A New Level of Outrage

 by Marilyn Moore

Remember that attraction at county fairs or other such gatherings, where you could swing a sledgehammer and see how hard you could hit the target?  It was kind of like a giant thermometer, and if you hit it hard enough, the indicator would go clear to the top, and red lights would flash and bells would ring?  I have an internal such indicator, my outrage thermometer, and it’s been getting a workout.   

In a legislative session in which the majority seems determined to restrict some pretty basic rights, e.g., citizens who want to vote, women who want to be in charge of their own bodies, students who want to learn all of history, not just a white-washed (literally) version of it, it seems there’s a new reason for outrage every day.  The most recent, but surely not the last, is a new revelation this week about the misleadingly named Opportunity Scholarships.

That’s the name given to what is in fact a huge tax break for persons or corporations who donate funds for the purpose of providing scholarships for students to attend private or parochial schools…the latest attempt to use state funds to support private schools.  This effort uses the sleight-of-hand process, in that instead of allocating state funds directly, which would be a politically unpopular, and perhaps unconstitutional, decision, the tax laws are re-written to let the donors do it instead, and reward them with a major tax break.  Not just a deduction, but a credit.

There are more than 500 non-profit organizations in Lancaster County.  For every one of them, if you make a donation, you get a deduction on your state and federal income tax, if you itemize deductions.  The donation is subtracted from your gross income, which lessens your tax liability.  In the case of Opportunity Scholarships, however, the donor gets not a deduction, but a tax credit…a direct dollar-for-dollar credit against the state income tax that is owed.  That’s a huge difference (do the math on your own tax form to see how it works), and it clearly sends the message that the State of Nebraska values a contribution to private and parochial schools more than a contribution to any of the thousands of other causes that are supported by non-profit organizations.

The writer of the proposed legislation, LB753, states that it is in Nebraska’s interest to assure that all students receive quality K-12 education, and that it is possible that some students’ needs could be met better by a private, rather than a public school, so therefore it serves the State of Nebraska to support private schools through donations that result in a tax credit.  I might argue that it’s also in the state’s interest to assure that children have reliable access to healthy and nutritious food, and that children live in safe and healthy homes, and that they have access to regular health care.  By the same argument that is advanced for donations to scholarships, the State of Nebraska should also offer tax credits for donations to the Lincoln Food Bank, and Habitat for Humanity, and Clinic with a Heart – all of these, and countless more, fill in the gaps of unmet critical needs in children’s lives.  But no, these worthwhile organizations, providing essential services for children and families, are worthy of only a tax deduction, not a tax credit.

These arguments, and many others, have been heard in the legislature’s Revenue Committee, because a tax credit will, of course, reduce revenue to the state.  Or, as LB753 is structured, it will require state resources to offset the tax credit.  And the bill has been advanced out of committee, with $25 million set aside to fund it, and debate by the full legislature will begin this coming week.

The most recent outrage on this bill is the news that broke earlier this week (February 27), in a story by Aaron Sanderford of “The Nebraska Examiner.”  Sanderford reported that a group of three non-Nebraskans contributed more than $700,000 to the Nebraska Federation for Children, for the explicit purpose of electing Nebraska senators in 2022 who would support using public money for private education.  And in that group of three big spenders, the identifiable name is Betsy DeVos, former Secretary of Education in the Trump administration, who made it her major goal at the federal level to use public monies to support private education through out-spoken advocacy for charter schools and vouchers at every opportunity.  Why, one might wonder, does Betsy DeVos care about legislative seats in Nebraska?  I would speculate that it’s part of her playbook to erode support for public schools, leaving a vacuum for private, and for-profit private, education to take more and more of the public dollars.  

If gaining influence in the Nebraska legislature is Betsy DeVos’s goal, her $700,000+ investment paid off.  According to Sanderford, the group supported nine candidates.  Particularly high dollar amounts were invested in four races, and of the four, three were elected, all of whom support the use of public dollars for private schools.  

Political observers note that this is the largest infusion of “outside” funding supporting local legislative races.  One might anticipate that such funding will continue, and that it may play out in local races, too, like elections for mayors, city councils, county commissions, and school boards.  As the spring primaries approach, and the campaign ads fly fast and furious with overtones of evil, follow the money…who is paying for that ad….  

