A Soft Ending to Vacation

Today, one phase of vacation comes to an end.  My sister, her spouse, their son, his friend--all go home today.  It makes sense, because school starts on Monday, although what that will look like in this time of pandemic surge is still unclear.  I understand wanting a buffer day between arriving home and starting back to regular life.  I am thinking of a time at a different resort, 11 years ago, when the thought of leaving brought my nephew to tears.  I am fairly sure there won't be tears today, although some of the sadness will be similar.

I will feel a bit of sadness as I always do, the sadness that comes from realizing that what is happening on a micro scale is also happening on a macro scale--time is zooming along, and it will become ever harder to avoid the losses that zooming time presses in on all of us eventually.

My spouse, mom, dad, and I will stay at this resort one more day.  My regular life doesn't resume exactly.  On Monday, I take my parents to the airport, and then I go to work for one day to get ready to be out the rest of the week.  On Tuesday, I drive to Columbia, SC to the Lutheran seminary (LTSS) to finish the certificate program in spiritual direction that I started 2 years ago.  It was supposed to be an 18 month program, but the pandemic extended it.

Some of us will attend in person and some virtually, and I'm not sure what that will look and feel like.  The seminary students won't be there yet, and when we're gathered in person, we'll be wearing masks.  I requested a single room, and I imagine that everyone who wants one will get a single room.

Then I return, and with luck, we go to our house closing on January 10.  My seminary classes start on January 19.  I am glad that I chose to continue to attend virtually and online, in this time of pandemic surge with Washington, D.C. being one of the places in the nation with the greatest increase of cases.

But for today, let me not focus on all that is coming at me/us in January.  Let me enjoy one more day of tropical drinks by the pool.  Let me focus on reading fiction, since I won't have a chance to do that much once my seminary classes get underway.  Let me enjoy meals with loved ones and views of a different coastline.

And perhaps I will write a poem.  A few days ago, I made this Facebook post:

"It is oddly foggy on the west coast of Florida this morning. It looks like it snowed overnight--or that something dreadful has happened to a lot of mermaids."

Since then, I've continued to think of mermaids and sea foam and the death of mermaid dreams--or is it the resurrection of the girlhood dreams of mermaids?   I came up with this line to begin a poem:  Some days it is better to be sea foam.

Yesterday, the morning fog that looks like sea foam was tinted in different colors, which made me think that maybe sea foam doesn't represent one eternal idea, but many.  

A poem is percolating, and I want to remember. 

New Year's Eve Morning: "Leaving the House that Held the Asylum Seekers"

I have never been a stay up until midnight kind of gal.  I want to be.  I like the idea of dancing until the wee, small hours of the morning, but I have also never been a dancing kind of gal.  There are years that I want to stay awake to make sure they leave, but I do realize that time is an artificial construct in so many ways.

The Omicron variant reminds us of this essential life lesson, along with others, like a society can only be as healthy as its least healthy members, which is true of health in terms of disease, in terms of stratification, in terms of violence, on and on I could go.

I started this New Year's Eve morning by reading this article in The Atlantic, a piece by a neuroscientist who seems fit and healthy only to discover that he has a cancerous mass too close to his heart to operate.  It's a sobering realization that we may not have as much time here as we think.

In the past, I might have made lists and thought about goals and plans, but I wrote a post yesterday that explains why I'm not doing that this year.  It's hard to break away from that pull, though, isn't it?  I've traditionally spent the time around the turning of the year thinking about what I did right in the past year, what I did wrong, what I want more of, what I want less of.

This year, let me focus on the what I want more of that I can do.  I want to get back to writing more poetry.  While I would like more publications, I am aghast at the submission fees that seem fairly regular now, but I would like to keep submitting here and there, especially to outlets that have been important to me.

My happiest publication this year was being included in the Syracuse Cultural Workers Women Artists Datebook, which is sold out right now.  Two years ago, they accepted a poem of mine, and the fact that they accepted another one made the whole process seem less like a fluke.  

This poem seems perfect for this hinge moment as we move from 2021 to 2022, so let me repost it here.  Once that poem was called "Exercising Freedom."  Along the way, I changed it to "Leaving the House that Held the Asylum Seekers"; I wrote about its origins in this blog post.   Many thanks to Dave Bonta and Luisa Igloria for their inspirations along the way to this poem's 2021 publication:

Leaving the House that Hid the Asylum Seekers

Once again, you find yourself
on the old revolutionary road
with the houses that once hid
the asylum seekers.

The long road stretches
before you, overgrown
with brambles and struggling seedlings.
You see the fires
ahead, burning cities
or perhaps the lights
of fellow travelers.
Smoke hides the mountains.

