A Close Call

The other day, I had a close call.

It was at one of the busiest intersections in town, and about five of us pedestrians were ready to cross on the walk sign. However, cars on the cross street also had just had a green arrow to turn left into the street we were traversing. When the coast was clear, this little group of us started to cross. As we did, another car must have decided to swing around and make his turn before we made any headway, and he came to a screeching halt literally about three feet from me. I "screeched to a halt" too, and there was a domino effect as the lady behind me walked into me, etc. I looked up at the driver, and I guess what stunned me was that he didn't appear remotely sorry to have almost plowed into almost half a dozen people. He appeared to be angry that we were in his way. I don't know that for sure, of course. But I do know that the look on his face didn't appear to be apologetic, sheepish, or relieved. Just irritated as heck.  Every day, as a pedestrian or a bus passenger, I am seeing our current level of stress manifesting in these kinds of ways.

My life didn't pass before my eyes. (For me, that happened day in and day out over COVID year, as I was reminded of all the experiences I'd had in life that were suddenly no longer possible.) And once I safely reached the other side and thanked the heavens for that outcome, I went along on my round of errands. But in the few days since then, that moment has stayed with me and I have been conscious of several things.

Firstly, I believe there are no accidents. Had there been a spectacular crash, it would have been because collectively, all of us involved might have been sending out mixed signals about our determination to live. I know that somewhere in that positive outcome -- despite all the ups and downs of my life -- my soul was singing "yes" to life, and I am relieved about that. I'm still profoundly curious about the future, and am grateful to be here to experience it.

Secondly, last week on the equinox, I made a commitment to being more profoundly present and grounded this fall than I have ever been. Without pushing away other options (England or otherwise), I made a promise to myself to anchor myself as firmly as I possibly can to this little spot on the tip of Lake Superior. Being present and alert at that moment certainly helped me stop on a dime, and it may have helped a few others to do the same.

Lastly, as you often hear about in the lives of other people, a near-death experience does serve as a doorway to increased sensitivity, openness to magic and mystery, and gratitude. It seems to be an invitation both to take life more lightly and more seriously; whatever happens around me, I am still here and I have some purpose still to fulfill, even if it is simply to align with joy and the Goddess. It was literally as much a wake-up call as a close call, and the moments since then have had a new poignancy and energy. 

 

The Blue Mask

Life being, as always, a little uncertain for me (although it may be less so than I thought a few days ago), I am focusing on doing the things that will ground me, since that is one of the hardest things for this Aquarius sun/Pisces moon and Pisces rising. Taking short walks, sitting outside with feet on the ground, making homemade soup, even looking out my window at Lake Superior. She's still there. Phew.

It was on a walk yesterday that I noticed an outrageous number of blue masks, clearly used, then, literally, disposed of on the street and in people's yards. So many things went through my mind. First, the fact that anytime before 2020, you almost never saw blue masks anywhere except a doctor's office...certainly not on the face of the public or tossed aside like soda cans. Now they are ubiquitous. I tried to comfort myself that they were made of paper, and so might eventually degrade. But two seconds of research this morning taught me that they are partially plastic, so they are not recyclable or compostable.

The blue mask sitting there, covering up (what?) ten or twelve square inches of bright green grass, has become a potent symbol in the last 24 hours. The mask serves to block sun and rain from reaching the grass, and at least for a time, the grass may die. The very items invented to protect the public and health care workers from COVID, are, themselves, making it incrementally harder for Mother Earth herself to breathe. After their single use, these items are landing on the grass, on the sidewalk, in plastic trash bags at the dump, or in the ocean. Millions upon millions of them a day. 

I don't know quite what to say about this. It is so enormous, where do you start?  But it is almost as if the symptoms of this disease (fever/overheating and the inability to breathe and use other senses) are the very symptoms we are seeing in the earth herself, and her precious climate. Earth is becoming overheated, she cannot breathe, and she cannot cool herself with pure waters. Her struggle to regain health (more powerful storms, temperature extremes, and natural "disasters") are, of course, becoming our struggle. Indeed, there is no separation. We and the earth are one. But I don't think overall, as a culture, we have started to understand and embrace that reality.

