The Veil

by Penny Costello

What’s happening in Minneapolis is in the part of town where I lived for 15 years. I’m so sad to see what’s going on. I came out there in the heart of a thriving LGBT community. (It was the 80s, and that was the acronym at the time.) 

I marched in Take Back the Night marches through those streets, coordinated Pride festivals, protested in support of Native women who were being murdered. And today I am so saddened to know that, while all of those were truly worthwhile endeavors, things have not changed, and may have gotten worse. More likely I've been too comfortable in the blinders of my privilege.

I saw a meme on Facebook attributing this quote to Will Smith, “Racism is not getting worse. It’s being filmed.”

I recognize those neighborhoods that are in flames as I watch the news coverage. My heart aches for George Floyd as he pleaded for his life, and I imagine the terror and despair he must have felt.

But it's not just in Minneapolis. Swastikas painted on trees in Wilderness Park here in Lincoln, people dying in cities across the country as they protest or speak out. Others using the protests as an opportunity to loot, destroy property, and act out against real and perceived injustices. I’m trying to identify what I can do, and how to be a part of this movement for true reform, without being an armchair slacktavist on Facebook.

I'm glued to news coverage. People in the streets in cities all over the country. Police in riot gear, tear gas canisters exploding, cars and buildings in flames. As my granddaughter watched with me (which is amazing because she hates news and politics) she said this to me, "Holy crap! You mean I'm living through a pandemic, this, AND global warming?"

Yes, my darling. You are. 

All of this is simultaneous with the highs of her graduation from high school and the confluence of good feelings and friendship as I organize an online celebration for a dear friend and mentor who turns 90 today.

I’ve heard it said that time is not really linear at all. That in reality it’s all happening at the same time, in parallel. That’s what this emotional spectrum feels like. Maybe the veil is lifting after all, and we’re moving into a new dimension. Maybe part of that is focusing a magnifying lens on everything.

I don’t know. But I guess we’ll find out.

A friend recently shared a song with me called “Resilient” by Rising Appalachia. It’s a powerful video, and the first verse shines a light on the way forward for me.

I am resilient

I trust the movement

I negate the chaos

Uplift the negative

I’ll show up at the table, again and again and again

I’ll close my mouth and learn to listen

Okay. I’m listening.

The Great Upheaval

by Marilyn Moore

Deep beneath the surface of the Earth are tectonic plates, foundational structures of the planet.  They’re always moving slightly, adjusting to one another along the fault line where one plate meets another.  But every now and then, a slip occurs, a plate is caught, and shock waves are sent through the miles of the planet to its surface, and the earth quakes.

Earthquakes are not a common occurrence here in the middle of the country, though they do happen, usually on a small scale. But in many places around the world, both on land and on water, they are frequent, frequent enough that earthquake warnings are issued, and building codes are adapted to earthquakes, and people living in earthquake-prone areas accept them as one of the hazards (like tornadoes and blizzards for Nebraskans) of their chosen home. 

Earthquakes range in level of severity.  Many times, the resulting earthquake results in damage as minor as broken dishes.  Sometimes, it’s much more major, like the earthquake of 1989 that hit just as game three of the World Series was about to begin in Candlestick Park in San Francisco.  That earthquake brought down the Bay Bridge, and 67 people died.  The tsunami of 2004, an earthquake in the middle of the Indian Ocean, resulted in the death of more than 200,000 people in 14 countries.  On a much larger geologic scale, an earthquake about 10 million years ago resulted in the formation of the Tetons, and earlier than that, the formation of the Himalayas. 

Lots of science, lots of physics, lots of geology….bottom line, there are times that the tectonic plates beneath us shudder, and the earth heaves, and the planet is forever changed.  Those plates do not settle back into the same position as before the shudder and the resulting quake. 

I have come to think of this pandemic time as The Great Upheaval.  Foundational plates to our society (think of healthcare, commerce, education, entertainment, families, religious organizations, government, among others) have been disrupted by a microscopic virus, and the resulting shock wave has caused our society to quake.  While it may not be a quake of the magnitude that formed the Tetons or the Himalayas, it is certainly larger than a broken teacup.  And just like the tectonic plates after an earthquake, I suspect our foundational plates will not return to their “before the upheaval” state. 

A significant observation for me is that these foundational plates are all connected.  Just as the Pacific Plate can’t move without impacting the North American plate, the institution of health care can’t shudder without affecting other plates.  When public health (that is, for the benefit of the health of all of us) demands that we stay home as much as possible and limit contact with others, and a resulting decision is that schools close, families are affected, and businesses are affected because parents need to be home with children.  Because people aren’t going out, entertainment venues and service industries have no customers, and millions of people become unemployed.  This pandemic has perhaps been the best ever living-right-in-the-middle-of-it example of our connectedness with one another….a tremor in one system eventually ripples through all the systems.