The road is lined
with the suitcases of immigrants
who abandoned all the essentials
they once lugged to a new country.

You have kept your treasures
sewn into your hemlines, heirloom
seeds and the small computer chip
that holds your freedom papers.
Your grandmother’s gold hoops dance
in your earlobes and twinkle
around your fingers.

You hear the voices of the ancestors,
colored with both reason and panic.
Go faster, they urge.
You are needed up ahead.

All Mortal Flesh, Keeping Silence

It is strange to be here at this resort on Marco Island, strange to be 56 years old at a resort that is full of teenagers, strange to be at a resort that is so full near a beach that is so full, at this point in the pandemic, the beginning of the third year of a pandemic.  When we see disease spikes in the midwest, we could probably trace some of it back to this week of holiday travel.  It will likely not surprise most of us to know that people here are not wearing masks as they move about the resort.  I want to believe that's because we're all vaccinated and boosted, but I know it is likely not the case.

My family is taking precautions, but we've never been a meet strangers and party kind of intergenerational family.  My brother-in-law has a Ph.D  that gives him a deeper understanding of disease than most of us have, and my parents are older, and I've been doing lots of research about this pandemic (and historic plagues), so we're all fine with the precautions we need to take.  We get to our pool chairs early and pull them away from others.  If we go out to eat, we'll go at an odd hour, like 2 or 3 in the afternoon, when we'll be the only ones there.  So far, we've been eating in.

It is also strange to be here at the far side of midlife, surrounded by people who are just starting out.  They look so young, so unwrinkled.  Once, they might have inspired me to try one more weight loss plan; in fact, I found that kind of thought flickering through my brain:  "Maybe, by this time next year, if I lost x amount of pounds."  Then I banished that thought.  I could lose x amount of pounds, no doubt.  But I need the focus required to lose x amount of pounds for other projects, like seminary classes and surviving a pandemic with minimal guidance from my government.

It's the time of year when people make lists of what they plan to do in the new year, and perhaps some of us are making lists of what we accomplished or didn't accomplish in 2021.  The last 2 years have shown me the futility of those kinds of lists.  If  I look at my poetry submission log, I should be much more widely published, based on effort alone.  And my poetry is every bit as skilled as much of what is published.  

I am done with so many sorts of self-improvement plans, those plans that seem to suggest that we can do anything if we feel peppy enough, if we put in enough time, if we go, go, go and rarely look back.  One of the joys of midlife is that some of that yearning has dropped away.  I am not going to lose 50 pounds and keep it off.  I am not going to look like a 16 year old again, and I never looked like the kind of 16 year old that would be attractive to a certain type of wealthy, older man--thank goodness for that.  It is also strange to be here in this resort as the jury has deliberated the fate of the woman who recruited girls for Jeffrey Epstein, and by extension, for other wealthy, powerful, white men, all of them old enough to know better.

It is strange to be here at this resort, surrounded by so many able-bodied bodies.  I remind myself that they may not all be as able as I assume.  And at some point, we all face deterioration, although it won't be the same elements we all experience.  A resort can be a powerful reminder of that.  There's an older man who brings his portable oxygen to the pool, and I wonder what he makes of all of this.

Similarly, there's one non-white vacationing couple here, just one.  Even on the beach, the lack of diversity fascinates me, since it's so different just 2 hours away on the east coast of Florida.  On the east coast of Florida, my pale hair and skin are in the minority, as I watch the people making their way down the Hollywood Broadwalk or to the Atlantic ocean.  Not here.  My dermatologist would be horrified.

Or maybe he would just shrug and say, "More money for me if people want to continue in behaviors that they know won't end well."  

Sadly, many folks might be saying that this year.

Paper Straws in Plastic Cups and Other Metaphors of Modern Life

I've been at a resort with my family.  My mom is great at organizing these get togethers, and I am grateful.  This morning, let me record some thoughts which I don't feel like developing into a single blog post of deeper diving:

--The other morning I looked at the shampoo that the resort provides, shampoo which brags of the sea minerals that it contains.  Ten years ago, the shampoo bragged of the minerals that it derived from the seeds of apples and pears.  I am willing to bet that both shampoos contain exactly the same ingredients, but with different scents provided via some sort of chemical.

--This resort seems to have more daily activities.  Yesterday, my mom, sister, and I went to an event that was billed as "Abstract Painting on Canvas."  We had to choose our 3 paint colors in advance.  I had a vision of following instructions, like, "Choose a color and paint a line that reminds you of life's great sadness."  But it wasn't that at all.  We got 3 small cups with our paint colors, and the person in charge poured glue thinned with water into the cups.  We stirred them with popsicle sticks to combine, and then we dumped the 3 cups of paint into a larger cup.  We went to a trash can where we held a square canvas board over the cup and turned it over.  When we pulled the cup away, voila!  An abstract painting.  

