Weary. Tired. Drained. Energized.

Tired are my feet, that felt today the pavement;
Tired are my ears, that heard of tragic things-
Tired are my eyes, that saw so much enslavement;
Only my voice is not too tired. It sings.”
― Aaron Kramer

One of the things I am discovering as I hit middle age is that I am tired. All the time. So, so tired. I am in the middle of “The Change,” that may be part of it. Hormones are preventing sleep at night, so I’d really rather hunker down and read a book when I should be doing tasks around the house. I have to have a debate with myself when I need to go out and work on my flowerbeds:

Does it matter? (Yes.)

Who’ll notice? (The Neighbors.)

But it makes my back hurt and my hands ache! (It’ll burn calories and build muscle, take a Tylenol and rub down with Father Thyme balm.)

Flowers and fertilizer are expensive. (Think of the bees.)

Now that I live in a house with a sprinkler system and no longer have to schlep around a water hose in the heat, there really is no excuse to ignore my flower beds. I actually love digging in the dirt, and I love how the beds look when I pull into my driveway surrounded by marigolds and geraniums. It’s just the damn exhaustion. My inertia is magnificent in its…lack of ert.

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I do keep doing what needs to be done…for the most part. A couple of Diet Dr. Peppers each day keep me moving: I am teaching three college classes in addition to my full time job, exercising 4-5 days a week, making sure laundry is done, dogs get walked, grandbaby gets babysat, etc. I recently applied to volunteer at our local women’s shelter, which will be an added obligation on the agenda; but I have a feeling it will give me some perspective on what exhaustion of the spirit looks like. Menopausal fatigue can’t compare to that.

But today…I am weary of something else. This morning, when my husband turned on the news, we were gut punched with the news of another hate crime, this time a shooting in New Zealand, a country that hasn’t had a mass shooting in around thirty years. It’s on the other side of the world from my Texas home, but our globalization means that we are all connected. We are all, no matter our country, children of God.

I say this to the conservative members of my family (that’s most of the clan).

I say this to the progressives in my family (there are a handful of us intrepid souls).

I say this to friends, I don’t care where you fall on the political values spectrum.

I say this to colleagues.

I say this to strangers:

We cannot afford to go on this way.

What we say matters. About a month ago, I wrote about the conudrum we face when we try to have productive political discussions. We seem not to listen with any intent to discover, we just wait for the other person to take a breath so that we can insert our own opinion. I wondered if it was worth the effort and the risk of lost relationships. I thought maybe I should just start silencing my own self, keeping my worries and judgements and questions stifled. For the sake of peace.

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Last evening, I happened upon a conversation on a friend’s Facebook wall, and my friend, a progressive, was trying to understand and connect with an old friend of his that had gone on a lengthy multi-post tirade against Muslims. No one could get this man to understand that the religion of Islam, the Quran, doesn’t teach the extreme hate that he believes it does. Several people tried to get him to understand that most, overwhelmingly most, Muslims are peaceful folks who just want to live a life of joy with their families. The thread hurt my heart. Then I woke up to hear about a white supremacist shooting up two houses of Islamic mosques; and I wanted to go back to that post, to that man, and challenge him. Because his own hatred was the sort that cost at least 49 people their lives yesterday as they were mowed down in their houses of prayer.

This vitriol isn’t targeted only at Muslims. Yesterday afternoon, an insurance agent on Facebook’s marketplace used a thoroughly disturbing and inappropriate photo of a fatal car crash to sell insurance policies, and joked about traveling to Mexico. When someone questioned her wording, a cascade of fury and hate was spewed at any and all Mexicans. It turned my stomach to read the posts, because I realize that I am, without knowing it, walking among racists each and every day.

These conversations do matter. They are the climate where intolerance and bigotry foment. Social media is the new public square, and what we say and allow to be said incites. Provokes. Inflames.

Chips away at our hearts.

Voices of reason are required. Gentle voices, yes. But not always.  Those of us who are tolerant and empathetic, who see the humanity in people of different colors and faiths, may be hamstrung by the belief that we must ever and always be benign. Moderate. Though the cause of kindness will not be served by hatred and venomous speech, it won’t be served by silent compliance, either. A polite “please” will not expose and root out hatred in hearts.

I am tired, yes. But I am more tired of shootings, of crying children, and of words of prejudice masked as patriotism excused as free speech than I am of anything else in this mess. I believe, with all my heart, that women are going to have to be the impetus for change on this. Men like my husband, who had tears in his eyes this morning, do grieve. And I have encountered women who are as bitter as anyone could be. But if the compassionate and open-hearted women who have been silent for so long will add their voices to the conversation, and will make allies of like-minded men, perhaps love can prevail.