But I must add, outrageous as I believe public dollars for private education may be, and especially the presence of non-Nebraska money in that effort, the greater outrage in this session is the harmful, hurtful, and downright ugly language used about and against our most vulnerable children, the LGBTQ kids, and especially the trans kids.  This is the student population with the highest suicide rate of all, and we, the State of Nebraska, are talking about denying medical care to them, denying opportunities on sports teams, dictating the most personal of decisions (how and where to use a public bathroom), and in general sending a message that these students, and their parents, are somehow or other “less than.”  

If we as a state adopt Opportunity Scholarships, and it turns out to be a bad public policy, which I believe it is, future legislatures can change it.  But if this anti-gay, anti-trans language continues, we can never undo the harm that is inflicted on individual children right now.  And that’s truly outrageous.

A new true north points toward the redwoods

 

Precise directions are lost, somewhere on the far edges of my mind, as I can’t seem to remember the exact location of where I’m heading on this frosty February morning.  Google Maps remembers.  When I add the first few numbers of the address, a full location pops immediately: Cancer Partners of Nebraska.

I am heading for a cancer checkup, marking a year since I first quietly approached my physician with a few troubling questions. Ten months since a full hysterectomy, eight months since the grand finale of radiation – and perhaps six since I believed I had conquered my demons.

After all, in these past months I had determined to wake up every single morning, feeling the wild abandonment of life. I created a gratitude list and an always-say-yes agenda. smoked my first cigar, painted shades of the rainbow into my hair, savored as much lemon ice cream as possible, danced with summer fairies, ocean tides and even a sky filled with Northern Lights. 

I had lived life passionately, darn it.  I had done everything right. Yet these last few appointments – billed as quick examinations and check-ins – unpredictably gobsmacked me.  

Bottom line, the checkups arrived without fanfare, and all seems to be dandy inside my body. The same familiar medical folks greeted me with smiles and hugs. The examinations passed quickly and I was blessedly proclaimed “Cancer free.”  Everyone wished me well. They told me to go live my life.  And this time around they set up an appointment for six months ahead – not three.  

Six months, sigh. 

“Did you need something sooner?” one of the health care workers asked, gently.

“Yes, please,” I replied.  “Could you please come to my house every single morning and assure me that I’m cancer free?” 

We all laughed, of course, and I headed on my way.

Except that something has clearly shifted.

One of my favorite projects over the past year has been helping with the first Nebraska Storytelling Festival – therein meeting and listening to a glorious, 29-year-old breast cancer survivor named Madison.

“The thing about cancer, you can’t wave a magic wand and get your life back,” this young storyteller wisely explained.  “You lost the life that you had before, and you lose the person that you were. And there is so much grief in that realization.”

As Madison described constant and futile attempts at hanging on to the life she had left behind, I considered the comfort of a Mary I had created and nurtured for more than six decades – a cheery, positive person who believed everything would always be ok.  Yet ultimately, also, a solitary woman fiercely proud of her independence. 

In fact, I’d spent much of my life successfully avoiding unnecessary entanglements. Lately I’ve been wondering why.  Perhaps I didn’t want to disappoint.  Look silly.  Get trapped.  Depend, rely, lean on anyone.

“I worked really hard to become the person I was before, and it’s been really hard to say goodbye to her,” storyteller Madison said. “But time has been healing a lot of my wounds. Every day I feel better and better … The magic in me is powerful, and it’s what helped me crawl out of that hole … has helped me push on for the life I want … This new woman, I’m still getting to know her.  But I think I like her.”

This weekend, I’m off to go camp in the redwoods, and I’ve been reading up. Although they are the tallest trees in the world – reaching heights of 375 feet – redwood root systems only extend a measly six to 12 feet into the ground. Their secret?  Growing together in forests of other redwoods, their indomitable roots interlock with one another, creating the strength to withstand powerful winds and floods.  

Yes, cancer sucks.  But it also holds the promise and sweet surprise of transformation.  

