100 Words

There is an opportunity, on alternet.org, to write a 100 word essay to Barack Obama about what you would like to see in the first 100 days of his presidency. I was so moved at his election, so moved to see Jesse Jackson with tears running down his face, so moved that this country I love so much has finally come to its senses, or at least opened that door. So my 100 words were asking Obama to remind us of who we are as a nation -- generous, kind, united -- so that we can go about the business of building a staircase out of the hole we've fallen into.

I believe so deeply in the ability of ordinary people like me to rise to a higher level of cooperation, and personal choices, and valuing each other and this beautiful earth, and I think Obama may be able to help us bring that out. Or so I hope.

The Onion had a headline, "Black Man Given Nation's Worst Job," and it's true, but when I look at what the mess really is, it's all about the lies that became synonymous with America -- that money is what's important, that the more money you have the better, that we don't have to consider the poor, the weak, or the environment, that cheap food is good food and on and on. These are all ideas that need to go.

It's terribly painful -- with our two mortgages, car payments, and student loan, we're right there with the rest of the struggling people who once had it made. But there are other possibilities and without lots of easy money we have plenty of motivation to explore them. What if what was most important was how we treated each other and the environment? What if we spent our fewer dollars with more thought, in ways that supported people and businesses and systems that we believed in? I don't know how you turn this creaky old ocean liner around, but I think it can be done. My hope is that we've elected the right person to lead us, because if we don't change, we're going down and taking much of the world with us. But if we can change, we may find ourselves in a new world. It may be starting already.

P. returned from visiting her daughter in D.C. after the election, where she lives in a largely black neighborhood. The black people in the neighborhood were so much more open and friendly and outgoing than she had ever seen before because of Obama's election, and isn't it about time? Maybe it's just the right time, and maybe some day I'll be flying a flag again, next to a copy of the Statue of Liberty. It's not impossible, and what is possible is that we are about to step in to a new era.

I'll keep my flag in my heart for now, but try not to keep my sense of possibility under wraps -- in times like these, we all need hope, and amazingly, there's reason to hope. Hooray for America -- and for the wild and wonderful possibilities the future now seems to hold.

Decisions and Faith

I am having to go on faith these days, and it's definitely been interesting. There are so many decisions to be made around losing my job that I do not know where to begin. Should we keep our Vermont house? Rent it? Sell it? Pay off the mortgage? Should I look for jobs, or try to take a year off? Since I was doing exactly what I wanted to do, how do I go about finding a new way to be happy and bring meaning into my life?

I am inclined towards the point of view of my ex-MIL Jane, who says that I am not in charge of this, and that I need to trust it to God and wait for the miracles. Deane has much the same attitude, minus the G-word, believing that I can somehow make a life and a living out of a hobby business. "Look! You made $100 in the last three days without even trying!" I do the math -- minus 2/3 for expenses...that's a little over $1 per hour for me, if I thought of this as full-time work.

I try not to do math in my head, as it inevitably ends up at less than zero before I even come close to the end of the expenses. Still, I want to believe Deane and Jane, and in a benevolent force working in my life. I certainly feel better when I do, and in some ways, that is the best possible outcome -- feeling better in this moment that is all that we have.

I try very hard to remember that in my insomniac moments. On one of those nights I got up just to peek at the job market online. I found a job at Empire State College for which I am perfectly qualified, for exactly my salary now. The only problem -- I don't think I'd enjoy it. But I'd have benefits. But I lose the flexibility that has allowed me to keep up, to some extent, with Deane, flexibility he'd like me to have more of, as he's made clear in one of the more wonderful and surprising developments of this drama. What to do?

I guess I'll just keep walking forward in faith, probably apply for the Empire State job with 500 other out-of-work academic types, maybe buy a kiln to add PMC to my jewelry business, but maybe end up taking an unemployment vacation in the end after all. I just don't know, and I think that might be the most important thing for me to keep in mind. I just don't know what the future holds, and if my experience holds true, I can't even imagine what it will bring.

10/30/08 -- Blindness, Sight and Choice: The Week before the Election

I read an article this morning about the psychic effects of 8 years of conservatives running the country. In short, the article said that we have been systematically driven to be less than we are capable of -- away from compassion, love, generosity, confidence, into darker realms of fear, prejudice, division, and so on. We've all been living through it, trying to hold onto our humanity, so you know what I mean. Deane and I have an ongoing debate about our true natures: He sees the true nature of people as infinite love; I see the true nature of people as infinitely malleable, with lots of choice.

