My therapists come to me with lyrics and musical notes

We’re moving into a year in which none of us knows just what may happen, and we’re a little tense. Seems like a good time for something to soothe our souls. Which got us to thinking ... what helps when we need a little self-therapy to ease the mayhem? Join us in these days leading up to 2025 – we’ll post daily Dec. 28-Jan. 1 – as we share some of our favorite ways to get through these troubled times. 

By JoAnne Young

My daughter introduced me to the music of Sarah McLachlan and Patty Griffin. 

FM radio brought me to Paul Simon and Joni Mitchell and Elton John, and record  

stores to James Taylor and Carole King. My son ushered in Warren G. and the world of rap. My granddaughter launched Taylor Swift, and my husband helped me find Brandi Carlisle. 

 

Amazon Music, thanks most recently for Wolf Larson and Allison Russell. 

 

All these singer/songwriters play a part in my self-therapy. 

 

I listen to their songs and others when I need some relief from anxiety or uneasiness, when I need to calm down, to stay awake on a long car trip or get inspired. 

 

There are so many great poets in the world who set their words to music. I recently discovered that one of my favorite Christmas/winter songs, “In the Bleak Midwinter,” was from a poem written by one of my newly favorite poets, Christina Rossetti. 

 

In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone
Snow had fallen
Snow on snow, snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter, long, long ago

 

I credit my big sister, Jackie, for taking me along on her musical journey when I was a child. We shared a room, and the radio on our bedside table was on day and night. She was nearly five years older, and her favorite Top 40 songs became mine. 

 

Jackie, who was artistic in many ways, wanted to be a singer in her teen years, and entered a contest to see how far she could get. I will always remember the song she sang: “Secret Love.” I think about that song from time to time and my sister dressed up and singing her heart out. 

 

Once I had a secret love,

That lived within the heart of me

All too soon my secret love, 

Became impatient to be free.

Music isn’t just self-therapy. It’s actually used by health professionals to treat people with brain injuries or strokes. People who can’t form sentences of three to four words can sing their favorite songs, be it hymns, Garth Brooks or the Rolling Stones. 

 

Neurologists say music can create a groove in the brain where the meaning of the words can be laid down deeply. Is that why we can remember the words to songs for a lifetime? 

 

I worked at a classical music station in Omaha when I was pregnant with my first child. Many mornings we both listened to Mozart, Shostakovich and Bach. He is the only one of our three who is a musician. 

 

I believe in the power of music to soothe us, like Patty Griffin’s “Luminous Places.” It’s like a daydream that lowers my heart rate and blood pressure. 

 

Love flows out of these luminous places 
Love lies down in the deep of the sea 
Falls out of the sky in millions of pieces on me. 
I've been over these highways for years in the dark 

Crisscrossing the land like a stitch on a wound.

Rolling through the night while millions were sleeping 

Under every phase of the moon.

 

I find it somewhat staggering that Paul Simon wrote “An American Tune” in 1973,  and not in 1995 or 2001 or 2020 or 2024. There’s been so many years Simon’s lyrics fit, especially now. Thank you for your words and the healing. 

 

We come on the ship they call The Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age's most uncertain hours
And sing an American tune.

Oh, and it's alright, it's alright, it's alright
You can't be forever blessed.
Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day
And I'm trying to get some rest
That's all I'm trying to get some rest.

 

A little self-therapy...soothing my soul in the early morning hours

By Mary Reiman

We’re moving into a year in which none of us knows just what may happen, and we’re a little tense. Seems like a good time for something to soothe our souls. Which got us to thinking ... what helps when we need a little self-therapy to ease the mayhem? Join us in these days leading up to 2025 – we’ll post daily Dec. 28-Jan. 1 – as we share some of our favorite ways to get through these troubled times. 

When I dropped my phone in the sink, it wasn’t the angst of not having the phone overnight. It was the hassle of not having my phone during the holidays. Or so I told myself.

Chances are I wouldn’t be able to get a new phone quickly. Did I have a back-up of my calendar to know where I was supposed to be tomorrow morning? Was everything really in iCloud? Did I lose those pictures I had just taken that afternoon at the family holiday gathering? Yes, those are some of the negative thoughts/concerns running through my head two days before Christmas.

What does one do after grabbing a wet phone out of the water and drying it off? In the past I would have looked for the bag of rice. Alas, luckily my computer was on the table and within seconds I learned to never use rice. (Although I do remember being told in the past that it worked.) Instead, dry it off, turn it off, and let it sit on the counter for 24 hours. Why 24 hours, I don’t know. But at that point I knew they were the experts, I was not. 

So, I followed those directions which meant I would not be able to turn on my phone until later the following afternoon. That’s when it hit me. 

That’s when I realized what my self-therapy is each morning. My morning routine/ritual.

I structure my day around my success with Wordle, Connections, and Worldle. I don’t have to solve all of them each day, especially Worldle because I quickly realized I don’t know all the countries of the world, how they are spelled, or where they are located. However, those games bring a sense of purpose to the early morning hours, setting my brain in motion for the day. If I am highly successful at any of them, it brightens my day before it's even begun. 

And then there’s the Jumble in the newspaper. I can easily get through the day without reading or listening to the news, but not without the Jumble. Others have written about their angst when the Jumble was taken out of our local newspaper. It has returned, and I am thankful.

I turned the phone on the following afternoon and held my breath until the Apple symbol came back on. It's fine and I'm fine. I survived. I was back to my routine by Christmas morning.

So, am I addicted to those games? Well maybe I am. However, I see it as centering myself at the beginning of each day. My self-therapy. 