I found an extraordinary village when I experienced cancer, a forest of friends and family that – indeed – held me up through powerful winds and floods … held me when I was crying uncontrollably … loved me when I was thoroughly unlovable … delivered sustenance and faith to my door. 

And when I look back in honest reflection, the greatest moments of joy came with those connections.  Those unpredictable, out-of-control moments of vulnerability when I actually managed to share the reins of my life. 

This new Mary, I’m still getting to know her.  I suspect she is not any better than the old one.  She’s just different.  Perhaps a little wiser, strangely calmer and gentler with the world.  Not nearly so solitary and independent as the old one.

And for all of this I say to cancer: Thank you.

This coming week, when I greet those redwoods, I’m gonna hug a few trees. I’m going to bow below them, accepting that I will never truly understand all the forces beneath me shaping my life. Accepting that my body will never be the same.  Proudly wearing the scars that surgery has left behind, while understanding cancer is now woven into the fabric of me.

Perhaps that’s where I find my new true north.  

Future storms and drought are certain.  But by tending to my roots – the friends and family who surround me – I find my best hope of resilience for tomorrow. 

If the trunk could talk...

by Mary Reiman

Looking to the future and guessing what the city, the state, the world, will look like in 100 years, seems overwhelming and too scary/sketchy right now. Continuing to form our more perfect union seems more difficult every day. So today I spent time reflecting on the past. 

I would love to sit across the table from Henry Louis Gates, Jr., the host of ‘Finding Your Roots,’ the weekly, hour-long inquiry on NPM delving into the histories, the stories of a variety of famous personalities. How they locate so much history, so many documents and photographs and historical data from around the world makes the heart of this librarian soar. Rich and robust research.

Watching Julia Roberts’ face when she learned why her real last name is McDonald. Hearing Queen Latifah’s response when she learned that a woman, on October 1, 1792, set in motion the freedom of her ancestors with a handwritten document. “People still think that one person can’t make a difference...Mary Old, one person, made a difference to my whole entire family line.” 

Now, instead of watching television, I look below to what has become the TV stand. The wood trunk with the letters FR engraved on the front. 

I believe this handmade trunk carried the world of Freidrich Reimann to the United States. Freidrich was born on March 13, 1839 in Paderborn, Germany. When he arrived in Templeton, Iowa, in 1872, he was Frederick Reiman. 

In the late 1800s, people in many parts of the world decided to leave their homes and immigrate to the United States. Fleeing crop failure, land and job shortages, rising taxes, and famine, many came to the U. S. because it was perceived as the land of economic opportunity. Others came seeking personal freedom or relief from political and religious persecution, and nearly 12 million immigrants arrived in the United States between 1870 and 1900. During the 1870s and 1880s, the vast majority of these people were from Germany, Ireland, and England... Although immigrants often settled near ports of entry, a large number did find their way inland. Many states, especially those with sparse populations, actively sought to attract immigrants by offering jobs or land for farming. Many immigrants wanted to move to communities established by previous settlers from their homelands... Often stereotyped and discriminated against, many immigrants suffered verbal and physical abuse because they were "different." While large-scale immigration created many social tensions, it also produced a new vitality in the cities and states in which the immigrants settled. The newcomers helped transform American society and culture, demonstrating that diversity, as well as unity, is a source of national strength.        (Library of Congress: Immigration Challenges for New Americans)

According to family records, Frederick married Bernadine Henkenius in 1873 and they farmed near Preda, Iowa before moving to the Templeton area. The Henkenius family came from Schmechten, Germany. 30 kilometers from Frederick's hometown. All immigrants. To Frederick and Bernadine were born 12 children: Joseph, Elizabeth, Bernard, Mary, Fred, John, Theresia, Kathryn, Bernadine and Bertha. Two older children, Anna and Anton died early in life. 

We’ll never know exactly what brought Freidrich Reimann's family to Iowa. His reasons for leaving Germany are not in any records I have found. Perhaps he was following the love of his life. Perhaps the family was fleeing persecution or poverty.  We can only create our own stories of hardship, or hope for a better life, or even a spirit of adventure. But it could not have been an easy journey. Just as it is not an easy journey today for those who arrive at our borders. 