I have been thinking about choice a lot lately, as I choose minute by minute to turn away from depression and anxiety, my faithful sidekicks, and towards contentment and joy. It took me a long time to figure out that I had that choice, and to practice enough that it began to pay off in my life. I try to go back and figure out what allowed me to make the choices I have, particularly around blame and resentment, and to let go of those parts of myself, minute by minute, remember, that are vindictive, judgmental, angry and which could take me down the spiral towards despair in a heartbeat.

I think it mostly has to do with the fact that I hate pain, and spent enough time in Al-Anon to have that little mustard seed of belief that I could chose my emotional path. I am thinking of this a lot these days, as I've been in touch with an old friend who is obsessed with resentment and revisiting the past in ways that give full rein to the dark side of her nature, which is very, very dark indeed. I listen to the litany of woes and abuse, none of which are either true or false, but rather reside in that gray area where perception determines truth. It's very hard going for me, but my own past, and the people who have helped me see a different way, keep me engaged.

I am reminded of the book Testimony of the Light, the product of a lifelong connection between two nuns. One died, and sent channeled reports about the afterlife to the other. In this afterlife, there was a purgatory of sorts, where people lived, not because they had done anything wrong, but because they could not believe that they could choose to be in heaven. So souls who had gone towards the light acted as missionaries, trying to persuade people to "Look, just over there -- there's another world." I think about that a lot, in relation to my friend, but also in relation to the world at large. I have been, in some sense, saved -- through my own efforts as much as through some mystical intervention. I want to bring some people with me, because just as I didn't know, wasn't willing, they don't know, can't believe, that there is a different way of living , and freedom from the relentless pain that is also a choice.

Brain Transplant 10/14/08

I had a dream last night that someone had developed a technique for brain transplant which was not physical, but more energetic, I suppose, and I was going to be a brain donor. I was transferring some part of my brain to a poor woman who had lost some art of her mind. In my dream, I was not worried at all, which kind of concerned me when I woke up. First of all, the current state of my brain is not so great that I should be passing chunks of it to anyone. Second, who do I think I am?

I feel pretty ordinary these days, and it's not a bad place to hang out. When I was talking to Deane this morning about something simple that I just couldn't wrap my mind around, he wondered if the brain transfer might already have happened, only it actually had taken my IQ down a few dozen points. I can't say, which is unusual, because I generally can say a lot about almost anything, just blabber chatter blather away.

But a few weeks ago, I heard a very funny comedian, a man, talking about the difference between men and women, and the way women's minds never ever ever stop churning and plotting and analyzing, as opposed to men, who when asked what they're thinking, say, "Nothing," and it's true. Anyway, this guy thought that all men should have a stack of "shut the hell up" cards for their wives or girlfriends, so they could stop the rapidly accelerating descent into hell that ensues when women just can't shut up.

So I've been quieter lately, consciously choosing to shut up a lot. Boy, does Deane love it, and me, although you might wonder, if I'm silent, what it is exactly he loves. I think it's the peace and quiet, so he can be thinking nothing, and after my brain transplant, perhaps I should be quiet until I see what's left to say.

A Good Day to Die 10/14/08

I've been in downtime these days, keeping busy, but not with anything taxing. I needed more vacation than I got, and now slow seems a good way to go for as long as I can eke it out. So rather than think about work I have to do, I have spent today waiting quietly for dinner inspiration. Salade Nicoise was what emerged from the green beans and fingerling potatoes, dragon tongue beans and red-tinged romaine that were part of my more-than-we-can-eat haul from the farmer's market, my main occupation yesterday. I think more and more all the time that these small pleasures are at the heart of what is most deeply meaningful about life. I teach in the realm of ideas, but honestly, right not, and maybe because I am so tired, ideas seem more like soap bubbles -- beautiful, diverting, but not there for the long haul. That might make me a bad academic, unless I can come up with an idea justifying my current lack of interest in ideas. I say phenomenology, and I say phooey.

I'd rather take a walk and see what's out and about. My dog Cassie is always a great role model for taking the most sensual pleasure from every situation. She loves days like today, sunny with a brisk wind, and sits in the middle of the field bathed in wind, which looks like being washed with music or lovely scenery. She would sit all day if I would stay with her, being petted and sniffing the air. The ticks are active, but I've decided not to worry in favor of these moments in the goldenrod with the last few yellow butterflies. Who knows how long life will last, especially for Cassie, whose platelets have vanished. The vet can't figure out why she seems to feel pretty good.

I keep thinking of the Native American prayer, "It's a good day to die." I want all my days to be that, and all of Cassie's, too, so we took her to Rutland to Art in the Park, where I was set up. She had a whole day of being cooed over and petted by every dog lover who passed by, and she encouraged them by laying with her nose right at the edge of the tent space, right next to where people would step up to see the jewelry. It was a good day.