An aside...I never get the Wordle word on the first line. I always use the same word. I always have, I always will. So imagine my surprise when I put in that word on Christmas morning and up popped 'Genius!' I'm well aware it has nothing to do with being a genius, just luck. However, what a great Christmas present!

A Little Self-Therapy....Soothing My Soul by Getting Something Done

 

By Marilyn Moore

We’re moving into a year in which none of us knows just what may happen, and we’re a little tense. Seems like a good time for something to soothe our souls. Which got us to thinking ... what helps when we need a little self-therapy to ease the mayhem? Join us in these days leading up to 2025 – we’ll post daily Dec. 28-Jan. 1 – as we share some of our favorite ways to get through these troubled times. 

I seldom experience “down” moments. I do, however, experience frustrating, out-of-control, why-can’t-I-fix-this, edgy moments.  And in those moments, when I feel like the decision-makers in our state or country or world are making crazy decisions, that will only make things worse, or when my mind won’t stop racing over its out-of-control list of things to do, or when things seem to be more broken than fixed, or when it’s all just too much and I’m so tired of the frenzy, then I turn to what I have learned soothes my heart and mind and soul….getting something done.  

Sometimes I make a list, which shuts down the competing voices in my brain.  Sometimes I sit for five minutes of calm, letting the neediest “something” rise to top of mind.  Whichever way I begin, I do begin…to get something done.  Bringing a little order, a little peace, into my little corner of the world.  It’s amazing to me how much better I feel when I’ve sorted through that pile of paper that’s been waiting for such a moment, or when I organize a stack of books into piles to read, to give away, or put on a shelf.  Or finish, actually finish, the gift wrapped presents with bows and tags.  Or write that thank you note, or send the donation.  Or do the laundry…oh my gosh, washed, dried, and put away, all in one day!  Or weed the side flower garden, or put away the hoses, or prune back the sedum.  Something, anything, accomplished, reminds me to focus, to do, to pay attention, to celebrate the small wins, and to know there’s another day for the remaining tasks.

Like most everything that’s a good thing, “getting something done” can also be overdone.  If I’m still “getting something done” at 9:00 at night, it’s no longer therapeutic.  It doesn’t make me feel better, it makes me feel overworked, overwhelmed, and more than a little cranky.  At that point, what I most need is a cup of tea, a cookie, and a good book.  Another way to calm my soul….

A little self-therapy … soothing my soul with a voice from the past

 

We’re moving into a year in which none of us knows just what may happen, and we’re a little tense. Seems like a good time for something to soothe our souls. Which got us to thinking ... what helps when we need a little self-therapy to ease the mayhem? Join us in these days leading up to 2025 – we’ll post daily Dec. 28-Jan. 1 – as we share some of our favorite ways to get through these troubled times. 

By Mary Kay Roth

About a decade ago we were forced to take away my mom and dad’s car. It was not pretty. My parents were in their 90’s and we feared they were getting dangerous on the road. But after giving up on any sort of reasonable intervention we resorted to nefarious methods: We covertly started hiding their car keys and eventually had their automobile towed away.

My mom understood, more or less, but my father did not take this well.  Over the course of the following months he left me countless phone messages. Every single day. 

Now, I’m going to admit this is weird. But when I’m feeling angst and stress, and even the glory of a daily sunrise fails to provide relief, I rely on my dad’s voice for a session of silly self-therapy.

“Mary, this is your dad, Bob Roth.  Your Pop.  Old Man Roth.  How are you doing?  You know, I went out to the garage to get my car and it’s gone. I’m a little mad, damn it.”

“Mary, this stinks.  This is a bunch of baloney. You better be getting on the stick.”

“Where in the hell is my car? You’re in deep trouble now, deep doo-doo.” 

Eventually, of course, my dad begins to escalate ... cajole ... threaten.

“Mary, that car is still gone. You're a good daughter.  We need that car. Bring it back or your name’s gonna be mud.” 

“Little missy, I’m gonna call the police.”

“You better get your fanny in gear or somebody’s butt’s gonna be in trouble.”

“If you don’t bring back that car you’ll never drive again. You’ll be an outcast forever.” 

One of my very favorites in this long stream of messages comes when my mom apparently breaks in while dad is leaving me a message.

• “Bob, what are you doing?”  
• “Who is this?
• “This is Ardell, your wife.  Bob, forget about that damn car and go get dressed.”   

I have no memory of who told me to save these messages, but I am forever grateful.

And I have no deep analysis for why they make me feel better.  They are pretty fierce, yet whenever I listen – I start giggling and crying all at the same time.

I guess the simplest reason is that I simply love hearing dad’s voice.   

But perhaps the real miracle is, no matter how angry he gets, dad almost always ends each message with “I love you.” 

I’ve always been drawn to this special line in the children’s book, Where the Wild Things Are …  "And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all."

 

Truly, who needs therapy when you know there are indeed people in the world who loved and who love you best of all.  No matter what. 

“Now, Mary, damn it, bring back that car.  So, how are you doing otherwise? How’s life?”

“Mary, you know I still love you. Call me, sweetheart. Bye, bye.”

“I love you, hon.  I’ll be waiting for your call … about that car …”

If we make it through December ...

By JoAnne Young 

I knew December was coming. I keep it in the corner of my mind all through the year. It’s there beginning in January. It looms in the middle of summer, the beginning of fall. December unsettles me, even with its disguises of bells and ribbons, twinkling lights, angels, cookies and picturesque snow showers. 

