A Very Blue Moon

by Penny Costello

It is Halloween Evening 2020 as I write this. Tonight there will be not just a full moon, but a Blue Moon, that relatively rare event when we experience two full moons in the same month. The last time the moon was full on Halloween was in 1944. I guess if any year was ripe for a repeat of such an event, it would be 2020.

In other news this week, scientists discovered a rogue, untethered planet the size of Earth traveling through our galaxy. While that may sound frightening, it turns out that an Earth-size planet is considered tiny in galactic terms. And scientists believe that there may be billions of untethered planets that are not gravitationally-connected to a star as Earth is to the Sun meandering along the Milky Way. In fact, those planets may outnumber the planets that are tethered to stars. We just can’t or don’t see them.

We can’t see them because they have no host stars from which light reflects upon them, making them visible to us, or on which they exert gravitational pull that we can detect and measure. The ones we do see appear to us through an effect called gravitational lensing, a facet of Einstein’s theory of general relativity.

Gravitational lensing happens when one of these planets passes between an Earth-based observer and a distant star. The gravitational field of the rogue planet deflects and focuses the light from that star, and the observer measures a short brightening of the source star. The smaller the light-bending object, the briefer the period of perceived brightening.

Apparently, we got very lucky to even have detected this Earth-sized little rogue. And if you want to know more about the science behind how we detect such phenomena, the link below will take you to the source article.

But as I read this, a few thoughts emerged:

1) Of course we would detect a rogue planet “careening” through our solar system in this of all years, and just days before the most inflammatory and divisive election in my lifetime.

2) The headline, “An Earth-size planet is careening untethered through the galaxy, scientists find” certainly is a grabber. But when I read the article, it turns out that it’s not that unusual. These types of planets may well outnumber the exo-planets orbiting stars in this and billions of other galaxies across the universe. Not only that, but this careening rogue planet is tiny in comparison to the untethered heavenly bodies previously detected. It’s so tiny, we are lucky to even have detected it.

3) These bodies are numerous, very possibly tremendously more numerous than the planets we have been taught and have come to believe are supreme in the cosmos. But they have not been illuminated in a spectrum visible to us. If we can’t see these planets, what else are we not seeing? And if we can’t see them, does that make them any less real?

Meanwhile, back on Earth, I’m struck by some pretty powerful parallels with our current reality. First of all, I think it’s fair to say that one thing we all have in common is a planetary feeling of ‘Good grief, what next?’ Pick your particular flavor of fatigue. We have COVID fatigue, election fatigue, Zoom fatigue, economic uncertainty fatigue, shutdown fatigue, news fatigue, and the list goes on. The fatigue and its toll on us are real.

The news media, social media, and propaganda purveyors all battle to catch our attention, our clicks, and our likes with headlines of unending sources of Mayhem, yes, Mayhem careening toward us. When the actual scale of what is careening may have the impact of a speck of dust that, worst case, will cause us to sneeze. Or it could hit the surface of the Earth with the power to blot out the Sun and cause mass-extinction in a matter of days. Perspective fatigue, anyone?

And finally, if we can’t see something, is it any less real? The famous Washington Post tagline, “Democracy Dies in Darkness,” is compelling to be sure. But systemic racism does not die in darkness. Police brutality, economic inequality, migrant abuse and exploitation, domestic abuse, child abuse, animal abuse, environmental and planetary abuse thrive in darkness as much, apparently as do untethered planets.

We must continue to strive to illuminate what we can, and to be the light when and where we can. So, my wish for all is to be illuminated, to be seen, warmed, nourished and fed by the light of love, knowledge, friendship, community, and peace. And for tonight, Halloween 2020, I’m going to light a fire on my patio and bask in the splendor of this very Blue Moon. 

Tomorrow, I will strive again to be the light for someone or something. And again each day after that.