According to the most recent Vintage 2022 population estimates (The Census Bureau creates a new “vintage” of estimates each year based on the latest data available.), Foreign-born individuals now make up almost 15 percent of the U.S. population. The main reason most immigrants came to America in 2022 was for employment opportunities. Other reasons were to escape a violent conflict, deal with environmental concerns, pursue educational opportunities, or reunite with family. The immigrants who came were primarily attracted to Florida, Texas, Arizona, and North Carolina. In addition, more than 900,000 immigrants living in the U.S. became U.S. citizens in 2022, according to a Pew Research Center estimate based on government data released for the first three quarters of the year. (Forbes, December 30, 2022: U.S. Immigration-2022 Year in Review by Andy J. Semotiuk.)

Immigrants, then and now. Do we look at the photographs from Ellis Island with the same mindset as the photographs we now see from El Paso? Maybe, maybe not. 

100 years from now, when historians describe the immigration patterns and policies of 2023, how will they describe the photographs of those lined up at our southern borders, having walked hundreds of miles or having traversed the waters in a boat. They came because they simply wanted to leave their home, their family, their language? The reasons for going through such great hardship in today's world?  

What is most controversial about immigration? The same things that were controversial in the 1800s? Most of our ancestors came from another country, whether forced to come or arriving voluntarily. Arriving from across an ocean. From Africa. From Asia. From Europe. 

I don’t live in the epicenter of the massive number of people standing in line to cross the border today. Knowing how to support those in need is a major issue, a divisive issue in our country. 

There are no easy answers. No straightforward solutions. Are our souls filled with kindness and support or with fear and hatred? Many different perspectives, just as there were many years ago.

I am thankful for Freidrich Reimann, my great-grandfather. I wish I had pictures of him. I'll keep looking. For now, I will continue to conjure up stories of him from the facts we do have.  

Frederick passed away in 1911 at age 71. One of his sons, John, and his wife, Josephine, moved to Milford, Iowa, in 1914. John was 27 years old. They purchased farmland. They built a house, made it their home, raised their family. 4 daughters and 2 sons. Loretta, Clara, Clarence, Dorothy, Bernard and Gertrude. The wood trunk arrived in Milford with them. It was still in the attic of the farmhouse 50 years later, during my childhood, after my dad, Bernard, purchased the farm. 

I am thankful for John Reiman, my grandfather. Grandpa was witty and kind with a twinkle in his eye and goodness in his heart. He was loving and gentle and very fun! I wish I knew more about his childhood, his parents, the decision to move to Milford, and the trunk he brought with him. 

If only that trunk could talk...

Unabashedly strong female leaders: I’m looking to you, Generation Alpha

By JoAnne Young

Everly Sampson has given me hope for Generation Alpha. 

Yeah, it’s probably too early to be looking to our youngest generation of girls to someday help guide us out of our messes, given these little girls are still wading through addition and subtraction and figuring out the main idea of their storybooks. However, it isn’t too early to start thinking about how we can help them to become, and then stay, confident, decisive, courageous and strong leaders.  

 

Case in point: Everly, who is all of 4 feet and 55 pounds of feisty and funny, flippant and fierce.  Although she may cause her parents, and possibly her teachers, frustration at times, watching her as I can from a distance I can see her developing into someone who can stand in a courtroom, or a boardroom, a legislature, research lab or operating room and get things done. 

 

Already at 7, she can look you in the eye and tell it as she sees it. She is learning from history that America has been “just rude” to both its minority populations and its 51-percenters: women. She’s not going to let that continue on her watch. 

 

She casts a side eye at authority, and she won’t hesitate to tell her mom: “I’m sorry you’re frustrated, but I’m trying to make a point.” 

 

Actually, she has a great role model in her mom, Alynn High Sampson, a nonprofit administrator and woman tapped in 2020 by Inspire Lincoln with a leadership award. She’s got nature and nurture going for her. 

 

“We’re both just very independent, very strong, very opinionated,” her mom says. And blunt, throw that in there, too. 

 

Everly’s dad, Will, reminds her frequently how similar she is to her mom. She prefers to lean in to their differences.  