--It was interesting to see the different shapes and swirls.  Is this similar to the Paint Pouring that so many of my creative friends have loved?  In fact, it is.  I'm glad to have experienced it, although it's too messy for me to do as a regular practice.

--We have been ordering drinks from the bar, in part because we're on vacation, and in part because it's easier than buying all the ingredients ourselves.  This resort uses paper straws, which means I get one good suck through the straw before it turns to mush.  I am not opposed to sustainable living and things made of paper which biodegrades more quickly than plastic.  But as I hold the plastic cup with a paper straw, I do have to wonder at the strange choices we're making.

--Of course, if I go down that train of thinking, it's hard to enjoy one's time at a resort.  So much waste.  Such a heavy carbon footprint.  Of course, the same is true of much of our lives.

--Paper straws will not save the planet, and I've known for decades that individuals can't do much on their own to reduce global warming.  The big corporations, particularly petrochemical ones, will need to step up their game.  Clearly we are doomed, so we may as well have plastic straws in our plastic drink cups.

--But maybe I'm giving up too easily.  I've been reading the songs of praise for Archbishop Tutu, and it's good to remember that sometimes, one individual person can make a huge difference.

--Do more famous people die at the end of the year?  Or does it just seem that way because I have some days off and time to contemplate?

--A week from now, if all goes according to plan, I will be at the onground intensive in Columbia, SC.  It will be the last requirement for my certificate in spiritual direction.  As this variant has surged, I have wondered if once again, we would pivot to online, but so far, we have both options.  I wonder how many people will attend in person.

Orion's Belt from a Different Vantage Point

Here I sit, at a different shoreline, 2 hours across the peninsula of Florida.  It is both different from Hollywood Beach, my home beach, and the beach at Hilton Head Island, which I may come to think of as my beach during the height of the pandemic, since we went there in September of 2020 and May of 2021.  Or maybe I will look back at those times and laugh at myself for thinking we were at the height of the pandemic.

If the pandemic continues to mutate and spread, it will be because of beaches like this one.  Yesterday my spouse and I went for an afternoon walk, the way we did at Hilton Head when we were there.  But unlike Hilton Head, this beach at Marco Island is absolutely packed.  We quickly went back to our timeshare condo at the resort, where we can practice social distancing from all these far-flung hordes of people.  

I felt similarly when we went out at Hollywood Beach, but we went to a restaurant at an off hour.  We went to the brewery that has outdoor dining that is elevated--from the passersby, that is, not food that is elevated.  It felt fairly safe for us personally, but not for the larger world, since so many people were mingling--both their breath and I suspect later, their body fluids.  I am so old, and grateful not to feel the need to be part of that scene.

It is good to be here, however, good to have a change of scenery, good to be with family.  I haven't seen my nephew in 2 years, since the last time we vacationed here together.  In some ways, not much has changed.  In some ways, so much has changed.

In the middle of the night, I looked out of the window to see Orion, so low on the horizon and so close that I felt like I could reach out and touch the stars in that iconic belt.  I wondered if I was dreaming.  It was different from the starscapes of childhood, where there were so many bright stars in the sky.  It was different than the night skies of Hollywood, where every star looks dull and distant. 

I am relishing the opportunity to be here, to have time to read, to decompress a bit, to get ready for all the next rounds that are coming our way.

Christmas Greetings

I woke up yesterday morning stiff and sore--I spent much of December 24 on my feet, in well-cushioned shoes mind you, but still, I woke up feeling sore from my midsection down.  So, I decided to go for a walk.  I knew it would be a slow walk, but it would be good to get the sore body parts moving.

It was 6:15, still dark, not many people out and about.  I walked past a car stopped at a red light with windows down, and a male voice asked me "Hey momma, what's happening?" 

I said, "Merry Christmas!" 

The male voice said, "We got weed."  I kept walking, and the man called out, "Wanna buy some weed?" The car pulled away, as I was saying, "No thank you."

In what universe do I look like I want to buy some weed from male strangers in a car?  My poetry brain immediately came up with a first line:

Do I look like the kind of woman who would buy weed from strangers in a car?

I thought about subsequent lines taking off parts of that line:

Do I look like the kind of woman who would buy weed from strangers?

Do I look like the kind of woman who would buy weed?

Do I look like the kind of woman who would?

Do I look like the kind of woman?

Do I look like the kind?