 

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Kindness Matters

By Mary Reiman

Subtitle: Random Thoughts As The World Turns

 

I’m guessing many of us thought by now we would be writing our reflections of time spent during the pandemic. Thinking about giving extra special thanks for being together this Thanksgiving and pondering over future travel destinations. Instead, we are buying space heaters for our garages, ordering more things online than we need, and wondering how safe it will be at Christmas to gather together with family. For me, it is wondering how cold I will be when gazing through the nursing home window as the harsh north wind blows across northern Iowa in January.

 

My random thoughts continue to flourish…focused plans of action, not so much!   

 

One good thing is I no longer have to worry about going the wrong way down the aisle at the grocery store. It seems I would often be going the wrong way and then notice “the look” from those who were paying attention. Even with a mask, one sees “the look.” I am thankful the arrows are gone.

 

I am also thankful for audiobooks. I am listening to The Book of Longings by Sue Monk Kidd. “Anger is effortless. Kindness is hard.” Such a fascinating story she weaves together. If you haven’t reserved it from the Lincoln City Libraries, you must!

 

When I was growing up, I would often stay with my grandma on Saturday evenings. I don’t know if she offered to let me stay or if my parents begged because they wanted to go out. But I remember Mom getting dressed up in her high heels and dropping me off in time to watch Mitch Miller and Lawrence Welk with Grandma. Grandma’s house was small, cozy, carpeted, warm and in town. Ours was a big old farmhouse with cold wood floors, especially upstairs. At least that’s how I remember it. Grandma had usually just made oatmeal raisin cookies before I arrived. Heaven on earth. What did we do without reality TV or Dancing with the Stars? We watched the Lennon Sisters! 

If I stayed with Grandma during the week, we watched As the World Turns.  It was her favorite soap opera. CBS at 1:00, Monday-Friday. She was a faithful viewer, giving her opinions on what they should be doing but not being critical, just observing.

 

What I remember most about my grandma was her goodness, her kindness, her generosity. Not just to me, but to everyone. Perhaps the generosity was a result of living through the Great Depression, surviving on so little and appreciating everything they had. Mom often talked about how much love they had in their tiny farmhouse with just two bedrooms and seven family members, and that most of the time they really didn’t realize how poor they were.  She said Grandma would always share what they did have with those who had even less.

When I was growing up, I helped Mom fill boxes with food for the nuns at Thanksgiving and Christmas because she knew they lived on a limited income. Perhaps they believed they had a guardian angel that would provide for them. I believe that angel was June Reiman.

 

It is still fascinating to me that my parents didn’t sit us down and talk about being kind, they just were. There was no yelling. I don’t even remember looks of frustration unless I just wasn’t noticing. They were not demeaning to anyone. They didn't criticize each other or anyone else. They were kind and generous and polite. They had conversations and they listened to each other. Does anyone ever use the word polite anymore? Does anyone even know what it means?

 

So when I watch the news, my heart is filled with joy at the segments showing the dedication of so many, especially during this great upheaval. I appreciate the Facebook posts showing gentle souls caring about others, working together for the common good. I appreciate journalists reporting kindness and generosity in this tumultuous world. I believe these are our most important values in spite of the rhetoric of the day. I will be happy when the political ads are over. I am ready for a more gentle world. I need a more gentle world.

 

And as the world turns and random thoughts continue to rumble through my head, I still choose to believe kindness matters.

We're complicated

By JoAnne Young

 

I recently perused an article in a national publication written by a young Nebraska journalist about voter opinions in “flyover country.” It was going fine until I reached the paragraphs that slipped into typecasting and pigeonholing of the people in our state. 

 

You’ve heard how Nebraska is frequently described as a “culture of politeness,” “Nebraska nice,” a “red state.” 

 

Our governor has called Nebraska a “prolife state.”

 

State senators often describe the people of Nebraska as having one mind about whatever topic they are trying to sell. 

 

And then there’s the stereotyping that goes beyond borders … to descriptions of young people or older people, conservatives or liberals. Name a group, there’s a label, a drawer to stick them in and shove shut. 

