Mayhem

By Marilyn Moore 

It feels unsettled.  It feels uncertain.  It feels somewhat disconnected.  It lacks order, and sense, and focus.  And that’s just my brain…. Decisions are cumbersome.  Broccoli or green beans? Strawberries or black berries?  Salmon or tilapia?  Shop for clothes, because I haven’t for two years, or hold off, because I might be spending another winter in the house, meeting only on Zoom? Plan family gatherings, or not? 

Mayhem, a word from the 14th century with roots in Middle English, Anglo-French, and German.  Its definition includes “a state of rowdy disorder,” and synonyms include chaos, pandemonium, havoc, and commotion.  From comments from others, I think I’m not the only one who feels mayhem surrounds us.  “I just want this (whatever this is) to hold off long enough for me to visit our new grandchild, who will be born in December.”  “Please, please, please, let kids remain in school.”  “If we can just hold on until the first concert is performed.”  “I’m so scared, for my mom, who is ill, and frightened, and vulnerable to the Delta variant.”  “What if there’s another variant, and it’s worse?”  “My daughter lives in New Orleans, and their power is shut off.  I’m so afraid for her.”  “Our friends live near the fires in California, and they’ve been told to evacuate.”  “When will there be a vaccine approved for children younger than 12?”  

Mayhem… disorder, chaos, havoc.  A pandemic that rages far longer than we anticipated, or at least, far longer than we hoped.  And the sobering reality that with succeeding variants, there may be no end in sight.  Anger over public health measures, seen by some as too restrictive and by some as not restrictive enough – and that divide is getting deeper.  Fear that the health system won’t be able to care for all who need it, and anger that those who refuse to be vaccinated are the cause of the overfull hospitals, putting others at risk.  Uncertainty about whether the normal customs of life, including school, work, family gatherings, worship, concerts, travel, should be planned, or canceled, or put on the “wait and see” list.  

Mayhem… disorder, chaos, havoc.  The natural world is reminding us, again, that we are not in charge. Forest fires burn hotter, and longer.  Water from the Colorado River is restricted, for the first time ever.  Water beneath the earth in California is dropping, literally, from more and deeper wells, and the earth above it is dropping, also.  Hurricane Ida is aimed squarely at New Orleans, still not recovered from Hurricane Katrina, 16 years ago.  For the first time, rain fell on the glacier in Greenland, hastening the already speeded-up melting.

Mayhem… disorder, chaos, havoc.  We learn again, as a nation, that we cannot force a democracy on a country that does not choose it. We watch, in wonder and appreciation, the skilled members of the armed services that evacuate Americans from Afghanistan, and in frustration that we can’t evacuate every Afghani who also wants to leave.  It’s not the first time we’ve been in such a situation (some of us remember Vietnam in 1975), but it’s the first time we’ve watched it play out on cable news 24/7.  My stomach clenches at the sights…and at what I imagine that we aren’t seeing. 

Mayhem…. it’s real.  For some, it is experienced as a time of opportunity, a time awaiting a new birth.  For others, it’s painful, the uncertainty almost debilitating, fearing that it’s a time of death.  My own tendency is to look for ways to manage, to control, to make it better.  I remember the advice of mental health professionals who say that in uncertain times, ground yourself by paying attention to that which is right around you, that which you can see, hear, taste, touch, smell.  I see the painting that looks like the land where I grew up.  I hear the remembered laughter of a gathering of friends this evening.  I smell and taste the wonder of a freshly cut peach.  I feel the softness of a baby blanket I’ve just knitted.  Those are grounding – they are real, they remind me of people and places and activities I love.  They may settle my mind enough that I can choose strawberries, and green beans, and salmon, and even decide to shop for some new clothes. 

But the bigger things… the most wonderful freshly cut peach in the world doesn’t get me through pandemic variant uncertainties, nor hurricanes and forest fires, nor US foreign policy questions.  Those are way beyond one person, any one person, and so overwhelming they seem to be way beyond our collective action…or perhaps it’s just beyond our collective will.  And then, I remember one of the lessons from the chaos sciences, that in times of chaos, there’s always a pattern, if we are but wise enough to step back and look with care, and do so in a team, because the more perspectives, the better.  Again, way beyond me….so I think of what I might do individually.  I can’t stop, or directly address, the hurricane damage in Haiti and New Orleans, nor the political damage in Afghanistan, but I can send a check to relief efforts in those places.  I can’t fight the fires in the western US nor turn the rain in Greenland to snow, but I can take steps to reduce my own carbon footprint.  And taking some action, any action, will perhaps make it easier to take the next action, including political action that works toward constructive large-scale change to make planet Earth a healthier place for all God’s children.  

