need to get started.

That’s where I find myself these days: broken-brained, busy, and spinning in my tracks. I have all sorts of great ideas peppering my little brain at inconvenient times like halfway through a swim or as I am careening down the highway. As soon as I stop swimming or driving, the flash of brilliance has been overtaken by whatever it is I can’t forget to do or a child with a story to tell or a phone call or text message interrupting my attempt to hold onto my thoughts. Needless to say, I am really, truly brilliant, but you’ll have to just trust me because I can’t remember why.

Ah, life….you prankster.

Today I am stopping the whir for just a minute and compelling myself to slow down, sit in a chair, and show up. To the practice quiet. To calm the frenzied busy-ness in my head. To pause, clear the cobwebs, and set aside the do list. To breathe, long and deep. To finally stop dancing around my laptop as it sits folded closed on my desk and to write no matter how it turns out. To just get started.

Pause. Breathe. Come back to the present.

It can be so hard to stay in the present. We tend to project to the future (planning or looking forward to or setting expectations of what will be) or perseverate backward (replaying past events and conversations, comparing what is with what was (or what we thought it would be)). Both directions can provide useful intel, but dwelling there in the land of should, should have and could have isn’t healthy or productive. This type of thinking tends to be laden with judgy reproach and expectations. Meanwhile, while we are consumed sitting there thinking about it, actual life is passing us on by.

Dogs are masters of living in the moment. Generally speaking, they are known to live in the here and now; they are loyal and honest; they don’t hold grudges; and they love with reckless abandon. Of course, I am chuckling to myself as I write this, because my dog is all of those things except that he has serious FOMO. He looks over his shoulder at what we just passed and I egg him along to join me in the present where, I remind him, walking is a forward motion. He is a miniature reminder and example of what it looks like to live looking over your shoulder and attempting to backtrack: to the dog you just passed but didn’t sniff, or the acorn you wish you had picked up; to live consumed by the narrative of the things you wish you had said, ruminating about how life would be different if only X, projecting forward into the notion that once you get that raise or promotion or title or vacation then you will be happy.

Maybe.

But chasing extraordinary moments in pursuit of happiness is exhausting and often leaves you empty. The extraordinary is this life, right as it is happening now, in tiny little daily moments where you notice. Like when you notice your dog’s imperfections (and your own) and it makes you smile. Not because it’s extraordinary or exceptional – in fact it’s probably the exact opposite – but just because this is it folks. This is all we got.

Don’t get me wrong, there are absolutely forgettable moments. My days are not filled with perpetual delirious happiness, positivity, gratitude and good vibes. Some days I choose to be miffed at the world and some days the world seems to be miffed at me. But often neither lasts too long. I tend to find joy in the mundane, whether by disposition or conscious practice I am not sure. But I know for a fact that there is almost always some miracle of living out there to delight, typically forcing a deep breath and opening up a new perspective.

Dr. Edith Eva Eger, a Holocaust survivor, writes in her profound and moving memoir The Choice: Embrace the Possible, “Many of us experience feeling trapped in our minds. Our thoughts and beliefs determine, and often limit, how we feel, what we do and what we think is possible. I am here to tell you that the worst prison is not the one the Nazis put me in. The worst prison is the one I built for myself.” How can this be, I wonder? She lived through hell, horror and suffering beyond comprehension. She talks about living after with survivor’s guilt and how for a long time she turned her back from her past and (understandably) ran from it.

At some point she realized, though, that no matter how much time she spent beating herself up about the past, about what could have been different if only and why, it would never change.

[I have the choice] “to accept myself as I am: human, imperfect. To be responsible for my own happiness. To forgive my flaws and reclaim my innocence. To finally stop running from the past and do everything possible in my power to redeem it and then let it go. I can make the choice all of us can make. There is a life I can save: it is mine. The one I am living right now, this precious moment.”

Everything is temporary: pain, pleasure; past, future. But, the present, well, you’re always in it.

I’ve asked it before, thanks to poet Mary Oliver, and I’ll ask it again: “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

Go forth, Warriors. Go forth and breathe into the life you’ve got.

For more from Dr. Eger, check out her podcast with Brene Brown on my * Podcasts, Articles, Books, & Websites page.

Reasons for Hope (and I am Still Here)

Reasons for Hope (and I am Still Here)

Meg

Remember back when this whole Coronavirus thing started (see Don’t Freak Out. But Also Don’t Be Cavalier) and I was, well, freaked out, and for whatever reason it made me feel better to look at puppies? Welp, let my silence here be an indicator (warning?) that we went next level. Not only did I look at puppies, but we decided to actually get one. He has arrived and has fully absconded with our hearts as well as my erstwhile writing time (which was carved out in the wee hours of the morning from my erstwhile sleeping time)! It’s all good – he’s worth it – just a shift.