Earthquakes have a way of making visible small cracks and crevices that might have previously been unknown.  That’s happened in The Great Upheaval, too.  We know that a shockingly high percentage of those who are stricken by and killed by the coronavirus are persons of color.  Those who have the disease and are hospitalized are more likely to be persons with low incomes, persons without access to a regular primary care physician.  Children who live in lower-income families without access to the internet were less likely to be engaged in remote learning, as were children who live in homes without a stable adult presence.  Emergency needs for food and shelter exploded overnight in this community that had an unemployment rate of around 3% just three months ago.  We have seen in long lines at Food Bank distributions just how “on the edge” so many of our neighbors are.  Mental health professionals are very worried about the long-term impact of isolation, worry, and anxiety for children and adults alike, knowing that finding affordable and available mental health services is a challenge at all times, and especially as the need grows.  It has become clear that “kids in school” is the safety net for many children, for breakfast and lunch, for a safe and supervised day, for teachers and counselors and principals who notice a child who is ill or a child who is depressed or a child who is abused – and who know how to alert other systems in the school and the community to respond.

We’re all figuring out what the new normal will be, when a vaccine has been developed and/or a reliable and effective treatment plan has been tested.  Our new normal will most likely not be the same...and that reality is a growing edge for each of us, room to stretch, room to create, room to see and do differently.  Houses of worship will continue to have an online presence, which engages people who are seeking spiritual growth but who choose not to enter a building.  K-12 schools and institutions of higher education will build online learning into their strategic plans.  Individual employees and businesses have learned what work can be done at home…and what really can’t.    All of us have had time to think about what activities we will "add back" when the restrictions are lifted; for many, it's likely to not be the same list as before.  And I suspect that for years to come, we will all be more conscious of washing our hands, and not touching our face. 

I hope that as a nation we hold in even higher regard the scientists, the researchers, the epidemiologists, the virologists, the public health leaders, those who invest their professional lifetimes in the study of diseases and how to identify, contain, and stop them from spreading.  I hope we are more watchful of what happens in other communities, other states, and other countries, because as we have learned from The Great Upheaval, viruses do not know boundaries.  And I hope that we hang on to our new understanding of “essential employee,” knowing that many of them have been invisible to us in the past, but they are the workers that assure that we have food daily and that other basic needs are met. 

I hope that when we are able to gather again, at places of work, places of worship, places of learning, family picnics, graduations and weddings and funerals, concerts and ball fields, that we do so with profound joy and gratitude at the simple gift of being in community....because it is in the connections that we find meaning, substance, energy, and life itself.

A final note about the 1989 earthquake, in which the Bay Bridge collapsed.  It collapsed not because it was not strong enough, but because it was too rigid.  It couldn’t bend, it couldn’t shift, it couldn’t adjust.  A pretty fine metaphor for what we will need to be able to do as we emerge from The Great Upheaval….

‘Hope is the thing with feathers … that perches in the soul’

By Mary Kay Roth

My kids noticed during the latest family Zoom, so after we all said good bye that evening – my son and daughter called one another to discuss the grand mystery: “What’s the matter with mom?” 

Then they each called me. 

·      Anna: “Josh is worried about you.”

·      Josh: “Anna is worried about you.”

Admittedly, I’ve fallen down the deep and dark rabbit hole lately as I watch essential life-saving decisions – wearing masks, lifting lockdowns, collecting reliable data – based on politics and not medical science.

Emotional exhaustion? Pent-up anger? Really bad hair? 

My son Josh probably nailed it when he suggested I may be losing my generally reliable sense of hope. “Mom, I think you need to look forward to something.  Why don’t you choose a reasonable date on the calendar, circle it – knowing it could change – and that’s the day you will plan on hugging your grandkids again.”

Strangely enough, when I asked other family members to weigh in with suggestions, they found comfort in the past – not the future.

My brother, Brad: “Our parents went to World War II, our brother went to the Vietnam War.  If they were able to have the courage to face something like that, certainly we have the courage and hope to fight and beat this.”

My sister, Rosie:  “I know it sounds strange, but I have been reading and watching everything possible about the 1918 flu pandemic. In spite of some inept leaders and people behaving stupidly when frightened, they somehow persevered and progressed.”

One of my friends explained how she also finds grounding in the past: “History gives me hope. Good things can be born from The Rabbit Holes.  Pick any staggering historical moment and you will find an astounding historical achievement and a light at the end of the tunnel.”