Some blogs close easily with “the end.” This is not one of them.  This is clearly “to be continued….”  Because that’s what happening right now with mayhem – it’s not going away.  

***Like us on Facebook at 5 Women Mayhem

A love letter to our educators

By Mary Kay Roth

Dear educators, far and near:

On Monday, students at Lincoln Public Schools and kids across the country arrive for their first day of school, generally a joyous moment of new shoes and stiff backpacks, photographs and goofy smiles, tears from parents of kindergartners and disbelief from parents of high school seniors.

This year, however, the moment marks what may be the second impossible year of teaching, a time at summer’s end when we hoped life would be better – but just may not be. Undaunted, teachers will inevitably march into their classrooms on Monday morning armed with lesson plans and hope – ready and primed to teach, guide and hug. But I fear there may already be a weariness settling over schools with a backdrop of the Delta variant, a stalled vaccination campaign, partisan brawling and the potential of yet another pandemic-upended school year.

Sitting on the sidelines, people like me feel powerless in our inability to help and support teachers.  

So, I’ve decided to write you all a love letter. Not a mere shout-out nor a simple bravo. Not an objective, measured essay noting all aspects of our current educational system. 

This is an ode, a hymn, an unabashed, audacious full-blown, love letter. 

Teachers and educators – at all grade levels, in public and private schools – you are amazing. I love you for your compassion and tenacity, your heart and soul. You are pandemic heroes, first responders for our children, on the front lines in COVID from the very beginning.

Indeed, the challenges and frustrations of a normal school year are tough enough. But as the world has asked so much of you recently – taking on the ordeal of teaching amidst the bewildering complexities of a global pandemic – you have embraced it. The staff in our schools have risked infection, perhaps more than anyone beyond health care workers, yet soldiered on and taught our kids, counseled our kids, transported our kids, fed our kids, and wrapped your arms around all the things that had to be done. 

Each day you tackled regular teaching duties while also serving as mask monitors, sanitizers of every possible surface, enforcers of social distancing, and teachers of roomies and zoomies at the very same time. Not only did you have to adapt quickly to cutting-edge education, you headed down uncharted paths and navigated new technology, overnight.  You created virtual classrooms out of thin air, moved your lessons to laptops and taught from your own living rooms, often while watching over your own loved ones.

You chuckled (quietly) as young students accidentally brought their Chromebooks into the bathroom, introduced you to family pets and sometimes half-naked family members, occasionally “arrived” at school with pajamas and toothbrushes. And somehow, through it all, you managed to teach.

We honor you. We cherish you. We respect so many school districts like Lincoln Public Schools that courageously bucked politics and consistently chose what was best for kids: keeping them safe, keeping them learning, keeping them surrounded with faith and trust. 

My granddaughter, Everlyn, will have her first day of kindergarten Monday at Beattie Elementary, overjoyed because she has the same wonderful teacher that her big sister had. And big sis Scout will be thrilled to start second grade as a girl who has probably clocked more classroom hours with masks than without – all three of her academic years disrupted by the coronavirus.  Meanwhile, my son Josh, after a grueling year of planning and prep, will serve as principal of a brand-new high school in Kansas City.  He has always dreamed of opening a high school focused on high-poverty students, but probably never imagined he would do it amidst a pandemic.  It certainly won’t stop him.

On Monday, Josh and his staff will join more than three and a half million of our nation’s teachers heading into the trenches in these upside-down crazy times, serving in one of the most impactful jobs in the world, educating future nurses, scientists, chefs, mechanics and all the workers that make the world go round.

I fear more tough and scary times are ahead with a mean-spirited narrative swallowing up many an educational system right now – with intimidation as well as rampant and harmful misinformation about masks and vaccinations. Yet I know, once again, teachers will rise to the challenge, taking on the responsibility of keeping vulnerable children safe, ensuring classrooms are protected havens with lifelines of normalcy and stability.  And somehow, perhaps even miraculously, you will maintain a calm classroom environment, staying above the politicized, anxiety-provoking clamor.