The women I admire in the public eye (Glennon Doyle, Liz Gilbert, Brene’ Brown, Michelle Obama, Malala Yousafzai) have spoken over and over about putting kindness, bravery, and justice into the world. They have big platforms, they speak on television and their podcasts have thousands of subscribers, they’re invited to speak in full coliseums and their books line shelves. Those women are capable of inspiring enormous change. Their scope makes me feel insignificant. Powerless. But I am not.

My voice is small. My reach is tiny. My following is negligible. But by god, I am going to keep trying. I am going to continue combating negative with positive. I will strive for healing. I will take the high road, though I may not be a tranquil traveler upon it. And I will speak. I promise to do it with respect, though maybe not with my best manners. I will speak. And I will act. I will contribute money, I will march, I will write, I will befriend, I will advocate, I will send letters. It’s going to take actions both large and small to right the ship. I’ll just add a Diet DP to my daily intake to stay awake and get “woke.”

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Wee Enchantment: Inclusive Faith and Charming Steeple

On a trip to Seattle last summer, my husband and I took a ferry to Bainbridge Island for a stroll along its main thoroughfare. One of the things I loved about the Pacific Northwest was feeling simpatico with the citizens, both politically, environmentally, and spiritually. If not for the frequent gray skies, I might never have come back to Texas.

We encountered this sweet little church on our walk. These Christians seem to be walking a loving walk. This sort of faith is nothing short of magical. Blessed Be!

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‘Round the Bend

CarouselI love carousels. Maybe it’s because I remember riding the Six Flags Over Texas carousel with my dad, back in the 1970s. I took my own kids on that carousel in the 90s. Last spring, I rode the carousel at Disneyland. I was over the moon to sit on Jingles, the horse especially created for Julie Andrews.

I encountered the gorgeous carousel above at the Galveston Pleasure Pier on a cloudy January day. I was there for a solo getaway. I have found that alone time is one of the great pleasures of my middle age. Perhaps because it’s my choice when I spend some time in solitude, whether it’s to write, explore with my camera, or eat delicious meals while reading a book, I never feel alone when it’s just me.

 

 

Wee Enchantment: Vinyl LPs

My generation, the oft-forgotten Xers, grew up with vinyl albums. I had a small collection when I was a little girl: the soundtrack to The Sound of Music, Barbra Joan Streisand, Barbra Live in Concert at the Forum, and the original concept album of Jesus Christ Superstar. Unusual for a six year old, I admit.

While visiting NYC in 2008, I saw this revival of Gypsy with my son on a day when Ms. LuPone had to perform in her house slippers due to a foot injury. Even in her fuzzies, she brought the house down as beleaguered Mama Rose. My son bought me this record, I love to sit and listen on the leather recliner when my husband isn’t home.

Music is an enchantment. Story is great magic. Solitude is a gift. And the love of my son is priceless.

What’s your favorite song?

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Curious Aussie Bird

“For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive.” D. H. Lawrence

I encountered this little guy at the Sydney Zoo, he and I had a moment of riddling communion.

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Fairies, Poetry, and a Magic Kingdom

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

-WB Yeats

I captured this sweet little fairy house in Tinkerbell’s Pixie Hollow, Disneyland, Anaheim.

I love fairies, and I firmly believe that life becomes more lovely and love-filled when we allow our spirits to recognize magic, in all its various forms, in all its abundant places. Whether enchantment arrives by pixiedust, baby giggles, healing hands, sunlight, or the gift of forgiveness, magic is free, it’s beautiful, and it’s for each one of us to enjoy. And to share.

What’s your magic?

Wee Enchantment: Beatrix Potter

I was so blessed to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum in London when a special exhibit of Beatrix Potter’s letters, writings, sketches, and paintings were on display in an intimate, well lit hall. I got in as close as I could to snap a photo of this watercolor through the glass.

I used to read Potter’s books to my wee ones. What sweet memories!

Doors, the Third in a Series

“You can’t escape the past in Paris, and yet what’s so wonderful about it is that the past and present intermingle so intangibly that it doesn’t seem to burden.”- Allen Ginsberg, American poet, writer, philosopher, and activist

I snapped this in the Montmartre District, I loved the juxtaposition of the weathered old green door, with its geometric windows and centered knob, against the modern graffiti. It’s the LuLu White bar in Paris, it’s website is below. Next time, I think I’ll visit.

 

Doors, the First in a Series

“In oneself lies the whole world and if you know how to look and learn, the door is there and the key is in your hand. Nobody on earth can give you either the key or the door to open, except yourself.”- Jiddu Krishnamurti

Photo taken in Salisbury Cathedral Close, Salisbury, England

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