 

It fools us with its jolly and sparkle, with the wreaths and evergreens and red splashes of poinsettias, all the while harboring an unwillingness to give up nights of howling north winds, morning chills of single digits, and the longest, darkest hours of the year. The skies turn gray and the earth goes fallow, to rest for the several months until April keeps its promise with slowly awakening color, dotting  our lives with hyacinths, crocuses and bleeding hearts. 

 

In December, we are so busy decorating, shopping, wrapping, along with working at our jobs and everyday chores, that we don’t have time to think about slowing down and finding peace as the earth below us and nature around us does. 

 

The women we know and love are in that December-busy now. If we’re being honest, the decorations and gifts under the tree, the wrappings, candles and sweet treats are the joys that happen because mothers and grandmothers, aunts and sisters make it so. We add that to our year-round responsibilities that don’t go away in December. 

 

I am thinking, especially right now, of the friends and loved ones who must consider their holiday spirit among health concerns and grieving of loved ones who have left them, very recently, or in past months or years. Walking invisibly with us through the holidays are our mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, children and beloved friends with whom we’d love to share this season.

 

The memories of past Christmases and Hanukkahs and Kwanzaas pulsate in December. We buried our mother a couple of decades ago in mid-December, just five weeks after our dad had died suddenly. Then my only sister died three years ago on a March afternoon. Some of you now will be gathering to celebrate with a newly empty chair at the table. 

 

I could be writing about the joys of December and holidays and families gathering around beautifully set tables and the excitement of children opening gifts, but I know two of my neighbors are missing daughters and my friend across town is wondering what she can scrape together for a holiday meal. 

 

How I wish we could dig a moat around December to keep out sadness, disappointment, worries and stress. We can’t. Those things have a way of walking on water, breaching our castles. Beloved teams lose heartbreaking matches. Illnesses cross our immune barriers. Dear hearts stop beating. 

 

We will make it through December. We will work it out or wait it out with courage. We will do it with attentive and thoughtful friends, with appreciation of those loved ones who travel across the state or country to be with us, or those who we will travel miles to see. 

 

Then, we will start to think about the New Year and the hope it brings, even with its uncertainties. I have great expectations for a return to normalcy in early 2025 from being off my feet for two months after a missed step in September and then spending a month practicing the get-up-and-walk-woman incantations, with a lot of help from physical therapists. 

 

I look forward to 2025, to hope mingled with craziness and the tiptoeing of light back to the spring equinox and the longest day of summer solstice. In the meantime, I will grow comfortable with my Eddie Bauer parka and sherpa-lined stocking caps. I will look forward to early morning walks in the cold that fire up my metabolism and boost my mental health. 

 

Until then, God bless you December, with all your faults. 

 

I will leave you with this message by Louise Erdrich, from The Painted Drum. (I love writers.) 

 

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and being alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You have to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes too near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apple falling all around in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”  

Follow us on Facebook at 5 Women Mayhem. 

 

Shining Through

by Mary Reiman

I see your true colors shining through

I see your true colors and that's why I love you

So don't be afraid to let them show

The words of Cyndi Lauper continue to spin through my head. Traveling to Minneapolis last week to see her Final Farewell Tour was more than I expected. Watching and listening to her perform for almost 3 hours, sharing the experience with my sister and niece. Feeling nostalgic.

Cyndi Lauper became well known in the '80s. Known on MTV for her voice and her hair color(s). Yes, you may have labeled her as the woman with pink hair singing ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun.’ She is indeed an entertainer. However, as with so many musicians, there’s so much more. Her first solo album was in 1983. She won the Grammy for best new artist in 1984, wrote the score for Kinky Boots in 2013, and was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 2015.

If you have the opportunity, watch her 2023 documentary, LET THE CANARY SING. You will learn her history. Running away from home, from the sexual abuse of her stepfather, at age 17. Being sexual assaulted by one of her band members. Injuring her vocal cords in 1977, and being told she would never sing again. She is indeed a survivor and a powerful voice in so many ways.  She’s been married for 22 years and has a son who is also a musician. 

This concert was more than the music. Yes, we were reminded of how many songs she’s written and performed during her years on stage.  But the most important moments were those between the songs, when she shared her journey, as well as her passion for helping others. I was reminded of why it is more important than ever to be an advocate. To speak and act and never give up the fight for our rights. 

Her music makes you think. Her lyrics tell a story, reflecting her life…and the lives of so many others. That’s one of the reasons the audience was there. To show their appreciation. She survived...giving them hope...and inspiration. She gives voice to those who feel alone and isolated. You might not like her music, but you do need to appreciate her powerful voice. 

Most noteworthy is her passion for kids in need, those on the fringe. In 2008, she co-founded the 'True Colors United' and in 2022, she started the ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fundamental Rights’ Fund at the Tides Foundation. After Roe v. Wade was overturned, to support organizations that advance women’s rights and health, she said, “I never thought I would see the day that a fundamental civil right for half of the population would be taken away in this country. We must push back…I believe in the United States and I believe that we will not only regain the right to choose, but one day actually secure full equality.” In 2015, she testified before a Senate sub-committee to support homeless teens.

Last Tuesday was Human Rights Day, celebrated internationally in honor of the day 76 years ago, December 10, 1948, when the United Nations General Assembly announced the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR).

The White House recommitted to “upholding the equal and inalienable rights of all people.” The White House Gender Policy Council has been created to advance the rights and opportunities of women and girls across domestic and foreign policy [and] rejoined the United Nations Human Rights Council to highlight and address pressing human rights concerns. They are also working to stop the misuse of commercial spyware, which has enabled human rights abuses around the world as authoritarian governments surveil their populations, and to fight back against transnational repression targeting human rights defenders.  I believe Cyndi Lauper was pleased with these actions. 

