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

By Mary Kay Roth

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

Then they each called me. 

·      Anna: “Josh is worried about you.”

·      Josh: “Anna is worried about you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

·      Goofy sidewalk chalk art.

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

·      Soaring pet adoptions.

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

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

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

·      People intentionally supporting local businesses.

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

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

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

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

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words, 

And never stops at all …

                 

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

What gives you hope right now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Penny Costello

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5 minutes...maybe 6

by Mary Reiman

I look for a sign every day. Today when I got up and looked out the window there was a beautiful robin sitting on the fence looking in the window. I know it was my mom checking in. 

Every morning one of the first things I see is a picture I have taped to my bathroom mirror of my mom and me. My good friend, Carol, told me to talk to her every day, that mom would hear me, even though I can’t visit or call her. Mom is 96 years old (97 next month) and I can’t call her because she no longer answers her phone. But now, since they are in quarantine at the nursing home, I can schedule time with the wonderful activities director, also named Carol, so she can guide Mom to pick up the phone and hear my voice. My time is Tuesday morning at 10:30. Our conversation is approximately 5 minutes, not the 45 minutes it used to be. Yes, we were talkers! 

Mom has dementia. It’s difficult to write that word as a descriptor of her.  Even with this diagnosis, she’s always met my five finger test: she is happy, healthy, safe, remembers me and still smiles when she sees me.  How lucky am I? More than I can ever express.

Now 5 minutes is our new normal. It’s how long I seem to keep her attention before she hands the phone back to Carol. I ramble on about the weather, what I’m doing, with questions about what prizes she’s been winning at bingo, and what she’s been eating. Somewhere in that 5 minutes I lose her attention, even though I think of myself as a riveting conversationalist! That sounds better than saying I’m a talker. I learned that skill from my mom. When I was a teen, it was SO embarrassing to go anywhere with her, because she would stop and talk to EVERYONE. Whether at church or the grocery store or when shopping, she would greet friends and neighbors, checking in to see how they were doing and taking the time to listen to their happy stories as well as their sad ones. I believe her goal was to make everyone feel special.

Now, when I hang up after 5 minutes, every type of indescribable feeling comes crashing over me, wondering what I should have/could have said to keep her engaged, to keep her talking so I could hear her voice for one more minute.  How many questions could I have asked that would have kept her focused, would have made sure she knew it was me calling, would have made her feel special, reminded her how much she is loved.

I now spend the rest of each week trying to think about the questions that might engage her next time, to keep her talking for perhaps 6 minutes. This seems to be the perfect season to ask questions that might bring back memories. What was her favorite flower on the farm? I think it was lantanas. What’s her favorite kind of pie? She made lots of pies. All kinds. All fabulous. I think it was peach, although maybe that’s just what I want it to be since that was my favorite. (I’ve never found another peach pie that tastes like hers). What is her favorite color? I think yellow. She is stunning in yellow.

Trust me, I realize how lucky I am to know that the nursing home staff in my hometown is taking such great care of my mom. When the wave of sadness that it may be another month or two, or who knows how long, before I will get to see her in person, I know she is cared for by health care workers who are filled with goodness and kindness.  I know that because I saw them in action when she moved into the nursing home on December 31st. 

So why is it that I am having a good old-fashioned pity party for myself when I realize they get to see her every day and they make her laugh more than I do and they get to pat her hand and comb her hair and tell her how cute she is. Those are the things I want her to remember that I have always done.

Yes, they are redefining the meaning of family.  In the two months she was at the nursing home before the quarantine, I would watch the nurses urging her to eat, gently tucking her in at night and helping her maneuver her new normal of life in a wheelchair. I know those caring souls still go to work each day and bring their best, kindest, most gentle and loving selves to care for their elders. They are now her family. Of course they probably were before the quarantine, I just didn’t want to admit it. I wasn’t ready to redefine ‘family.’ Part of me probably never will be. 

I am well aware there’s no guarantee Mom will remember me the next time I arrive at her door. She might not smile and wave when I walk into her room. No matter what comes next, I will never forget how that made my heart soar. But there is the guarantee that she will always be surrounded by family. In my lucid moments, I realize it is up to me to continue to adjust my thinking, amend my definition, and rejoice in the goodness of humanity during this great upheaval. And through the tears and the frustration and the fear, I do give thanks, especially on Tuesdays, for the gift of her voice for 5 minutes. Next week, maybe 6.

A pause to look deep

By JoAnne Young

Being at home for weeks, without the constant demands of work or regimen, can allow a person a deeper look at the world, even while that world’s inhabitants are being stalked by a confounding illness. 

I have always been attracted to those things that don’t dwell habitually on the surface: hidden meanings, rangy conversations, dusky colors, and people who rank lower on life’s depth chart.

But in the pace that is our more common routine, there’s not always time for the weightier. 

You know how it goes -- get in, get it done, get out. 

It feeds the beast, but not the soul.  

Two years ago, in my effort to reach at least a part of that soul, I joined a photography class at Southeast Community College. In that class, and others I continued to take, the unexpected happened. I learned to look at things in a different way, those things that lie silent while many of us tramp past, ignoring all but our own thoughts. 

I began to see the beauty that is not so obvious in our quick looks. Those things that with a different perspective give us access to the unexpected. Like knowing the path you start out on will not be the one on which you will complete the journey. 

We can stop for a moment and turn the camera to the view behind us.

I don’t know what your slow turn and different picture might show. Mine allowed me to sit for an hour last fall and watch striped shore crabs in a La Jolla tide pool, as they warily looked back at me, ready at a barely discernible move on my part to dive and hide in the crevice of wet rocks. 

It showed me the reflection closer to home of bare trees rippling in silvery first-light water. And the beauty of flowers, past their soft blooms, now wilted, drying and faded. 

A single leaf hit by the sun in just the right way became a work of art. A paw print sunk deep into the edge of a muddy trail told a story of night wanderings I could not witness. 

There were times I was lucky to have the last light of an evening guide my way home, with a cast of colors only seen between the sunlit afternoon and the ink of night. 

Those moments only speak to us when they are coaxed out by quiet watching, something that doesn’t happen in crowds of people, or even the six feet of social distancing. 

This pause gives us permission to take a short walk beyond this fear of the unknown, and see how those in the natural world – and now we – can accept living every day in a state of alertness to anything that might happen. 

We can be easily fooled, usually because we are willing to be. And we definitely are being tested as we hold the world more than at arm’s length. 

But that has given us a little time to see past the usual, to pause for those meanings and conversations, and to gaze at that last light of evening that will never look the same tomorrow.