Puppy

So I sit here today finally trying to parse through all of my thoughts from the past, oh, three weeks and maybe even a little bit of these past four months. Distance and time are always good for reflection, so, thanks, puppy, for providing me with both. I was initially feeling like a good rant, given everything, but have redirected my bubbling (boiling?) passion toward a more positive direction (for now – the rant is still percolating, but ranting isn’t terribly productive, is it?).

First things first, a deep breath. Even a recent article in the Wall Street Journal says deep breathing helps build our mental resilience. I say “even” because, while I respect the WSJ, I would have thought the editors would put deep breathing in the “woo woo” section. I already knew that deep breathing was a good idea, and useful to prevent ranting and other forms of insanity, but I was surprised and glad to see the WSJ sharing this wisdom, too. Surely all of us can use a good dose of resilience right now as well as shifting our focus to positive things (the WSJ notes how we are psychologically pre-wired to fixate on the negative – it’s a survival instinct, but it’s a little outdated since we no longer live in caves, usually, and don’t hunt and gather for food in a need-a-speer-and-I-could-get-killed-by-my-dinner-kind-of-way). So, breathe.

Last week, as I was cruising along holding my breath and all caught up in my thoughts about people only thinking about themselves and their own personal happiness, comfort and satisfaction, and how did we get here, and basically WTF is wrong with people it’s-a-little-piece-of-cloth-for-Christ’s-sake-stop-being-such-a-baby, I happened across an interview on the radio with Jane Goodall. She is one of my environmental (and life) heroes, and she is still out there fighting for environmental justice 60 years on. It is remarkable how little her message has changed over the years, and also how accurate it remains (and how calmly she delivers it – no ranting. Incredible). While there is still so much work to be done, still so many people ignoring science, still so much habitat and species destruction, her message is still one of hope. She doesn’t deny any of those issues, nor our role in this pandemic, and yet she remains hopeful. And sometimes I think, how can this be? And, then I realize her genius. Without hope all is lost. Hopelessness leads to giving up. Jane Goodall is not a giver-upper. And that’s inspiring. In the face of the many engrained, long-term problems we as a society need to face and change, we can’t lose hope and we cannot give up.

art artistic black and white blank
Photo by Lynnelle Richardson on Pexels.com

Over two decades ago, she published her book Reason for Hope. In summary, here are her reasons:

  1. The Human Brain (if we use it (that’s my line, not hers) – “We have at last begun to understand and face up to the problems that threaten us and the survival of life on Earth as we know it. Surely we can use our problem-solving abilities, our brains, to find ways to live in harmony with nature.”
  2. The Indomitable Human Spirit – “My second reason for hope lies in the indomitable nature of the human spirit. There are so many people who have dreamed seemingly unattainable dreams and, because they never gave up, achieved their goals against all the odds, or blazed a path along which others could follow.”
  3. The Resilience of Nature – “My third reason for hope is the incredible resilience of nature. I have visited Nagasaki, site of the second atomic bomb that ended World War II. Scientists had predicted that nothing could grow there for at least 30 years. But, amazingly, greenery grew very quickly. One sapling actually managed to survive the bombing, and today it is a large tree, with great cracks and fissures, all black inside; but that tree still produces leaves. I carry one of those leaves with me as a powerful symbol of hope. I have seen such renewals time and again, including animal species brought back from the brink of extinction.”
  4. The Determination of Young People – “My final reason for hope lies in the tremendous energy, enthusiasm and commitment of young people around the world. Young people, when informed and empowered, when they realize that what they do truly makes a difference, can indeed change the world. We should never underestimate the power of determined young people.”

The most compelling of this list to me back then and now is the indomitable human spirit. I think that’s where hope comes in.

Jimmy Fallon interviewed Jane Goodall on Earth Day in April 2020 if you are interested in hearing her thoughts outloud, including how animal trafficking and other forms of environmental destruction lay the groundwork for this pandemic as well as future ones. Unless, of course, we use our marvelous brains and change!

Finally, if you are still reading this, here’s a quick public service announcement: If you don’t really love dogs (like really, really love them), no matter how bored or lonely you are right now (or ever) don’t get one, especially a puppy. They are a lot of work and they deserve to be loved and taken care of now and in the future when life goes back to some semblance of normal. I know the pull of those cute little faces when you are sitting alone in your house day after day, week after week, and pretty much any other living creature coming to love you and direct your attention elsewhere seems like a really good idea. Puppies do those things, but that comes at a cost as well. I am joyfully but majorly picking and choosing how I spend what was already limited free time. I spend most of my day at the edge of my driveway encouraging my puppy to go to the bathroom. I love it, but it’s not super glamorous and if you can’t see yourself doing that much of the day and even the night, a puppy isn’t a good fit. So, there, PSA delivered and off my soapbox.