 

“I have patience. She doesn’t,” the 7-year-old says. “I’m more sassy. I wear better clothes … cute jeans and crop tops.”

 

Her mom wears, ugh, sweaters.

 

A couple of years ago, when Alynn was about to be featured in an article for her Inspiring Women award, photo and all, Everly responded: “Oh my god, Mom! You are not magazine ready.” 

 

She is unapologetically honest and direct. 

 

She’ll sell you Girl Scout cookies, and at the same time tell you she’s not a big fan because, well, they don’t offer chocolate chip. 

 

From the time she was born, she was a handful, much different from her big brother, Eli, her mom says. She was constantly restless.

 

“I think sometimes her feelings were just so big she just didn’t know how to communicate them or even handle them. And she would just blow up. … She would get fixated on things. If she wanted something she would die on that hill.” 

 

Those qualities can serve her as she grows and matures, perfects her tone and hones her leadership.

 

In her 7^th year, she says she’s learning to turn away if a friend makes her mad. She is one of the first to befriend other kids who have challenges in class or who need encouragement. 

 

Everly is just 11 years from going to college and figuring out what she wants to do with her life; 14 years away from full-fledged womanhood.

 

I, for one, am hoping that nothing gets in her way to discourage that honesty, sassiness and strong sense of right and wrong. 

 

Her mother knows she will encounter teachers and others who will want to tamp down her boldness, to encourage her to soften her approach. Her directness can be jolting to those who think children, especially girls, should be sweet and precious at this age, pleasing, if you will. 

 

I would say, please don’t let her grow up to think a woman’s job is to please others, at the risk of sacrificing self. We don’t have to be complicit in how this culture responds to strong, confident girls, even if their road to womanhood is a tad bumpy. 

 

I am counting on you, Generation Alpha, and those on the tail end of Gen Z. Everly, Aila, Ellington, Finnley, Everlyn, Scout and all the rest of you. And I’m counting on us to see them through.

Follow us on Facebook at 5 Women Mayhem. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Can't Unsee This....

 By Marilyn Moore

Full disclosure:  I sometimes write to figure out what I’m thinking.  This is one of those times.  This is my brain in process…not anywhere near a finished piece of work.  

I can’t unsee this….the video of five Memphis police officers, beating Tyre Nichols, a beating that would result in his death three days later.  The video was released by the Memphis Police Department Friday night, with warnings of its graphic content.  Graphic it is…all the horror of night time, bright street lights and police lights, and the sinking feeling that comes when you know something awful is about to happen, and you can’t stop it. 

The facts are not in dispute.  Tyre Nichols, a young Black man, was on his way to his parents’ home, 8:30 at night, just a few blocks from home.  He was stopped for reckless driving, though there is no evidence that he was driving recklessly.  He was pulled from his car, attacked, he managed to escape, he was tracked down, and in his mother’s words, they beat him like a piñata.  He was kicked, he was hit, he was beaten with a baton, he was sprayed with pepper spray…and when he was totally unable to respond, he was propped against a police car, and it took more than 30 minutes for an ambulance to arrive.  Three days later he died.  The police officers, who are also Black, have been fired and charged with second degree murder, and the special unit of which they were a part has been disbanded.  

The actions of the police officers have been universally condemned.  The Memphis police chief described them as acts that defy humanity, a disregard for life.  The Memphis Police Union, the national police association, the Memphis Mayor and City Council members, President Biden, the NFL, and most anyone else who could claim a little airtime has joined in the statements of horror and dismay.  And how can we not….

Anticipating protest marches and gatherings, civic and political leaders asked people to protest without violence.  Mr. Nichols’ mother and stepfather asked for that, showing much more grace and restraint than one might expect, given that their son had been savagely and viciously beaten. Remarkably, most protests have been just that…peaceful, without violence.  And Mrs. Wells, Tyre’s mother, in another moment of grace, expressed sympathy for the families of the five officers, who, as she described it, have been shamed by the actions of their sons.  