I definitely needed to find at least a spark in my tunnel – so I went on something of a quest this week, asking everyone the same question: What gives you hope right now?

·      My lilacs in bloom, fragrant and full of color. 

·      Goofy sidewalk chalk art.

·      Those incredible YouTube songs: Everyone singing alone, yet everyone singing together.

·      Soaring pet adoptions.

·      Pride in my high school senior, a young man excited about celebrating graduation, yet who has risen above it all – and is moving on with his dreams.

·      Excellence in journalism – outstanding depth stories on the pandemic.

·      Looking into the pine tree outside my window and watching as a mother robin has built her nest, laid her eggs and is now patiently brooding as she waits for her young to hatch. The miracle of the life cycle.

·      People intentionally supporting local businesses.

·      The possibility of making it to the birth of my sixth grandchild.

·      Watching my daughter, who had to cancel a dream wedding she has been planning for months – and is now diving into making her backyard ceremony as meaningful and beautiful as can be. 

·      Walking in my neighborhood, seeing and hearing children playing and laughing. These are the souls that will clean up the mess that's been made. I think they are well qualified.

A dear friend reminded me of one of my favorite poems from Emily Dickinson, a hymn of praise honoring humanity’s infinite capacity for hope:

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words, 

And never stops at all …

                 

I love this Dickinson verse, an exquisite affirmation that a persistent glimmer of hope lives within every human soul.

What gives you hope right now?

·      People's creative resilience. Parents who are home schooling, people who really don't sew yet are making gowns and masks, grandparents learning Zoom, everyone learning how to do family haircuts, people throwing imaginative drive-by parties, people learning to spend time with others while wearing masks with six-foot distance … innovative people who are working to develop a vaccine and save our earth.

·      Home-cooked meals: I find hope in a simple trip to the grocery store and coming home to fill my cupboards – while I also find hope in people who are helping make sure everyone’s cupboards are full.

·      Being given the opportunity to see what is really important/necessary in our lives … the great awareness.

·      I feel hopeful every time I speak with friends who know me and understand me and share a history with me – and make me feel appreciated and loved.

·      Focusing on the goodness, kindness and caring of humanity, people giving and sharing their generous hearts. The inspiration of medical professionals and  researchers, people who go to work at the grocery store.

·      Truth gives me hope.  It can be buried, twisted, manipulated, denied, but it can never be changed.  Truth will always rise to find the light of day at the end of the tunnel.

The Dickinson poem promises that hope sings its song through times of abundance as well as times of adversity. But perhaps the real secret is that you actually have to listen.

Anna:  “No matter what, mom, the light continues to shine in your grandchildren’s eyes.”

Josh: “We have safety and love. That's all we really need. I think that's all anyone really needs.”

So, what about me?  I went ahead, tallied the weeks, decided to choose the first day of summer and circled June 20. Of course, the calendar could change.  I could go down the rabbit hole again.  But for now, well, I can hope.

On Human Activity (A ponderous post for the pandemic pause)

by Penny Costello

Over the past several weeks two words have been rumbling around my brain. They’re not new words to me. They’ve been part of our cultural and environmental vernacular for much of my lifetime. “Human activity.”

Thirteen letters. Six syllables. Concise and efficient by linguistic standards, but what they represent in terms of cultural perspective, accountability, the impact of our activity encompass vast dimensions, multiple schools of thought, spectrums of emotional response, and blazing bright lines that define the boundaries between political ideologies, economies and value systems. Even the guiding principles of various religions set down acceptable parameters for human activity. Yet we humans are generally so engrossed in our activity that we rarely, if ever stop to ponder the enormity of what resides within those six syllables and thirteen letters, or our personal connection to it. 

Now we’re living in a different time. This age of the coronavirus has focused a giant lens on all aspects of human activity and reflects it back to us through our televisions, media, in online meetings and virtual workplaces in which we’ve reconfigured our work life. It’s reflected back to us in chats at a distance with neighbors as we spend more time in our yards, neighborhoods and parks; in our relative solitude as we primarily stay in our homes and find ourselves with more time and space to reflect. To reflect on our very human activity.

The COVID-19 pandemic is a planetary reboot. The potential of it has been predicted by scientists for decades. We’ve debated, denied, and lamented the impact of human activity on the environment that sustains us, the plants and animals that are our cohabitants.

Scientists have coined a term for the past century since the Industrial Revolution. The Anthropocene. It’s a period in the Earth’s geological and climatological history that is marked by; rising CO2 levels in the atmosphere, rising sea levels, melting glaciers and polar icecaps, environmental and oceanic degradation, and incomprehensible species loss due to consumption and encroachment on wild spaces, aka human activity.