BREATHE.

Stay well.

You will be alright.

WE ARE THE SOLUTION.

And just wear a mask. If this is the greatest adversity you have ever faced, you are beyond blessed. It’s not hard. Honestly.

Jane Goodall Quote

 

 

100 Days of Quarantine

100 Days of Quarantine

Meg

Yep, that’s right. I’ve been counting. I may be a day or two off because it all blurred together and I couldn’t tell what day was what for a while there, but I am calling it today and sticking to it!

What does this mean? Traditionally, in my experience, preschools and elementary schools celebrate the 100th day of school. The 100 days of school typically signifies that you are over the hump of the school year and on the downward slope toward summer break (that’s my interpretation anyway, no one ever actually explains WHY we are doing this). It drives me nuts, to be honest, because it’s pretty arbitrary and usually involves some sort of project with 100 objects that requires my assistance to collect, coordinate, and recoup after it goes to school. But damn if those traditions don’t just stick in your brain whether you like them or not! And, I mean, come on, 100 days is a freaking long time and a nice, round number so let’s at least notice it if not celebrate it! As far as I am concerned, these 100 days is 1/3rd of a freaking bizarre year and worth reflecting on no matter how many days are still to come.

The 100 days of not being in school? The 100 days of isolation? The 100 days of digging deep (sometimes really, really deep) to find gratitude? The 100 days of riding a roller coaster without ever leaving home?

Are we over the hump of coronavirus now? I suspect not really. Maybe we are over one hump, the first sin wave, but this bizarre period is not yet over. So the trouble I have with this 100 days is that there is no end in sight, and that still incites a little panic and overwhelm at times. I refuse to use the term “new normal.” I hate it. I prefer something like “the way things are for now.” For now is always a good way to approach uncertainty and change. It implies acceptance of the present but knowledge that the future might be different, though when that future comes is unclear.

Photo by Breakingpic on Pexels.com
Photo by Lina Kivaka on Pexels.com
Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com
Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

I am trying to remember what life was like 100 days ago. I still prefer life from 101 days ago, I am certain of that, but am pleased with the mental shift that’s occurred in between. Those early days were LONG. And confusing. And depressing. I would go to bed knowing I had nothing to look forward to in the morning. I am a do-er and a busy bee so the idea that I had nowhere to go and nothing to go do tanked me at first. It felt so heavy, like so much work to get up and just make it through another day. I’ve mentioned before how I felt like coronavirus teleported me to the 1950s as a housewife, right? I swear that’s the truth of it. I wrote in my quarantine journal on March 31, “I missed 16 whole days in writing this journal. How is that even possible? Well, I’ll tell you how it’s possible. Because life right now is this twilight zone of sur-reality. I have been teleported to the 1950s and spend most of my waking hours cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, working with kids on one thing or another, and curating precious items for our consumption or comfort (general groceries and paper towels in particular).” That did not feel like much to wake up for. So for a long time I wallowed. For three weeks, in fact, according to my journal. Time is so strange. During the same period that the days were forever long I didn’t have time to write. Riddle me that, Batman.

Anyhoo, I know for sure that those first few weeks were a doozy, with more emails about cancelled plans and “uncertainty” than I care to count. I literally still use whiteout and still have a daily planner so I get to laugh when I look back at my calendar now and see the indent of my pen marks for all the plans that should have been just disappeared from reality by the quick stroke of the whiteout brush. It reminds me of traveling in Madagascar, sitting at the airport waiting on a delayed flight. The airport staff would just erase the departure time on the chalkboard and rewrite a new time when the plane was ready to go – two hours delayed was suddenly, miraculously, right on schedule! It’s like the question of whether trees falling in the woods make a sound if no one can hear them. If the plans you didn’t do don’t exist, well, did you miss out on anything?

I have 154 pages (including lots of pictures) keeping track of the last 100 days to pour over one of these days. In sum, a haiku:

Grief. Plodding days. Fear.

April snow. Enough! Spring blooms.

Pollen, hope abound.

Or something like that! I do love a good haiku :-).

So, today – day 100 – I am not saying we need to celebrate. But maybe we might as well (we did, after all, flatten the curve (where I live anyway) so at least a pat on the back is warranted for that)? My March 12, 2020, post Don’t Freak Out, But Also Don’t Be Cavalier is still all true. With the benefit of hindsight, I can say that the puppy thing is very real as is the racism.