My masks are multiple-use. I hand wash or throw them in with the laundry. That isn't really a solution, but I guess it's one small thing I can do today. Anything that grounds, connecting me to the earth and what she is going through, is good.

Up in the Air

As I write, things are again moving and changing beneath my feet. My new situation may, itself, be in flux, so at the moment when I had started to feel a little grounded, I can feel the subtle shifting again. The metaphor of "shifting sands" may be overused, but that is what it feels like. Not enough movement to throw my balance completely off, but I cannot quite settle in yet.

I trust the Goddess enough to know that I am being guided, so overall, I remain pretty calm. On an emotional level, I feel a great deal of empathy with the Haitian refugees and so many around the world whose lives are fluid, who don't have a permanent place to be.  But I also know that I remain comparatively fortunate. So far, I have never been without a roof over my head. And my situation, while not by "choice" exactly, has always been due to finding no appropriate niche, and little or no financial support for my specific gifts; it is not due to climate disaster, war, or political turmoil. Still, nearly an entire lifetime without a permanent home is beginning to take its toll.

Yesterday, I walked to Lake Superior and sat in the calm sunlight, soaking in her expansiveness. Today, it is cold and seriously windy. Things change quickly around here, literally on a dime. They sometimes change back again just as quickly. May I  stay open-hearted and open-minded as the winds roar around me. 

Patchworks

What an odd weekend. Hot for late September in Northern Minnesota. I did a little food shopping on Thursday, and sat outside over iced tea with a friend on Saturday. Other than that, I felt like I was holding my breath. It might literally have been the calm before the storm; the sky this morning was completely orangish-red, "red sky at morning, sailors take warning". And heavy rain is due soon. I just heard a bird that sounded like something from the rainforest, not that I've ever been to the rainforest, but it didn't sound like a north country bird. All a bit odd, surreal.

I didn't watch any television all summer, and starting tomorrow, I won't be in a situation where extensive TV watching will be appropriate, and so the last few days I confess I binge-watched several favorite British mysteries and also watched morning and evening news. This morning, the patchwork of news items was, itself, surreal. Horrifying and heartbreaking (the Haitian migrants at the border), maddening (the discovery of the body of the missing young woman out west), encouraging (the development of a COVID vaccine for children), and, well, hard to take in (the return of four average people from outer space). My mother died about six months before 911, and as I watched that morning's news twenty years ago, I was so glad that she wasn't there to see it. Since then, increasingly, I've been glad that she (and other old friends and family) can't see the kaleidoscope of strange and jarring visual images we are all exposed to. What would Mom make of any of it? The development of space tourism when millions on earth are homeless. Football stadiums crammed with people in the midst of a pandemic. And, of course, our online world, where we flit from thing to thing every second. I had a moment when I thought, I'm too old, myself, to take all of this in. 

This summer was so healthy, in part, because I didn't watch TV or spend much time online. Plopping myself in front of a television screen for a few days after a long hiatus gave me a new awareness -- frankly, I felt manipulated. It may or may not be the intention of news directors (or for that matter, the creators of even the best drama series), but I had the sense that I was being dragged deliberately over a variegated landscape, through horror, then fear, then outrage, then hope, then warm, touchy-feely "isn't that cute". Moving through so many emotions so quickly leaves you numb, doesn't it? Not to mention feeling like a child.

Those of us in our sixties have a patchwork life behind us, no matter what the colors or patterns on the squares. I'm hearing a common theme from friends, the need to do less and focus only on the one or two aspects of life that are most pressing or most appealing. We simply haven't got enough energy to engage in everything that is happening in the world, as urgent as much of it is, and to switch emotional gears every two seconds. We are exhausted and, in many cases, physically disabled or ill. No other generation of human elders has ever been exposed to so much visual and written stimulus, so much anger and human emotion, and so many toxins and manmade foods and materials, through the course of their lifetimes, and each of us is on an unmarked trail through this rocky landscape. News images are of reality, often heartbreaking reality, but we cannot split ourselves into enough pieces to help fix every crisis. It is so easy to fall into hopelessness. Many of us have narrowed down our focus, whether it's committing to addressing a worldwide problem, or helping our community, or helping the environment, or helping our family or friends, or caring for grandchildren, or healing from illness, or trying to benefit humanity in a less tangible way, through the arts, spirituality or culture. At a certain point, you realize you cannot spread yourself so thin any more. It has become an "or" not an "and" scenario, regrettably.