 

But really, we’re not of one mind. Even identical twins have differences.

 

We’re complicated. 

 

We don’t have “a shared aversion to petty” and “unproductive conflict.” Plenty of us are not above pettiness and unproductive conflict.

 

Even a University of Nebraska-Lincoln article this year was swimming in stereotypes. 

 

The author wrote: “What makes (Nebraskans) stay, generation after generation, in what some call ‘flyover country?’” What makes them stay through long, cold winters and long, hot summers, often hearing someone say, ‘It could be worse.’”

 

Yeah, what does make them stay? Because I have two adult children who left after college, to California and Colorado, and may never return. I know other young people who have fled the area to more accepting states, maybe never to return. 

 

But here’s the thing. It’s hard for politicians to talk about, and for reporters to write about, our complicated natures; it’s easier to believe that talking to a few translates to the many. It’s less easy to put the more common five different opinions into one narrative or story, and certainly into a headline. 

 

That’s why we get “Nebraska nice” as a state brand, instead of “Nebraska nice, grumpy, smart, rude, uneducated, brilliant, progressive, conservative, compassionate, self-centered, well-traveled, homebodies, vanilla, colorful, funny, sarcastic … .”

 

On any given day, we can be a few, none, or all of those descriptors. 

 

We’re messy. Our opinions are contradictory at times. We can be predictable and surprising.

 

Many of us surround ourselves with those of like minds. But not all of us. And sometimes, even those of us who do, are willing to step out of that zone and get uncomfortable for a few minutes each day or each week, or at least each month. 

 

What I am hoping for, if we can stop thinking of ourselves as a singular subject, is a pride in diversity. Not just red or blue, but the non-primary purple, green and orange. 

 

I love that my Apple watch calls the display information you can choose from “complications.” They are those widgets that add information to the watch face beyond the time, complicating both the watch and the watch making. And making improvements. 

 

So, may we be complicated. 

 

And may we all in this state grow to love our diversity and embrace our differences. 

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The Air Between Us....

By Marilyn Moore

“The air between us...” a phrase uttered by Edward, a teenage boy who is the main character in the novel Dear Edward by Ann Napolitano.  This is the story of a boy who is the sole survivor of an airplane crash.  In the novel, Edward has to rebuild his life – physically, cognitively, socially, emotionally…in absolutely every way, while living with his aunt and uncle, in a home that is new to him, a new community, a new school, and blessedly, a new best friend, Shay, a girl his own age, who lives next door, who manages the just right balance of “watches out for him,” and “cuts him no slack.”

His high school physics teacher introduces him to the Large Hadron Collider and the research on particle physics, attempting to answer the questions of the smallest particles, their speed, their behavior, their relationship to one another.  In Edward’s mind, the questions are at the very heart of existence….his, and everyone else’s.  And as the story draws to an end, and Edward is healing, is stronger in every way, he reflects on all the people who were a part of his re-building process – especially his uncle, his physics teacher, his principal, and Shay.  And in reflecting, he utters the words, “The air between us…is not dead space.”

I’m struck by Edward’s story, for so many reasons.  I started my career as a middle school teacher, and I shall always and forever have a special place in my heart for the students in the middle.  Edward was 12 when the plane crashed, right in the middle of middle school, which is a hard growing-up time for most early adolescents.  Like Edward, I’m attracted to the wonders of our world revealed by the physicists, and the metaphors for life from particle physics.  And like Edward, I wonder about the air between us…and I so agree that it is anything but dead space.

Right now, the air between us feels unstable, like that of an approaching storm.  Or perhaps that in the midst of the storm.  It feels like it’s fast moving, and it’s loud, and it’s disruptive.  On one of my walking routes, I walk the bike trail along Highway 2 between 17th and 27th Streets.  Lots of traffic on the highway, everything from huge semis to SUVs to motorcycles, all going fast, whoosh.  It’s my metaphor for the past three weeks, beginning with Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s death….a big whoosh.  And before we could grieve and mourn and celebrate her life, the nomination of another justice, at an event that turned into a super spreader for Covid-19….another big whoosh.  And then, the first presidential debate….great big whoosh.  Followed by the announcement that the President was diagnosed with Covid-19…another big whoosh.  Followed by the vice-presidential debate, complete with fly, and for every woman, seeing all over again the reality that men talk over and interrupt women all the time….great big whoosh.  