As we move into 2025, her words linger. She reminded me of the importance of advocating for those who don’t feel they have a voice, who feel isolated and alone. She is indeed powerful and inspiring.

Don’t be afraid to show your true colors, time after time, because girls just want to have fundamental rights.

If you're lost, you can look and you will find me

Time after time

If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting

Time after time

 

Still Drawn to the Light

 

By Marilyn Moore

Hmm…some of you may be thinking….didn’t she write about that the last time?  Good recall on your part, yes, I did.  In early November, before the election, I wrote about being drawn to the light, particularly candidates who saw promise and potential, rather than darkness and despair, who wanted lift people up rather than push people down.  That’s where I was in early November….

And now, in mid-December, with the election in the past, and many of the “darkness and despair” candidates readying to take office, I’m still drawn to the light.  

What I’m realizing, now that I’m past (sort of) my initial WTF response, is that I may have to look harder for light.  I can do that.  There is much light shining brightly in the neighborhood and city in which I live.  People are already stepping up in support of those likely to be harmed by proposed federal policy changes, like “tightening” Medicaid and Medicare, reducing food benefits to low-income families, “rounding up” anyone who even looks like an immigrant (and just how demeaning is that language….), and removal of protections for members of the LGBTQ community.  

Advocacy groups are watching, readying to testify, readying to file suit, ready to protect.  They will do the hard and necessary work of shining a bright light on the likely consequences of proposed actions.  I am drawn to that light, not to be the lawyer, but perhaps to be the one who writes a check, contacts a legislator, writes a letter to the editor, or marches in a protest.  

There is also light in the actions of individual people…good folks, stepping up to lend a hand, to make life a little easier or better for those who struggle.  I see Free Little Pantries being re-filled.  I see groups planting trees to make the air cooler and cleaner.  I see families welcoming immigrant families, retired teachers volunteering to teach English to newcomers wanting to learn.  I see people coming together to build beds for children, to pick up trash in parks and on trails, to provide gifts for people they do not know at this holiday time, to provide homes for rescue animals.  

I’m under no illusion that these volunteer efforts, laudable and magnificent as they are, will care for every need of every hungry, homeless, or ill person.  As Scott Young, retired executive director of the Lincoln Food Bank said on many occasions, “We cannot Food Bank our way out of the widespread food insecurity people are experiencing.” And he always followed that up with the pledge that the Food Bank would do all that it could do, with the resources provided by volunteers and donations, to assure adequate and nutritious meals for our neighbors.  

Scott is so right, about food, and about the other basic needs.  Habitat for Humanity can’t build enough houses to end the housing shortage.  Clinic With a Heart can’t provide medical care for all those who need it.  But what they can do, they do…and their work shines a bright light, one to which I’m drawn.  Writing checks, volunteering time…I can do that.  And I can also support the efforts of advocacy groups who work to address systemic realities that result in hunger, in homelessness, in poor access to medical care.  I believe the basic health and welfare, the promise and potential of those who live in this country, should not be shouldered only by volunteers and the goodness of their hearts. These are justice issues…and may justice roll like a mighty stream.  That looks like light. 

As the days grow shorter, and we approach the winter solstice, the day of the fewest hours of light and the most hours of darkness, I treasure the light in the sky.  I stop on the Rock Island trail for quiet moments of peace and tranquility in the fading light of the day.  I listen for the light in music that gives me goosebumps.  I read for the light in the words of favorite authors and those of faraway friends whose greetings we are beginning to receive.  I feel the light in warm and caring embraces.  And in this post-election time…I treasure the light, I look for the light, I commit to the light. And I know that I am not alone…millions of others are doing the same. 

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A curious Thanksgiving with surprising slices of peace on earth

 

By Mary Kay Roth

My very first official “adult” Thanksgiving happened in upstate New York where I was a blushing bride, working on a newspaper, and had invited my new Ohio in-laws to dinner.

When I was growing up my mom had been a perfectionist cook who never allowed anyone in “her” kitchen, most especially over the holidays – a solid line etched between the living room shag carpeting and the lime-green kitchen linoleum, preventing anyone from entering her domain.  

As a result, I’m self-taught at cooking and baking – and that early Thanksgiving I was nervous and inexperienced. Thinking I was clever, I had purchased a goofy turkey apron and meticulously plotted a menu timeline. 

As scheduled I started by baking a pie early Thanksgiving morning and subsequently watched the piecrust fall off as I peered through the oven window.  Since I didn’t know you needed to cook sweet potatoes before you baked them in a casserole, everyone bit into rock-hard yams. The turkey was fine, it’s tough to kill a turkey, while the mashed potatoes were  oddly lumpy. Frankly, I can’t remember what we had for dessert … probably a bald, strange-looking pie.

I’ve come far since then. Long ago I found a lovely roast turkey recipe in an old Parade Magazine and each year my family now crowds into my home and pretty much demands the same obligatory dishes. I managed to add a dry brine to the turkey without rebellion, but whenever I add anything extra to the dressing my daughter quietly separates it on her plate and sniffs a bit.

More importantly, perhaps, I’ve learned much over the years about the timeless threads of tradition and custom, how they give us grounding. And yet despite those deeply instilled lessons, as the holidays approached this year I found myself anxious and worried … over politics, missing loved ones from our table, a heaviness hanging low.

I’d lost my way … at least, strangely enough, until I took a few holiday detours, a journey that started when I rented a cabin at Platte River State Park for this past Wednesday and Thursday.