It’s a remarkable thing that the whole world is living through at the same time. I don’t think it’s particularly helpful to define this period as good or bad, but we should notice all of it, learn, and adjust. Maybe I will make a list for next time of all the things I have learned over this time. Camus sums it up well, but I am always up for a good list.

Camus Quote

You will be alright.

Wash your hands.

Stay well, stay (close to) home?

 

 

I Can’t Breathe.

I Can’t Breathe.

Meg

To breathe.

It’s the most fundamental aspect of what it means to be alive. In fact, if you google “to breathe” the definition runs from “to draw air into and expel it from the lungs” to “to live” to “to feel free of restraint.” That’s pretty poignant in the context of recent events.

I can’t breathe.

As someone who runs a website called Put Your Own Oxygen Mask on First, who encourages myself and others to take as many big, deep breaths as they possibly can every hour of the day (because I tend to forget – not completely, obviously – but enough that it doesn’t do me any favors), I can’t help but reflect on how powerfully the inability to draw breath has affected our world these last several months.

Oxygen mask. Ventilator. ICU. George Floyd. Death. Tragedy. False Accusation. Grief. Fear. Protest. Anger.

I can’t breathe.

I continue to try to put my attention towards where I can find hope. Without hope, it feels that we are irrevocably broken and that all is lost. When hopelessness takes over, there is no sense in going on.

I can’t breathe.

But on we must go, deep into the the discomfort and uncertainty. And thus we must, daily, find reasons for hope. If you focus on the thousands of peaceful protestors that have turned out nation-wide and not the looters and property destruction, you start to see the threads of hope and where we are headed. There is a united and diverse coalition actively exercising their democratic rights to confront police brutality and the social inequities that plague this country.

I don’t pretend to have answers. I don’t pretend to get it right every time, and I know that I have work to do to be a more conscious and conscientious ally. I look to my friends of color to understand their daily experience more deeply and to have that guide my actions. I always have, but I am doubling down on that now. I know I can galvanize my privilege and will continue to advocate for the voiceless and vulnerable. I am committed to asking the questions, learning more, and participating in forging a better, safer, more equitable future.

Stand together.

Lift up your voice.

Breathe.What if 2020 isn't cancelledAnd don’t forget – please – that we are still in the middle of a pandemic. Social distancing, masks, and hand washing still matter tremendously. So do police – good police. Both/and. Life is complicated and shades of gray, ironically, not black and white. Let’s not lose track of what the story is about. It’s about greater equality for people of all colors – and that includes access to health care, education, safe living environments, opportunity. It’s about systemic racism that disadvantages some while privileging others. It’s about reforming bad policing. It’s about caring for our neighbors as ourselves, against injustice, violence and virus.

Check out my Resources page for reading and other information on #BlackLivesMatter and being anti-racist.

To do list

 

 

 

 

A Plea and a Prayer for the Voiceless and Vulnerable

A Plea and a Prayer for the Voiceless and Vulnerable

Meg

Where do I even start? I am rendered speechless by some of what I see happening in the world right now. And not speechless in a good way.

I understand rationally that anger stems from fear, powerlessness, and uncertainty, which we have in spades currently. So I get to some degree that what we are seeing with regards to the virus, opening plans, and people flouting the very simple protocols for keeping everyone safe from wearing masks to maintaining their distance are symptomatic of that. I recently read an article from Psychology Today, in fact, entitled What Your Anger May Be Hiding that explains anger very rationally. Did you know that when someone is angry the brain releases a chemical that stimulates a numbing sensation while establishing a sense of security and control over a situation? I did not, but it explains so much.

I guess I thought and hoped we were more evolved than that and that we could recognize anger for what it is and modify our behavior. Clearly not. And that’s disappointing. Most disappointing of all is how there appears to be a cultural disregard for the most vulnerable people among us currently. If I hear one more time, “oh, yea, a lot of people have died but most of them were old” I am going to explode. WTF kind of attitude is that? Damn.