And the other events that make the headlines, like rapidly increasing cases of Covid and deaths from Covid, and George Floyd’s alleged murderer is free on bond, and Breonna Taylor’s killer is not charged with her death, and governors try to limit election drop boxes but are stopped by judges from doing so, and a right-wing extremist group in Michigan plots to abduct the governor….every one of them, another whoosh…. 

And the other happenings, the everyday events in the lives of our neighbors….a friend’s daughter dies, another friend’s mother is once again isolated in a care facility, another friend recovers from a complicated surgery, a family member receives a concerning health report, a new baby is born, a marriage is celebrated in a very different way than planned a year ago…these are the events I’d like to give time and undivided attention to, but it’s hard, with all the whooshes from the rapid movement in the air between us.  

So what to make of the noisy, fast-paced, clanging, unstable air between us?  As always, I’m searching for connections.  Those fast-moving vehicles, they’re connecting – people to jobs, family members to family members, goods to consumers, services to those who need them, people who need to get away from it all for a while.  And all those loud and disruptive whooshes in our political and civic life…they’re reminding us that we’re connected to one another, too.  Connected by our shared life in a world, a nation, a community, with both opportunity and responsibility to make it better.  Indeed, the major disruptors of the past seven months – the pandemic, the racial tensions made real and visible again (which are rooted in centuries of systemic racism), the 2020 election – all are outward and visible signs of our connectedness with one another, and the challenges of those disruptors will be resolved only by strengthening the connections between and amongst us. 

It is my hope that the air between us will be strengthened by decisions we make, decisions that honor the expertise of science, decisions that affirm the greater good, decisions that lift one another up, decisions to listen, to learn, to love.  (The social studies teacher in me is compelled to note that the way we make collective, community decisions is through voting.  If you’re not yet registered to vote, it’s not too late.)  It is my hope that as we strengthen connections, the noise, or the pace of the noise, or the stress from the noise, will diminish, and that we know that by tending to the new baby, the isolated grandparent, the grieving parent, we’re also affirming and strengthening those life-giving connections.  The air between us is not dead space…it is what we create it to be.  What an awesome obligation…what an awesome gift.  

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Half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown …

By Mary Kay Roth 

 On a beautiful fall day, just as October began to offer us golden leaves and lovely crisp days, I was calmly sitting at a traffic light – my wee granddaughters strapped into their car seats – when a guy clobbered and rear-ended my car. The resulting jolt mashed the back of my Honda, scrambled everything inside and scared the living daylights out of my little girls. So, after calling the police, determining everyone was pretty much OK, and accepting that many of my bumper stickers were now endangered – I attempted to soothe frayed nerves. 

“That was exciting … Wow, what did you think when you heard that bang?” – to which six-year-old Scout replied: “I thought a T. Rex stepped on us.” 

Strangely enough, that pretty much sums up existence for me right now, as it does indeed feel like some huge monster has trampled our rituals, our traditions, our morality. 

This week, as we were still reeling from the most disgraceful Presidential debate of all times, we discovered our commander-in-chief has contracted COVID-19 - and I am struggling mightily to feel grace for the man who is ultimately responsible for 7.4 million cases of the virus in this country and 209,000 deaths.  And counting.

Perhaps not coincidentally, amidst the clamor of debates and car collisions, the lyrics of one of my favorite songs keeps rolling around in my head - a song written by beloved singer-songwriter John Prine, himself a victim of COVID-19.

    That's the way that the world goes 'round

    You're up one day, the next, you're down

    It's half an inch of water and you think you're gonna drown

    That's the way that the world goes 'round ... 