Teachers, educators, I want you to know that these loud and offensive voices come from a very small faction of our citizens.  I want you to recognize that your community is behind you.  Please hear our voices over the rabble – our voices of love and support.  

* We love you for your daily Herculean effort, working long hours well past 9-to-5, often skipping breakfast and scarfing down lunch in record time.

* We love you for giving your own winter boots to the young girl who arrived in sandals in the middle of a winter storm.  We love you for always making sure each child has lunch and books.

* We love you for the way you reach out to every student, extending a hand far beyond the required curriculum.

On Monday, once again, teachers, school administrators, staff, lunchroom ladies, bus drivers, custodians, computer geeks, social workers and every other person who keeps our schools going – will tackle something no generation of educators before them has been called upon to do.  In the middle of a global pandemic, you will teach and students will learn, conquering their first words and their first math equations – getting acquainted with new philosophies and new galaxies – painting and singing and dribbling basketballs.

Teachers, I know you might already feel emotionally fatigued, worried to death about your students, perhaps a bit battered from the wear-and-tear of political vitriol.

But by god the first day of school is Monday and you will rise to the occasion.  

You will persevere.

Our community wishes you all the joy and wonder that a first day of school should bring.  We wish you well.  We send you, our love.

*** Like us on Facebook at 5 Women Mayhem. 

 

Notice This Word

by Mary Reiman

It comes in many forms, in many ways, for many reasons. We see it all around us every day and yet I don't often use the word courage to describe others as much as I should. I might think...oh, wasn't that courageous...but I don't say it, I don't acknowledge it, and I definitely do not write enough notes to those I admire for their great courage. The words stunning, amazing, strong and powerful are more often used in my vocabulary. But I've thought about courage more lately, perhaps because of Covid and the Olympics, and my former colleagues starting another school year, and also because I've noticed the word in the books I read this summer. Of course I looked up the definition. The ability to do something that frightens one. I found the "true definition" of courage to be even more powerful: Mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.

In the last pages of Kristin Hannah's, The Four Winds, Elsa's daughter, Loreda, describes her mom, "...her courage would always guide me. In my dreams, I say, I love you, I tell her every day how she shaped me, how she taught me to stand up and find my woman's voice, even in this man's world."

From The Paris Library: A Novel by Janet Skeslien Charles (A personal favorite because it once again frames the importance of libraries and librarians in our lives!), "You're nothing without principles. Nowhere without ideals. No one without courage."

It is inspiring to hear dynamic phrases when reading fiction, but even more inspiring in non-fiction.

Actually, the word jumped out at me when I noticed John F. Kennedy's Profiles in Courage on my sister's bookshelf last month. I had forgotten about that title. I have always read biographies and memoirs, starting from my elementary school days reading Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys. There weren't a lot of choices in my small school library. Not sure it could really be classified as a library, but it had at least ten bookshelves! 

At that time I wasn't as offended by the fact that all of the courageous souls described in those biographies were men. Not that there aren't many courageous men, but really, only men as fine examples of courage?  I wasn't offended, but I did read and re-read the only woman written about that I could locate on those ten bookshelves: Clara Barton. I wanted, I needed more women's voices. 

Luckily  by the time I arrived at my high school library, I found Amelia Earhart, Rosa Parks, Betty Friedan, Shirley Chisholm and more. The courage of these women taught me about strength in the face of adversity. They gave me hope.   

In The Moment of Lift: How Empowering Women Changes the World, Melinda Gates shares lessons she learning by listening to women around the world. Women from many cultures, many countries. "By coming together and sharing their stories, they gained a sense of belonging, and the sense of belonging gave them a feeling of self-worth, and the feeling of self-worth gave them the courage to band together and demand their rights. They were no longer outsiders; they were insiders. They had a family and a home. And slowly they began to dispel the illusion that society imposes on the disempowered: that because they are denied their rights, they have no rights; that because no one listens to them, they are not speaking truth."

Profiles in Courage could be, should be, revised to be more inclusive, but that probably won't happen. It would be a tome. It is probably better that we have now have a plethora of other books about courageous women. Courageous women are everywhere and need to have their stories told. They are our family, our friends, our colleagues, our mentors.

Courage. 

Notice this word. It describes so many.