There will, of course, be much more to this story, for months to come.  There will be reviews, investigations, trials, and most likely sentences.  There will be revisions in hiring, supervision, plans, and training in the Memphis Police Department.  The Memphis City Council will consider whether changes in city ordinances are needed, and the Tennessee legislature will do the same at the state level.  Across the country, similar reviews and possible revisions will be considered.  

I’m not an expert on any of this, and I have no informed opinion as to what systems changes need to be made.  I just keep seeing that video in my mind’s eye, and wondering how it is that human beings can inflict this much pain and damage on another human being.  The psychologists and criminologists will have expertise to bring to this question, and I’m sure we’ll hear from them as this case and its aftermath plays out in the coming months.  What I’m quite sure of is that this brutality is part of a larger culture, the one in which we all live, and to which we all contribute in some way…and which we can all impact so that it’s a little more gentle, a little more kind, a little more humane.

I’m reminded of the work of Isabel Wilkerson, Pulitzer prize-winner and author of Caste, in which she writes about the caste system in India, the extermination of Jews in Nazi Germany, and the system of enslavement of Black people in the American south for more than 250 years…and that those systems, formally or informally, are still in place today.  It’s far more than I can summarize with any degree of academic integrity in this blog, but I commend it to you…it won’t make you feel better, but it will give you solid history and scholarship for thought.

For tonight, though, this endless month of January is drawing to a close. In Memphis, there’s a mom whose son will never again come to her home for dinner, and who will never be able to unsee that video of her son as his life is literally beaten out of his body.   We’ve learned that Tyre Nichols was a father, a skateboarder, a photographer, and a guy who loved to take photos of sunsets. The photograph at the top of this blog is one of his; see more at his website, thiscaliforniakid2.wixsite.com.  I hope his mother can see in his photographs her son, the vibrant young man and how he lived, not just the video of how he died.  I hope we all can….

Untangling winter’s sacred lessons of melancholy … and wonder

By Mary Kay Roth

One cold, snowy evening, earlier this week, I sat in front of the fire, my dog’s head upon my lap, flames dancing and flickering, embers glowing red hot. The storm outside had passed and – except for the crackle of burning logs – stillness prowled about.

These rare moments border on the mystical for me.  In this instant, despite a spirit ragged from raging at the injustices of humankind, my heart was full.

I let go of …

• The debt limit, which I will never really understand.
• The jigsaw puzzle of “classified documents.” 
• The guy with the snow blower who – for some mysterious reason – keeps blowing his snow into the street.
• The sad reality that good guys often die too soon.

Snuggling yet solitary, absorbed in the trance of the fire and the silence of the moment, I was at peace. 

Truth is, we have roughly 4,000 weeks in our life on this earth. And yet somehow, we get so overwhelmed with productivity, cranking through as many tasks as possible, conquering to-do lists, angry over what is going wrong, that we often miss the point. 

We miss the magic, the surprise of these golden moments.

“The world is bursting with wonder, and yet it’s the rare productivity guru who seems to have considered the possibility that the ultimate point of all our frenetic doing might be to experience more of the wonder,” says Oliver Burkeman, who wrote Four Thousand Weeks, Time Management for Mortals.

Strangely, even fortuitously, I find winter is the season that can best teach us these lessons.  Winter pries us open with its melancholy richness, cradling the darkest of dark nights, the most hushed of quiet. 

“Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season in which the world takes on a sparse beauty and even the pavements sparkle,” says Katherine May, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. “It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order … It is an untangling, a moment to feel the true ache of desire, the gentle wash of self-compassion, the heart swell of thanks, the tick tick tick of existence. It is a moment when, alone, I am at my most connected with others.” 

Winter extends its invitation with a frosty embrace, welcoming us into the deep, cozy cave of hibernation.  Bidding us to rest – breathe – sleep – accept the hard stuff – and, by god, cherish the good. 

The trick, of course, is to heed the lessons. To find relief from our digital overdose. To stop. To start bailing when we are swamped with that almost irresistible deluge of jammed inboxes, self-help inventories, a gnawing sense we ought to be doing more. 

Last year, an estimated 3 to 4 million podcasts babbled into our ears. We spent 700 million minutes on Facebook, monthly. Almost 3 million emails were sent per second.  Top-10 book lists came at us from every direction.  And on any given week, U.S. audiences watched a massive 183 billion minutes of live streaming video content.