This is a good day for me, too, with no student work hanging fire, and a beautiful salad to prepare for dinner. Cassie can have her raw dogfood and cadge tuna or cheese from dinner. It's all good, complete, perfect, and without the energy to worry, I can, perhaps, enjoy this small respite from the busyness that is inevitable. But not today -- today, slowly, and it is so beautiful that I could see how it is a good day to die, just here in this peace with nothing to accomplish or prove, sniffing the air, full to the brim.

Losing my dog in the woods

I lost my dog in Cole's Woods today. She has gotten sudenly very old in the last few months, and trails behind me when we walk, until we're clearly headed back to the car, and then she trots out in front. We don't know yet why she's so old, so suddenly. Perhaps the years oaf chronic Lyme disease or the months of drugs have damaged her kidneys and joints, and aggravated her hip dysplasia. Perhasp she's just partied hard and she is done. I am trying to walk carefully through what seems to be the beginning of the end of her life. In the woods today, we walked a loop that crosses Halfway Brook, where she usually takes a dip. She didn't today -- it was raining lightly the whole walk -- but she seemed perky, so I decided to add another little loop to the walk. I turned around and headed off on another trail. As I turned, I called Cassie, and I know that she saw me. I was thinking deeply as I was walking, not paying much attention. I turned left on a shortcut to head back to the car, and walked some more. Finally, I woke up and turned around -- no Cassie. "Cassie!"I called, sure that she was just sniffing something or dawdling. No Cassie. I went back to the turn -- no Cassie. I walked back on the trail I'd followed, calling gettin gmore and more concerned -- she doesn't even have a tag. No Cassie. I went to the brook -- no Cassie. Finally, I saw her -- up the trail where we would usually have gone. She looked unconcerned. She knows I'll come for her. I know she won't always be here.

Guatemala

I spent nine days in Guatemala, five of them working with Safe Passage. Safe Passage educates and cares for children of the dump pickers or guajeros in Guatemala City; these are the poorest of the poor. The organization, as it turned out, is extremely well run, and needs money more than weekly gringo volunteers, arguably. I spent the week arguing in my head, trying to find some peace. We mostly worked with the youngest children in the guarderia, or child care center. The language barrier was not such an issue there, and even my terrible Spanish was adequate. But I can't say that I was needed, or even all that helpful. Still, I think it was nice for the Guatemalan day care workers to have some respite -- other pairs of hands to push the swings, wipe the noses, carry the children around. Freddie, an ex-soccer star I guess who works for Safe Passage, says that all that is important for these children is this moment, so the fact that we come from America just to spend time is meaningful. I don't know -- I wondered and still wonder if the money spent on plane tickets (huge) and lodging (less) would have been more helpful than another set of strange white faces appearing and disappearing. Do the children ever feel like exotic and pampered zoo inhabitants? This is a terrible question to ask, but that's my nature -- to find those terrible questions and ask them. I don't pretend to have answers.

Apparently every conceivable system in Guatemala is so corrupt that organizations formed in Guatemala and run by Guatemalans inevitably go down in disgrace. So being from somewhere else, and white, is apparently a good thing. We certainly brought good intentions, even me, despite my many qualms, which I mostly kept to myself. The children were charming as children are, and beautiful, as Mayans are, which is not surprising. What is perhaps surprising is how normal they are, given that they go home to utter and abject poverty. Ninety percent of them are sexually abused at some point, sooner or later. But in the guarderia, and in the school, they are just kids.

Odd, too, perhaps, that given all my misgivings and the awkward questions that keep popping into my head, that I really deeply enjoyed the trip. I liked the people we traveled with , and I very much liked the Safe Passage volunteers and staff, who do such good work so matter of factly. I also enjoyed walking in Antigua, where we stayed for safety, each morning before anyone but Dona Margarita, our house mother, was up. I'd walk down the street, past all the people hurrying to work and to school, past the bakeries and the tiendas, to an old, moldering Catholic church. I would sit in the back row and listen to Mass in Spanish and pray that I would have strength for the day, which largely involved keeping my mouth shut. I would pray that my doubts would not dampen the spirits or the experience of those less afflicted, especially my husband, who has a rare ability to set questions aside when there is a good experience to be had. That I was largely successful in this I credit in part to Safe Passage, and especially our liason, Lisa, who had heard all the questions and still welcomed us all in to give and get hugs and love, and hopefully not head lice. I hope I learned a bit how to do that, and whether or not I did any lasting good, I hope the children could see how beautiful they are through another set of gringo eyes.