This is but one reflection on the Anthropocene. In another reflection, it is a measure of progress, of expansion and innovation in a culture and economy founded on converting wilderness to industrial production and propelled by endless growth. A culture of “more” that sees “enough” as a lapse into mediocrity. An unacceptable “flattening of the curve.” 

 These contrasting viewpoints are just a slice of the schizophrenic fervor that is uniquely American, and what has made it one of the most prosperous, most revered and most reviled nations in the history of the world. 

I believe that if you were to ask nearly any American, they will tell you they value self-sufficiency, human decency, prosperity, natural beauty, wide-open spaces, and individual freedoms. We have a sense of pride in our history when we hear the star-spangled banner at sporting events, see fireworks exploding in the sky. At some level, we all share that pride and hold tight to the belief that we’re the good guys. 

Generally we can all agree to a point until we dig down to that next layer of identity: conservative; liberal; socialist; environmentalist; capitalist; nationalist. That’s when demonization and obstruction begin. Deafness sets in, hearts and minds close. When we dig even deeper into the needs and world views shaped by race, economic class, age, gender, sexual preference and gender identity, somewhere in there the diversity that made this country amazing morphs into something that renders us excruciatingly paralyzed, wrapped in the self-righteous indignation of the misrepresented and the misunderstood. 

We’ve all wrapped ourselves in at least one of these cloaks at some point in time. And we all put our blinders on when the noise, complexity of the issues, and the enormity of the suffering or injustice becomes too overwhelming. Especially when our personal platefuls of human activity - work, family, and other obligations - demand our focus and attention.

We have to do our part to feed the machine of endless growth and expansion and ensure the future for ourselves and our families. We all want to believe we’re doing our best, and hopefully at the end of the day, some part of our world is better for our activity.

So, when C02 levels started to creep up in the atmosphere in the 70s and 80s, we felt concerned, but we were unsure which scientific statistics to believe. And we were on deadline with that project at work. When the polar regions started to melt and polar bears began to starve, we ached for them and felt guilty because we kind of enjoyed the warmer winter temps. And then we had to pick the kids up from school and get dinner on the table.

When the wildfires started burning in California, Montana, in the Amazon, and in Australia, we donated money to relief efforts for displaced humans and wildlife. But we also had to help our parents transition into assisted living or long-term care. And it all seemed so very far away.

 Then came the coronavirus and COVID-19. It sharpened our focus the way an intruder walking into our house would, or an armed robber at the bank or grocery store. Suddenly, we face a common threat that reminds us we all live on the same planet, inextricably connected by a shared vulnerability. 

There’s an old joke about the guy who was stranded on the roof of his house in a flood. Terrified, he prayed to God for rescue. Neighbors came by in a canoe, a fishing boat, and a helicopter and invited him aboard. He declined all three saying, “No, thanks, God will save me.” As the waters began to cover the rooftop, he burst into tears, lamenting God’s neglect. Then God spoke to him, and said, “I sent you a canoe, a fishing boat, and a helicopter…what more do you need?”

We’re presented with both a supreme challenge and, I believe a great gift. However you identify spiritually, it’s hard to avoid at least a momentary consideration of what forces might be at play here.

We find ourselves confined to our homes, not unlike that guy on his roof. Rising CO2 levels, climate change, ecosystem collapse, mass extinctions, and now a global pandemic. What more do we need? Whatever energetic force, higher power, or deity you pray to, something is compelling us to stop, to cease or greatly curtail our human activity on multiple levels. 

 We’re being forced, or maybe given permission to jump off the treadmill for a minute. Leave the car in the garage. Walk around the neighborhood. Look up at the sky, noticeably bluer than it was two months ago. Listen to the birds, more abundant, their song more prevalent in the ambient soundscape. Was that a fox that just ran down the street? Is that a picture of a muskrat my neighbor just posted on Facebook? Gosh, my dogs are so happy! This working from home thing is definitely working for them. 

Before the urge to burn me up in the comments overtakes you, none of this is to gloss over or diminish the tragedy in losing nearly 80,000 Americans as of this post, to this truly grim fate. Or to be glib about the financial hurdles and uncertainty so many are facing. Or to deny the fact that things will very likely get worse before they get better.

But I believe that in the midst of it all, there are opportunities to stop and think seriously about our contribution to the vortex of human activity. To assess and make concrete, conscious choices to come out of this better or make something better for others. To pass that by in our rush to “return to normal” would blatantly squander an opportunity we are only beginning to see and articulate. And to squander that opportunity would be like spitting on the graves of those who have lost and will lose their lives, and dishonor those who put theirs on the line every day.

We owe them that much, to pay attention, to look up at the stars, to really listen to the birds, and to look every day for something, one small thing we can change for the better.