Wintering tells us: “In our relentlessly busy contemporary world, we are forever trying to defer the onset of winter.  We don’t ever dare to feel its full bite, and we don’t dare to show the way that it ravages us. An occasional sharp wintering would do us good.”

Don’t get me wrong. I like to read, listen, watch movies.

The problem is that doing ‘everything’ ends up looking an awful lot like doing nothing, one long fog of frantic. The dilemma to believing everything is urgent, is that we can never do enough.  Bizarrely, we only feel busier, emptier, hollowed out.

Four Thousand Weeks warns:  “The day will never arrive when you finally have everything under control – when the flood of emails has been contained; when your to-do lists have stopped getting longer; when you’re meeting all your obligations; when nobody’s angry with you for missing a deadline or dropping the ball; or when the fully optimized person you’ve become can turn, at long last, to the things life is really supposed to be about.  Let’s start by admitting defeat: none of this is ever going to happen.” 

And yet, there’s a giddy freedom in bowing to defeat, and winter gives us permission to lean into that submission.  To hide away from the world for a while. Believe in the unpredictability of our place on this earth – and be ok with that.  To find our way back home.

Several years ago, just as the pandemic was beginning to ease, New York writer and director Julio Vincent Gambuto wrote an essay, asking us to hold tight to what he called “The Great Pause”– to consider making new choices about how we use the hours of our lives.

“I hope you might consider this: What happened is inexplicably incredible. It’s the greatest gift ever unwrapped. It is, in a word, profound … Please don’t recoil from the bright light beaming through the window.  I know it hurts your eyes … But the curtain is wide open … The Great American Return to Normal is coming … but I beg of you: take a deep breath, ignore the deafening noise, and think deeply about what you want to put back into your life. This is a rare and truly sacred opportunity to get rid of the bullshit and to only bring back what works for us, what makes our lives richer.” 

Winter gives us that same opportunity, a chance to find our way back to those sacred moments …  

• Of taking a morning walk – without measuring steps or snapping pictures. 
• Of watching a cardinal perch against the stark landscape of winter white.
• Of spinning around an ice-skating rink and thinking only of placing one blade in front of another.
• Of spending an evening of candlelight with a friend who gets us, who tolerates our gloom, who accepts that we can’t always hang on – that sometimes everything breaks.  

Rest assured, I will never stop raging at and tilting at windmills. In all honesty, a great deal of life will always suck.

“We don’t want to risk getting hurt in relationships or failing professionally," Burkeman cautions in Four Thousand Words.  "We don’t want to accept that we might never succeed in pleasing our parents or in changing certain things we don’t like about ourselves – and we certainly don’t want to get sick and die. We recoil from the notion that this is it – that this life, with all its flaws and inescapable vulnerabilities, its extreme brevity, and our limited influence over how it unfolds, is the only one we’ll get a shot at.” 

In fact, this is the gift we have been given, 4,000 precious weeks.  

And in those weeks, there will be times we’re riding high and times when we can’t bear to get out of bed.  

We need to give ourselves a break and be kind.  To find our own grit, in our own time. To trust and let people in. To pause for those golden moments.

And so, for tonight, I’ll sit by the fire, knowing that in the deepest of winter – if we are perfectly still – we will hear the first robin begin to sing. The thaw begin to burble.  The wonder of life whisper as it awakens from the chill.

Resolutions: Fragmented or Calm?

by Mary Reiman

This week there's been something in the news every day about New Year's resolutions. Every new year seems to bring recommendations on how to keep those resolutions, how to make the current year the best year ever.

It started January 1st, with John Pavlovitz. Here’s to a New Year of Unpretending. “...So many of us fritter away our days wrongly believing we need to edit ourselves.”  Hmmmm....

In the Lincoln Journal Star on January 1st, were the ideas from Dr. Gabriel Berendes, Mayo Foundation for Medical Education and Research, Rock your resolution: How to follow through on your goals for the new year. It described SMART goals as a way to focus on what you want to accomplish:

• S - Specific 
• M- Measurable
• A - Achievable
• R - Relevant
• T - Time-Framed

Sound familiar to any of you?