Thirty days until the election and I feel smashed and trashed, and pretty much drowning in half an inch of water.  I want to be wise and purposeful, but some days I can barely concentrate. My edges are raw, my head throbs. I'm tired of the abyss of Zoom and want hugs. People are stealing election signs in my neighborhood. Newsrooms are buying bullet-proof vests, just in case. And Halloween may very well not happen this year, strangely ironic for the holiday famous for masks.

When I consider the lyrics of that song, I believe it resonates because I feel a sense of helplessness right now.  It's like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle with many pieces missing: the puzzle of staying safe in the middle of a global pandemic - in the middle of a vicious presidential campaign - in the middle of a time when our state and national leaders have pretty much deserted us. 

Do we zigzag? Pivot? Duck?

    That's the way that the world goes 'round

    You're up one day, the next, you're down ...

Generally, I have found comfort in dawn's early glow, planting daffodils, sunlight filtering through the paths of Wilderness Park.  This year a rumbling interferes with autumn's splendor as the barrage of 24-hour news clobbers me, just like that car.  Turn away for a moment and something newly god-awful comes along - seldom pulling you up but sending you further down the back hole.

Trust me, if it hasn't already, the pandemic will come to your doorstep.  Only recently, in my world, two daughters of good friends are battling the virus - one is feeling better, one was just diagnosed with pneumonia.  Several former work colleagues were hospitalized with COVID.  And my son contracted the virus this summer, his high fever and troubled breathing terrifying our entire family.  Certainly solidifying our votes. 

At least most of them. These days members of the Roth tribe generally vote as moderate liberals, but my whip-smart 17-year-old nephew changed course four years ago and determined Trump was the answer for America. When I sat down with him last weekend and tried my level best to listen, not argue, I asked about the pandemic. My nephew said Trump has wisely handed over the issue to governors, who have botched their responsibilities. A national mask mandate would take away state's rights, and case numbers have flared because of increased testing.  When I asked about the fundamental reason he supports Trump, his response was: "He is bringing back the spirit of good old-fashioned American family values and patriotism."

I adore my nephew and admire him for the courage to stand alone in our family. But oh, my dear young man, whose family values are we talking about?  There is most assuredly no one in our family who would mock someone who is physically impaired. No one who would fail to denounce white supremacy. No one who would devalue women, refugees and immigrants, people of varied ethnicities and backgrounds. And no one in our family would ignore the expertise of experts in a health crisis and choose callous ignorance over education, common decency and common sense.

    It's half an inch of water and you think you're gonna drown ...

These are surreal times with all of us running on empty right now, which explains why that "one more thing" will push us over the edge. A simple car accident had me in tears for days feeling vulnerable and exposed every time I got behind the wheel. 

Bottom line, my girls and I are ok. And it finally occurs to me, as I think about how we all stay safe in these scary times, we truly must consider the reality of relying on one another - and handling this ourselves.  We start, of course, by making sure we own a decent, sturdy car and strap ourselves in with seat belts.  We socially distance and wear masks.  We get our flu vaccine.  We wear life jackets.

And when faced with half an inch of water - we simply - stand up.

We stand up and rise above the tide, the lies, the malevolence.  We stand up and speak out.  We canvas.  We write postcards.  We make phone calls.

We do not trust polls.  We do not count up campaign signs. We do not take anything for granted.

We vote. Absentee or in person.  For the love of god, we vote.

    I was sitting in the bathtub counting my toes

    When the radiator broke, water all froze

    I got stuck in the ice without my clothes

    Naked as the eyes of a clown

    I was crying ice cubes, hoping I'd croak

    When the sun come through the window, the ice all broke

    I stood up and laughed, thought it was a joke

    That's the way that the world goes 'round.

John Prine died, along with so many others who did not need to die.  Thirty days out from the election, this is no joke.

Vote.

That's the way that the world goes 'round.