I figured my stay would be completely solo, my own family not gathering until Friday, and everyone else insanely busy over Thanksgiving.  Strangely enough, folks stopped by. We ate appetizers and hiked trails and lit fires and drank wine and even broke the steadfast Roth directive – we actually listened to Christmas music BEFORE Thanksgiving. OMG. 

Thanksgiving morning, I walked around the park at dawn all alone, getting lost as I always do but stumbling upon an old wooden tower.  And as I climbed to the top I found a brilliant sunrise peering over the treetops, deer grazing beneath me and squawking geese above.  

Throughout that day, my dog Pip and I tromped around the park, holiday lights strewn at the occasional cabin, the smell of turkey everywhere.  One ambitious fellow had towed an entire U-Haul filled with Thanksgiving fixings to his cabin.  It was tradition, he explained, and invited Pip and me to join his family for dinner.  We graciously declined, instead lighting a final fire that evening as a few snowflakes sailed down and we listened to the silence of the night.

The next day I returned to the raucous busyness of Lincoln and roasted a turkey for a Friday house-full of family.  It wasn’t exactly Norman Rockwell.  Pip barked furiously at everyone arriving at the door.  I sliced open a finger cutting onions, forgot to assign anyone the task of bringing beverages and realized – fairly late – no one coming to dinner knew how to carve a turkey. 

And yet, somehow, we found our way …. just as we have for decades.

Family members hugged hello – scribbled on the annual “Blessings” poster – played the Who-Am-I game with Post-it notes stuck to their foreheads.  And, as always, in that grand finale of closing meal preparation, we all crammed into the kitchen as I stirred the gravy, my son mashed potatoes,  grandchildren bounced about helter-skelter and my daughter attempted to carve the turkey while watching a how-to YouTube video.

Believe it or not – embracing all puppy and carving catastrophes – the feast was served in fine form.  No politics were spoken. No doomsday forecasts or  agonizing over the next four years. And when we went around the table per practice to count our blessings, we tallied up quite a few. 

So, as I write this blog early Sunday morning, I’m not completely sure what I learned over Thanksgiving this year.  But it feels like I learned something important.

Despite the pall of politics and the collision of family ballot choices, we still came together in a miraculous moment of thanks – in an unexpected and glorious mix of new and old tradition. 

Through the silence of a sunrise and the firelight of night, I found my familiar sense of belonging and faith – the comfort of ritual, conversation and good cheer – the salvation of connection.  

I found my steady heart again … my own slice of peace on earth … when loved ones hold you close and you hold them right back.

And yeah, yeah, I know, the barrage of news will continue to break our hearts. I know it’s not really quite this simple.

But at least for a few days over Thanksgiving, perhaps it is entirely enough.

What do we do now?

 

By JoAnne Young 

It’s started already. A worry everyday since the election, with appointments and predictions of what we're in for. Shouldn’t we have just a few remaining weeks to know we are OK, to have at least a short break in the constant drama that was the 2024 election? There’s been no time to prepare for the exhaustion we will no doubt experience beginning in January. 

 

In a conversation with friends, we agreed it’s one thing to sit around and lament and wring our hands, and it’s another to say, OK, what are we going to do now? What are we going to do to make things better for those who don’t have the means to wait things out, who could suffer in so many ways in the next four years. 

 

So many in our community are being left behind. 

 

How are we going to persuade those 45,410 registered voters in Lancaster County who did not cast a ballot how much they are needed two years from now during mid-term elections? Convince them that even if they have given up on the political system, sometimes for good reason, they will be swept in the results of this 2024 election? 

 

It's worth noting that more than 1,500 Lancaster County voters didn’t check a box for a presidential candidate. That’s known as undervoting. Nearly 600 voted for more than one presidential candidate, known as overvoting, and that vote for president doesn’t count. About 1,000 wrote in another name, a protest vote that also didn’t count. In addition, close to 4,000 didn’t mark a preference for Senate candidates Deb Fischer or Dan Osborn, and nearly 5,000 chose not to vote for either Pete Ricketts or Preston Love Jr. 

 

Our microcosm of Lancaster County spoke loudly in the voting booth, and gave us something to ponder. 

 

In this week as we approach Thanksgiving and spend time with family and friends, it makes me think back to a speech by George H.W. Bush, that invited us all to be among a thousand points of light in this country. Yes, he may have been trying to push off government responsibilities onto individuals, charities and churches, but I have tried to think beyond that. We may be needed now more than ever, especially since Donald Trump seems to have no understanding of what it means to be a participant in the goodness of our future. 

 

“Thousand Points of Light. I never quite got that one,” he said at a rally in 2018. “What the hell is that? Has anyone ever figured that one out?”

 

I think it’s a pretty easy concept. You can be one of those little candles of brightness and hope, even in the most unexpected places and times.  

◊ My beloved granddaughter came to visit last week from Florida, where she’s a high school senior, and I asked her, since she attends a private school, if the Florida education laws have restricted what she has been taught about race or other banned topics in the state. Florida law threatens public school teachers with termination of their jobs or certification if they engage in classroom instruction on sexual orientation or gender identity. It restricts what a teacher can say about race and racism and forbids teachers from discussing anything that could make students feel guilt, anguish, or psychological distress for actions committed in the past and for which the students played no part. In one of her classes, she said, the students did study racism. They did touch on LGBTQ topics, with the teacher acknowledging the related Florida laws. I felt relieved to hear that, that there will be pockets in America for our young people to continue to learn what they need to be learning. 