Do I look?

It's not an experiment worth sending out to poetry journals, but my brain enjoyed the exercise.  It may lead to a more substantial poem, so it seems worth recording the experiment here.

The basic question remains:  was I moving so slowly that I didn't look like a woman out for exercise?  Did my raggedy work out clothes make me look homeless or like a prostitute?  Were the men so stoned that they asked everyone that question?

I continued to walk, saying "Merry Christmas" to the occasional person I passed.  Some said it back.  One jogger removed his ear bud and said, "What?"  I repeated "Merry Christmas!" and he nodded and jogged along.

A flock of birds with curved beaks landed on the shore of the neighborhood lake, and when I whispered "Merry Christmas," they didn't fly away.  We stared at each other for a few minutes, and then I moved along, and they resumed their hunt for breakfast.

When I got back to my condo building, I said, "Merry Christmas" to the guard at the desk.  She said, "I don't celebrate.  It's Saturday."  I said, "Happy Winter Holidays."  That should cover it, right?

She said, "No.  It's happy Saturday."  So I said, "Happy Saturday," and she said it back.

We had a quiet Christmas morning after that, sorting and organizing and doing the end of the semester cleaning before the arrival of my mom and dad, whose flight we tracked.  When I picked them up at the airport, we said "Merry Christmas" to each other, and the day felt complete.

I do understand that not everyone celebrates the holiday.  To me, it's one of those holidays, like Valentine's Day, that has its roots as a religious holiday, but now is somewhat secular.  I realize that Christmas may seem more religious than Valentine's Day, but in some ways, it's also more secular than Valentine's Day:  stores close, banks close, the world shuts down for a bit.

And the real reason that I still go out in the world early in the morning saying "Merry Christmas" is that my dad and I used to take a Christmas afternoon run, and we'd holler greetings to everyone we saw.  It was the early 80's, before we realized that not everyone might celebrate, when we didn't consider that a "Merry Christmas" might be a source of pain.

We are more enlightened now, but alas, based on yesterday, it doesn't seem to have led to us being more loving or even civil.  And I am awakening to news of the death of Archbishop Tutu, which doesn't seem to bode well in a world that needs more leaders like him.  I'll likely write more about him tomorrow.  I saw him speak once, about 10 years ago, and it was one of the more profound evenings of my life.

Pivoting on Christmas Eve

December 24 was a work day for me--not a work in the office day, but a getting ready for Christmas kind of work day.  I didn't mind.  

The day was punctuated with trips to the grocery store.  I went to the grocery store 3 times; I did the big shopping early, before 8 a.m., when I would usually be the only one in the store.  Not yesterday, but I got in and out fairly quickly.  I got home to realize I forgot to buy lemons, so one more trip.  I made this delicious fish dip, which made me realize we would need more baguettes and white wine, instead of as much red as I bought.  I resolve to call my fish dips rillettes from now on.  Late in the day, I went back to the grocery store for more baguettes and white wine.

I met my pastor at 10 at the church.  I had offered to help get the worship space set up for Christmas Eve.  I arrived to a variety of poinsettias and red ornaments with no hanger to attach them to the tree.  We took off the blue ornaments and used the hangers for the red ornaments.  Unlike past years, we did not scamper up ladders.  This is not the time in the life of our nation to risk a fall and a trip to the emergency room.

The local grocery store had gotten our poinsettia order wrong.  We ordered all red; we got some red, some white, some pink/variegated.  We ordered big; we got 1 big variegated plant and the rest were the smaller plants.  The local grocery store felt so bad that they gave us 6 wreaths made with real greens.  Granted, they weren't likely to sell them yesterday.  But still, I liked the gesture, even as I wasn't sure where to put them.

I decided to begin with the easy task, the putting red balls on the trees and taking off the majority of the blue Advent balls.  As I did that, I thought about the poinsettias.  Often we've put them at the railing, but they were so tiny, I thought they might not be seen.

And so, we went with a different approach, and it was lovely.  From a distance, one couldn't see how puny the poinsettias are, and the non-Christmas colors of the paper wrapping the pots blended into the background.  We decided not to use the formal candelabras and just rely on the white candles.  

I would have been happy to spend the Christmas Eve service in silence and candles, just soaking in the beauty.  

 

But we had a service of readings and singing and a homily, and the Eucharist.  We had to pivot here, too, with soloists out because of sinus infections and COVID exposure.  I thought of all the weeks of drama about who would sing which song, and in the end, we had to switch some of the music.

I am not immune to the life lesson contained here: the ability to pivot, the beauty that is possible if we can let go of our preconceived notions of what the experience and the space should be.