Those black clouds to the west took all morning, but they're about to drop heavy rain. I am thankful to be under a safe roof, and to be well enough to create a new section of my patchwork quilt. I had my TV binge, but it was oddly exhausting, for something you sit passively to do. It's just not a good use of energy at my age. One less thing to focus on. 

Smart

Back on September 6, 2018, in my post "Genius", I spoke about the experience of having, quite by accident, encountered another person with a so-called "genius IQ" out in the world -- he was a retail clerk. Anyone reading this might wish to read that essay first. 

I write today's post in the full appreciation that there are many forms of intelligence, and that the kind of left brain-logical-academic one measured by the traditional tests is (rightly so) no longer considered the only way to measure "smart". Indeed, I believe we are going through a transition that may either transform, or replace completely, the institutions that were a product primarily of that kind of intelligence. Having equally strong "right brain"/creative intelligence, I am personally looking forward to a more balanced world.

Having said that, the fact remains that I was gifted by God/Goddess/Universe/Source with superior reasoning/academic skills that have gone largely unused in this lifetime, which I find I am grieving right now. I discovered my IQ (when I was ten or twelve, it was 148) listening to my parents talking in the front seat of the car. I was already a grade or two ahead of my age, but apart from that, this aspect of who I was would never again be referred to by family, teachers, or anyone in a position to guide me into the future. When I arrived at Smith in 1973, there were relatively few women professors, although by 1977 there were considerably more. Still, I couldn't "see"  myself in academia...my own grandmother had become a lawyer in 1915, but within five years, she had married and had to abandon her career. My parents were not academics, and there were none in my extended family. The area of my passion (English church music) was not open to women at all; I didn't want to study or teach it, I wanted to sing it. 

If the truth be known, I pursued my master's degree at the University of London (in "historical musicology"/chant) mainly so I would have the experience singing in the chapel choir. If there were specific academic programs in English church music in England, I hadn't found them. In 1981, laden down with student loans that needed repayment, I returned to the U.S. to work them off. I was proud of my academic accomplishment, and dying to talk about my studies. But my mother's only comment was that the skirt I had bought in London made me look like a bag lady. My dad insisted on calling "Royal Holloway College" "Royal Hallowell". They were glad I had had a nice time, but what was I going to do next? Over the years, I got used to consistently dismissive, negative or teasingly critical feedback about my intelligence and education. I was a "pithy Smithy". How was all that education helping me get a job? Why didn't I leave my master's degree off my resume? Wouldn't it be a good idea if I downplayed my education/intelligence? Etc. Etc. 

Of course it is true. I now understand that my resume screamed "this is not a team player. This is a leader". And yet not having found a milieu in which I wanted to lead, I floundered. Of course what happened then is that my resume screamed, "This is a woman who has not achieved her potential". In recent decades, my Lake Superior-sized intelligence has been funneled into truly inappropriate jobs, being super-organized at things like shopping lists and, Goddess be praised, this blog and my two articles about Herbert Howells. Yet it is still not enough. I have been bored so much of the time. I've tried so hard just to survive that my intellect got left behind. 

Recently, two separate women on separate occasions have told me that they love hearing me speak and express myself, that they are inspired by my beautiful way of speaking and organizing my thoughts. I am so incredibly grateful for the positive feedback. Even though I know it is unlikely to become a global in-the-streets kind of movement, and even though boys and men clearly get left behind too, I particularly want to honor all those girls and women in the world whose intellectual gifts have not yet been adequately identified or supported. These women are everywhere. "You are beautiful. I love how smart you are. And the world needs you now, more than ever!"