 

◊ My husband and I deliver supplemental food for the Food Bank of Lincoln, and our small list of people who would have trouble getting to food distributions included a woman only a couple of years older than me who waits outside her apartment door each week in anticipation of our visit and the needed food we bring. In our short chats, I have grown to care about her personally and to count her as a friend. She, and all of us really, rely on the help and attention of others. I know I do. But she especially has touched me and taught me about the people our political and governmental systems seem to have forgotten, purposefully or just out of turning their attention neglectfully elsewhere. 

 

◊ Many of my Lincoln friends have been daily points of light in so many ways, in hospitals, on nonprofit boards, for immigrants needing help in adjusting to a new country and learning English, and in advocating for foster children in court proceedings. Couldn’t we all be a point of light, spread like stars across our city, our state? 

 

I saw a quote today by the late Frank LeMere, a Native activist and politician, and a leader in the Democratic party. He said: “Nothing changes unless we make ourselves uncomfortable.”  How great if we could convert our discomfort with politicians and policies and fears for our nation to defiance.

 

We are OK as long as we continue to care. Our universe is made up of millions of stories. And each story has the potential to contain a point of light. 

And so I polish...

by Mary Reiman

Today I polished a spoon. You might think I have a rather boring life. Maybe. I have had several (OK…many) moments of feeling catatonic in the last few weeks. But this is more cathartic. In some ways the spoon has the touch of a worry stone. A place to go to find calm. I could hardly put words together for the short segment of our group blog last weekend. I was feeling motionless. 

I believe this silverware came to me for a reason when I found these pieces deep in a box last week.

The spoon with the R on the handle was a family piece. A well-worn family piece left behind after cleaning out the farmhouse. I am finding serenity by focusing on this simple act of polishing.  

Reflecting on one thing leads to another when thinking about the past. 

My trip to Iowa last weekend took me back to the family, the land, the memories. It just happened to be Veterans Day weekend that included a visit to the cemetery to honor Dad, a WWII veteran who served from 1942 until the end of the war in 1945. He went into the Army when he was 21 years old. Like so many, he never talked about those years, and mom told us not to ask.  I often wonder how much he shared with her. 

Recently, thanks to the families of others in the 748th Tank Battalion posting their stories online, we are now piecing together his story…history. 

Instead of going directly overseas after basic training in 1942, Dad was part of a unit sent to the Arizona desert to be trained on the use of the British-developed Canal Defence Light or CDL. Over 9,000 soldiers were sworn to secrecy about the project. This light would be attached to tanks for the purpose of disorienting approaching enemy troops and it needed to be tested before use.  They were told they were being trained with a weapon that was going to change the course of the war. Unfortunately, after months of testing, the light did not work as the military had hoped. It was never tested in battle, but it did get used during the war for security and illumination, especially when they were crossing rivers. Dad’s unit was in the desert from July, 1943, until March, 1944. 

Their battalion landed in Europe on April 6th, 1944. After arriving on Utah Beach, Dad drove a truck at night, in the dark, through enemy territory in France, Germany and Austria. His friend’s documentation described what they saw, and how they kept going in spite of what they saw. I now have a better understanding of why dad never talked about it. He was a private in the Army. And he was private about that experience forever after.

I wonder what mom and dad would say about the state of our nation today. Patriotism is defined as ‘love for your country and loyalty towards it.’ A definition currently interpreted in so many ways. 

With each journal I read, I find clarity in Dad’s life story. Do I wish I had known sooner? Yes, but maybe we learn more when we are meant to learn more. Maybe gaining more knowledge of the past will help me more clearly define patriotism, loyalty and courage. 

I feel there is much to wonder about, to worry about…and so I polish.

Reflections on Post-Election Mayhem

THE HARD WORK AHEAD
JOANNE YOUNG

We always knew, didn’t we, that electing a woman to be president would be hard work. We hoped it wouldn’t be this hard. We know the benefits. We know their capabilities. It’s harder than we thought. Even so, Kamala Harris said after Tuesday’s setback that the fight will continue.

If I don’t see a woman in the Oval Office in my lifetime, at least I will know that we fought for it, and to hell with those who stood in our way.

In the meantime, I will choose to fight locally. Historically, local efforts have been a key to keeping democracy alive.

“If people have more of a foothold in their own communities, they are then more likely to support the kinds of legislation that supports the community:  education, health care, you know. And that may be the future of democracy, if not a national democracy,” says historian Heather Cox Richardson.

There are many politicians here making important decisions for us – people being elected to the state Legislature, for example, that is stuck with a stagnant minority of women, around 30 percent, if we’re lucky. With the recent election, six of those women will be Democrats, one an Independent, and seven will be Republicans, including Kathleen Kauth, who will continue her work on a bill that would define K-12 school locker rooms, bathrooms and sporting teams as either male or female, based on a student’s sex at birth, and Tanya Storer, who has vowed to “attack the woke left”.

Our Legislature has 15 Democrats and one Independent, again, less than one-third of the 49 senators. Historically, the diversity has also been woeful.

I’ll also mention that all six of the state elected executive offices are held by Republican white men, some of whom continually try to subvert the rights of women, children and the electorate.

We have hard work ahead. But hard work is good work and can be joyful work, Harris said. And the fight for our country and state and community is always worth it.

It is always worth it.

***

WHITE HOT ANGER
MARILYN MOORE

I’m trying, really trying, to bring some order, some thoughtfulness, some peace of mind to this post-election time.  I’ve tuned out of the news…I do not need, nor want, to hear boasting, bragging, blaming, fault-finding.  I’ve taken lots of long walks, good for the soul, good to counter the excessive leftover Halloween candy bars I’m eating.  I’ve spent time with friends; we’ve commiserated, laughed, cried, and sat in quiet contemplation of a horror too great to put into words.  I’ve sent checks to organizations that amplify my voice.  I’ve sent checks to organizations that meet the basic needs of members of our community; the demands for their services will only increase in the coming years.  I’ve tried to identify the issues I care about most, the ones about which I’ll be especially watchful and outspoken in the coming years.