On January 3rd, Dr. Barton Goldsmith’s 'Emotional Fitness' column in the Journal Star, How you can feel better in the new year. He says, “...Find that feeling of New Year’s hope, and embrace it.” 

Hope. I might only be able to do that if I never read the newspaper or listen to the news. 

The January 4th Journal Star’s 'On Nutrition' column by Barbara Intermill was New year a chance to make better choices. She suggests if we want to make better choices, "Repeat your goal out loud to yourself every day." and "Take it a day at a time." and "...always be kind to yourself."

And the January 5th Journal Star editorial board offered “some hopes, dreams, and things to look for” from our Nebraska Legislature. “It shouldn’t be necessary to urge senators to work ‘across the aisle’ to address these issues as there shouldn’t be an aisle to cross in the nonpartisan body.” 

They are hopeful too! 

So, now it is January 7th, and the only word that seems appropriate for this blog is fragmented. That’s not necessarily the way I want to begin this year.  I want my word of the year to be hope or kindness. 

But wow. The world news is frustrating. This country is definitely fractured. And my head and heart still feel fragmented. Not a good way to start if I want to focus on hope.  

Fragmented, fractured and frustrated, all at the same time. Especially by the actions of many of our national leaders in the last five days. I use the word ‘leaders’ loosely. Frustrated by their current lack of leadership, lack of ability to come together, to find a way to best serve their constituents. Five days, 15 rounds of voting. No action in the House of Representatives until a Speaker of the House was chosen after midnight Friday night, with all the concessions Kevin McCarthy could possibly make to get the votes he needed. He then went to the podium to announce "...my responsibility, our responsibility, is to our country."  Will he think about all of us when bills are brought forward? Or will he spend more time worrying about whether or not any of his colleagues will call a vote to remove him from his role as speaker?  Will we ever know all of the concessions made last night? 

I am also bewildered by the behavior of our legislators, knowing there was so much more behind the scenes, and wanting to understand everyone’s real agenda. Once again we ask ourselves, how did we possibly get to this point in our national government? 

And how did we get to the point where the headline story today was a 1st grade student shooting his teacher? How do we balance that with many of our own state legislators' plans to pass a bill to allow concealed carry of a handgun without a permit? I choose to believe there is no one who would vote to allow a child to carry a gun. But that handgun was somehow available for that child to pick up and take to school yesterday. 

This year there will definitely have to be more than one word of the year. There might need to be more than one word for every month if you look at the first week of January. 

But isn’t that what we love about words! There are so many to pick from at any given moment.

So let’s go back to what I had originally planned for this month. I was planning to write something light, focus on my resolutions for 2023. I was going to title this blog “I’ll be that person.”

I'll be that person who...

- is no longer a procrastinator. Never again using the phrase, “I’ll take care of that later.”

- writes a thank you note to someone every day because every day I know someone to be grateful for as I travel through this life's journey.

- picks up the piece of paper once and files it away so I don’t have piles of paper in every room, not remembering where anything really is located.

- reads an email and then does something with it. Perhaps put it in a folder or simply delete it. Maybe then I won't have 4,241 messages in the inbox.  How did that happen???

- posts the titles of every book I read because the last one is always the “best book I have ever read.”

- takes a photo and has a purpose for it. Then I will use that photo, delete it and no longer have over 3,000 photos on my phone. I know, I know....at least I admit it! Isn’t that the first step?

These are lofty goals for me in this fragmented year. Those who know me may want to remind me, or at least check in, and ask if I am accomplishing any of these goals. As with my workout plan, I do much better when I have someone pushing me to keep going! 

What are your New Year's Resolutions? 

My wish for all of us is that our world becomes calmer.  Maybe calm should be my word of the year.  The definition of calm: the absence of violent or confrontational activity within a place or group. Synonyms are: tranquil, serene, peaceful.  

Yes, calm will be my word for this year. And peace and tranquility are my wishes for each and every one of you this year. 

Happy New Year!

“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.”                                                                                                  Neil Gaiman

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