 

 

Shape-shifting

Back in Duluth, after summer in the big city. As the bus crested the hill and headed down toward Lake Superior, I wasn't as thrilled by the view as I was 30 years ago, more filled with a certain wonder. The vast expanse of lake and the "arms" of her shoreline were welcoming me yet again. Are there any other residents of this city who have left and returned and left and returned more times? Always thinking, I've outgrown Duluth, time to move on, yet coming back...I suppose it is hubris on my part. How do you "outgrow" the largest lake in the world? She has something more to teach me. I am not sure how completely I'll take root this time, but I have made a commitment to just being present, at every moment. 

I was saying to someone the other day how living with a succession of different peoples' "homes" over the years forces you to a kind of adaptation most people never experience. When you are under someone else's roof, you tend to adapt to their way of life whether they expect it or not, or are physically present or not. This summer, I had one of the most pleasing sets of circumstances I have ever had, and one that came closest to an easy alignment with my preferences: no television, morning meditation, healthy food (and a co-op two blocks away), healthy simple lifestyle, beautiful small garden easily accessible in the back, and always-meaningful conversation. That, and lots of quiet time too. The real me came out to play. 

But I have had to shape-shift again. Within minutes of arriving Sunday at a short house-sitting gig, I had turned on the television and grabbed a piece of paper toweling as a napkin, rather than the cloth alternative. Because the "normal" supermarket is closer than the health food store and I am on foot, I walked to it to get some groceries. I tried to choose organic options whenever possible, yet I inevitably grabbed several overpackaged and over-preserved items. I am our current environmental crisis in a nutshell -- convenience and adaptation to what's easiest and on offer guided my actions. I'm trying not to be too hard on myself. Many people would never have survived a life of constant transition at all; at any given moment I am doing the best I can to shift gears and be as fully where I am with as much integrity as possible. I'm glad I had this summer to experience "shifting" into a model that suited me. Staying aligned with that model in different circumstances may be hard, but not completely impossible.

And, hey, I suspect that an elementary ability to shape-shift may actually come in handy in upcoming months and years!

Earring Mystery

At a moment in history when one is fortunate to be alive, healthy, and under a safe roof, this is going to seem like an extremely frivolous subject.

So, yesterday, when I had all my things out on the floor and was sorting, tossing, and otherwise "organizing", I did what I always do when I am about to move. I own about thirty pairs of earrings. I don't wear makeup, bracelets, or do anything fancy with my hair. Most of my clothing is handed down, or from inexpensive big box stores. Earrings are my only real form of fashion expression, although mine are pretty unfashionable, if the truth be known. Or at least not "stylish" -- kind of who I am, somewhat conservative, but artsy, somewhere on the classic/eye-catching cusp. A bit "different". I've rarely purchased earrings, only once in a blue moon. But friends sometimes give me earrings they are about to take to the thrift store, and I have a few nice ones that I was given for Christmas or birthdays.

At the end of the process of pairing the earrings up and putting them in the little zippered bag I keep them in, there was a horrifying sight -- not one, not two, but six single earrings! I've searched all over the room I have been living in for their mates, and through all my bags. Nothing. Then it finally hit me. All summer, I have been putting masks on (to go into stores or the bus) and taking them off again when I get outside. In addition to that, I wear glasses, and a sun hat that has a chin strap. Most of my earrings are drop earrings, and all this unusual activity around my ears must have led to earrings simply falling out onto the street. I am surprised that I didn't notice what was going on sooner, at the end of the day when I took them off. But it's the only explanation I can think of.

I did a search, and I guess I am not the only person having this problem. Something I saw suggested wearing post earrings, which of course makes sense because they have backs that prevent the earring from falling out. But I prefer drop earrings. I'm going to have to go out and buy some extra backs to use on my remaining earrings, and also try to be more intentional and careful taking off masks. There are lots of ripple effects to the pandemic, and while this may be near or at the bottom of the list, it is still "a thing", especially for people whose earrings were expensive. Mine were not, but there are two in particular that I will miss. They are like old friends.