 But with all those reasonable, rational, somewhat indulgent responses, I have to admit that deep within me is a white-hot anger, a huge WTF? trying to get out.  And sometimes that anger is not deep within at all; it’s right at the surface, as evidence by the WTF.  That is language I do not use…and there are moments now that I want to stand on the front step and shout it out to the universe. The anger is that once again, a truly competent, capable, and well-prepared woman has been defeated by a man that is none of those things.  And that in the process, he bullied, he belittled, he threatened.  Especially women.  The language in this election has coarsened our society (see the endless repetitions of Your Body, My Choice said by men about women), and it will not easily nor quickly be diminished.  This dangerous language, which denigrates women, will be what our daughters and granddaughters and nieces and great nieces and all women, young and old, of color and white, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, of every education and income level, will live with for years to come.  And that makes me very angry.

***

10.5
MARY REIMAN

On November 1^st, NPR reported ‘More than $10 billion has been spent on ads in the 2024 election.’

“Altogether, $10.5 billion has been spent on campaign ads in the 2024 election cycle, on races from president down to county commissioner, according to data compiled by the ad-tracking firm AdImpact and analyzed by NPR. That total is up $1 billion from four years ago.”

10.5 billion dollars.

What purpose did those ads serve? Did we not know who we planned to vote for by October 1^st, when it seems an extraordinary abundance of vicious ads began rolling across our screens, whether through television, newspaper, or social media.

$10,500,000,000

A few million could have been used for one week (I would prefer one day only) of campaign commercials. The rest should have been used to provide food, shelter, healthcare in our communities. There are so many ways our country could be a better place for all.

***

WALKING THE LINE BETWEEN LIGHT AND DARK....
MARY KAY ROTH

 I barely pulled myself out of bed Wednesday morning but my dog, Pip, was blissfully unaware of the previous day’s nightmarish election.  So, we walked and marveled that the sun did actually rise – quite beautifully.

Nature has always calmed my rawest tears and fears. 

Meanwhile I’m also calmed by actually doing something tangible. Subsequently, last week I gave money to the ACLU and OutNebraska. Subscribed to a few national publications that bravely covered the campaign. Started exploring meaningful local initiatives. Held my loved ones close.

I’m truly gutted, reading conflicting analysis of what happened Tuesday, trying to comprehend the thick, black Sharpie line that divides our country.  

I actually worked the polls this election for the very first time, a 14-hour day with nary a confrontation and record numbers of voters.  My favorites were the first-time voters and most especially brand-new citizens who so proudly announced their delight in voting – as poll workers handed them ballots and applauded.  

In those moments I was feeling so good about democracy – I’ll absolutely work the polls again,

Today, however, I’m wondering about those migrant voters.  Legal or not, I’m terrified for them, as well as other underserved, marginalized humans of different gender orientations, racial identities.

My grown kids and I cried together a few days after the election.  My son pointed out that our family – middle class with privilege – may have our ethics crushed over the coming four years but will likely not be harmed significantly.

The question that looms large for me is whether those of us with privilege will be willing to stand up for those without – in a toxic climate that could put us at risk.

Yes, I’ll continue to bask in the golden light of sunrises. But I’ll also be asking myself if I have the courage to do battle with the dark. As the days have passed, I’m not really questioning who we are as a nation. Instead, I’m asking myself, “Who am I and what am I willing to do?”  

I’ll know, sooner than later.

***

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF DOG!
PENNY COSTELLO

In 1996, I moved to Lincoln, Nebraska from Minneapolis to be with my partner, Kate. As a single mom, she put herself through law school, became an attorney, and began her 38-year career as a legislative staffer in the Nebraska Unicameral. She always drew a clear distinction that she was a “policy wonk”, not a litigator. And in the coming years I would learn the difference between policy and politics. And I gained tremendous respect for those passionate souls in government who worked long and hard to formulate policy that would improve peoples’ lives, as opposed to the politicians who set their sites and their priorities on one election cycle after another.

I came to my political awareness with some reticence. I really didn’t want to spend much time thinking about what was going on in the legislature, either at the state or national level. Kate challenged me on my apathy at one point, and my response was anything but apathetic.

“I have a right to be apathetic!” I said. “In my first ten years, they assassinated John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King. Not long after that, Watergate happened, and we all learned that our government lies to us and sells us out. So, yeah, I’m apathetic!”

“Well,” she chuckled, “you’re pretty passionate about your apathy…” She had a point.

Then near the end of the 20^th century came the state constitutional amendment that declared that Nebraska would never recognize same-sex marriage or civil unions. One of the most stringent such laws in the country. So, in 2005, we created our own commitment ceremony, surrounded by friends and family, including our dog, Dexter, who made sure he was standing with us as we exchanged our vows. That ceremony made a difference for us. We felt like a real couple, committed to ‘the we that is us’, as we like to say.

Ten years later, the U.S Supreme Court mandated that same-sex marriage would be legal and recognized in the United States. We both happened to be home that day, and had the TV on when the news broke. A month later, we became the first same-sex couple to be married in the Rotunda at the Nebraska Stae Capitol, officiated by Senator Ernie Chambers, the firebrand from Omaha who had been fighting for equal rights for all for over 30 years. It was a day filled with unsurpassed hope, love, jubilation, and validation. Definitely one of the best days of our lives.