“What young people didn’t know, she thought, lying down beside this man, his hand on her shoulder, her arm; oh, what young people did not know. They did not know that lumpy, aged, and wrinkled bodies were as needy as their own young, firm ones, that love was not to be tossed away carelessly, as if it were a tart on a platter with others that got passed around again. No, if love was available, one chose it, or didn’t choose it. And if her platter had been full with the goodness of Henry and she had found it burdensome, had flicked it off crumbs at a time, it was because she had not known what one should know: that day after day was unconsciously squandered.” from Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout

Anyway, I am rambling. I felt like I needed to acknowledge that because it’s been bugging me and making me sad. But I don’t want to focus on it. What I want to do is to say a prayer for the voiceless and vulnerable, for the elderly, our elders; for those with Alzheimer’s and dementia; for those in care homes; for those with other health vulnerabilities; for those in places like rural Guatemala and rural Madagascar and so many other places in the world (including the inner city and parts of rural America) that are disconnected from the regular news cycle so we don’t hear their plight – both because they don’t have a platform to tell it and because no one is listening. Amidst all the quiet of this time, it’s remarkable the cacophony we humans can stir up to distract ourselves and still not LISTEN.

I don’t want to dwell on this. I want to focus on the good stuff, the stories of hope and kindness where you would least expect to find them! It’s my whole mission here and really this is the stuff of grace and humanity that needs to be celebrated and shouted from the rooftops!

In today’s episode, we have video footage of Girl Pioneers from the MAIA Impact School reporting from their homes in rural Guatemala on what life is like in quarantine for them, thanks to donated devices that have been distributed to the students and the MAIA Impact School’s on-going work to give these girls and their families a platform from which to be heard and seen.

You can read more about the students, their lives, and MAIA’s response to COVID @ https://www.maiaimpact.org/maias-response-covid19

More to come!

Each day is a blessing in whatever form it comes – don’t squander it!

Stay well, stay home.

You will be alright.

Indigenous Woman Poem

 

 

The Time of Quiet

The Time of Quiet

Meg

I’ve gone quiet suddenly, here in the blogosphere anyway. It’s like I returned from a long trip and suddenly I was very, very tired. And I had endless mountains of laundry to do. Apparently our virtual world tour has come to an end. I just fizzled one day. For once, I let myself get lost in that with no apologies. If I can’t learn to be in the moment, in THIS moment, now; to face into the fire and not turn away to avoid it, now; to source my strength from within, now, then when will I ever?

It’s often said that it takes 66 days to create a new habit. Today is, in fact, day 66. What new habits have you made? Which will you keep going forward?

Me? I hope to hold onto this conscientious quiet because I cherish the simplicity and peace that comes with it. In my typical suburban existence, I crave calm and quiet, and now I see clearly that so much busyness is self-created. I do like to be busy, but there’s busy and then there’s manic. It’s really refreshing for life to be so plodding that my whirring around checking boxes off my never-ending to-do list eventually has to stop and for once I just sit down and think. Or breathe. Remember that one? I always forget. But now I’ve had 66 days of practice so who knows what the future holds?!? Have you ever seen the short Warren Buffet and Bill Gates clip Busy is the New Stupid? Well, there you are.

Breathe

I also hope some of my meal plan-ahead skills will endure (but mostly I really want take -out). And I imagine I will never stop washing my hands as well as I do now.  Remember that the “new normal” isn’t normal. And it isn’t forever, either, incidentally.

In The Time of Quiet

No one’s told the daffodils about the pause to Spring
And no one’s told the birds to roost and asked them not to sing
No one’s asked the lazy bee to cease his bumbling round
And no one’s stopped the bright green shoots emerging through the ground
No one’s told the sap to rest, deep within the wood
And stop the sleepy trees from waking, wreathed about in bud
No one’s told the sky to douse its brightest shades of blue
And stop the scudding clouds from puffing headlong into view
No one’s asked the lambs to still the springs beneath their feet,
To stop their rapid rush and quell each joyful bleat
No one’s told the stream to halt its gurgle or its flow
And warned the playful breezes, not to gust and blow
No one’s asked the raindrops not to fall upon the earth
And fail to quench the soil in the season of rebirth
No one’s locked the sun down, or dimmed the shimmer of the moon
And even in the darkest night, the stars are still immune
Remember what you value, remember who is dear
Close the doors to danger and keep your family near
In the quiet all around us take the time to sit and stare
And wonder at the glory unfurling everywhere
Look towards the future, after the ordeal
And keep faith in Mother Nature’s power & will to heal.

I have seen this beautiful poem attributed to Pablo Neruda, a Nobel Prize-winning Chilean poet and diplomat. But a little hunt of the world wide web revealed that it was actually written by Philippa Atkin and posted on her blog March 27, 2020.

Pablo Neruda’s poem, also beautiful, is called Keeping Quiet. I am not exactly sure when it was written, but Neruda died in 1973 so we can be sure that he did not predict the internet age taking us over, our addiction to screens or busyness, and certainly not a global pandemic. It is also remarkably appropriate for today :

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

Stay well, stay home.

You will be alright.