When Hilary Clinton ran for President against Donald Trump in 2016, I got my hopes up for the possibility that finally, after nearly a quarter of a millenium, this nation would select a woman to lead it.

And when President Biden withdrew from the race this past year, and Kamala Harris became the nominee, that hope was rekindled, until it was Trumped again. Those hopes were dashed, smashed, and trashed. I don’t need to regurgitate the outrage, the WTF?!, the how the hell could this happen? There’s plenty of that all over the news, on social media, and none of it changes the result.

At least for now, and hopefully for the rest of my life I am still married to the love of my life. And it’s very clear that I’ll have to leave that old apathy behind, and make sure to stay informed, involved, and fulfill my responsibility as a citizen of this democratic country.

In the midst of all this, my two dogs, Boone and Idgy, have been especially sweet and present. They have been very snuggly, staying very close by, and giving me that look that says, “You know, if you take us for a ride in the car, and we go to the dog park, we know you’d feel a whole lot better. And if we stopped at the drive in on the way home and you got us each a pup cup, everything would be even better!”

Wise pups. Turns out they were right. Fresh air, dog romps, looking up at the sky and saying hello to the trees and the birds and the butterflies, these are the things that ground me, that remind me that, for now, in this moment, life is pretty darned good. We’ll see what happens in the weeks to come, but for now, we’re hanging onto those pure, good moments. 
They need to be savored, not squandered in doom scrolling and diatribes on social media. I can choose where my energy goes, every moment. And as often as possible, I’m going to hug a snuggly dog. Hit me up if you want to join us for a romp and a pup cup.

                    ***

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Drawn to the Light....

 

By Marilyn Moore

Early this fall I was part of a small group walking through the wonder that is Wilderness Park.  It was a nature walk; we had a wise and caring guide, who stopped at points along the path to talk describe the precious moments of summer becoming fall.  We walked together for a time, then our wise leader suggested we choose a path and go at our own pace, or perhaps find a comfortable spot to stop, and look, and listen, and feel the breeze.  

I headed out, continuing on the trail, especially noticing the berries that were hanging by a thread, waiting to fall to the ground and become a new seedling next spring.  It was a warm day, and there were shady spots along the trail, where it was tempting to stop.  But I didn’t stop, much as the shade would have felt good.  As I reported back the group when we gathered again, I could see the trail ahead, and I was drawn to the light.  I kept walking, drawn to the light.  

Kind of how I live my life, drawn to the light.  The approaching winter months awaken anxiety within me…I do not look forward to those long winter nights.  I know…darkness and cold are the conditions needed for rest and restoration of all living creatures in the forest and the prairie, but a remnant of the fear of the ancient people that perhaps the sun isn’t coming back still resides in my DNA.  I will breathe a sigh of relief, and gratitude, on the day of the winter solstice, knowing that a minute or two more of daylight each day will get me through January and February.  

But more than the darkness of night, which has the blessing of stars and comets and which triggers our circadian rhythms to let us fall asleep, it’s the darkness of prejudice and poverty and damage to our planet and lack of compassion that is most unsettling to me.  Those are the dark places where I most crane my neck in search of light…the writers, the poets, the volunteers, the caretakers, the teachers, the policy makers, the inventors, the health care workers, the astrophysicists, the artists, the lovers of life, who light candles and draw a wide circle and shine a light on the shadows and into the dark corners, making the world a better place.

I’ve thought of that path in Wilderness Park, that beckoning light, often in the weeks since then, particularly in the turbulence of the time leading to the 2024 election, now just days away.  In the midst of violent rhetoric, accusatory and blaming language, loud and divisive voices, I’m drawn to the light.  Light that shines possibility, a hopeful future, an affirmation of the value and dignity of all people, an assumption that collectively we can do more and be better, that chaos  and disruption need not be the new normal in our political life.  Like the light on the path ahead, I’m drawn to the candidates whose language conveys light, not darkness.  

In a town hall meeting with Republican women earlier this fall, Kamala Harris was asked a poignant question.  The woman started by saying that she was anxious, so very anxious about the election, and she wondered if Kamala was anxious, too.  She asked her, “How do you sleep at night?”  And Kamala’s response was empathetic, compassionate, and hopeful.  She acknowledged that she wakes up most nights at two in the morning, worrying about something.  Then she said that she manages anxiety and worry with all the healthy things we know about – she tries to exercise daily, she tries to eat wisely, she stays in touch every day with her family.  And then she said that what gives her hope is the goodness of the American people and the democratic systems in our country, the US Constitution, the opportunity and responsibility to participate in those democratic systems, that by doing so we affirm our commitment to something bigger than ourselves.  

It was a stirring response, for several reasons.  She acknowledged what every woman I know has experienced, waking up at two in the morning, anxious and worried about something, knowing that it won’t be so frightening in the light of day, but in the dark, it is.  Watching the women who were in that room with her, you could see that every one of them had been there, too…lots of head nods.  She affirmed the daily health habits we all try to maintain, knowing that sometimes it’s a “tried, but couldn’t make it” day.  And then, she shined the light of possibility and belief in American people and democratic systems in this very dark and stormy time.  

Our choir sang an anthem last week, “Can we sing the darkness to light?”  The text describes “chords of compassion and peace.”  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., reminded us that hate does not drive out hate, only love does.  In these days that are fraught with darkness, my heart and mind and soul are asking… 

* Can we sing the darkness to light?

* Can we love the darkness to light?

* Can we vote the darkness to light?

And my heart and mind and soul, drawn to the light, say, with a whisper, sometimes, and with my big girl voice, sometimes, yes, we can.  Yes, we can.  Yes, we can.  We must….