Archive for the ‘the writing experience’ Category

Intolerance

January 20, 2019

Yes, the government shutdown has affected me personally.

No details will be provided.

Yes, all the controversy surrounding this year’s Women’s March has affected me personally.

No details will be provided.

Yes, the plethora of open demonstrations of intolerance, racism, bias and hate by groups and individuals over the past year have affected me personally.

No details will be provided.

Because one of the most pernicious dangers of the current embrace of extremism in the U.S. is to stifle discourse, and I am not immune to the fear of reprisal from one or another of the governmental or private entities that would use those details against me, if I were to provide them.

I note a few facts. In the controversy surrounding this year’s Women’s March, and the perceived anti-Semitism of some of its national leaders, there was an astounding lack of recognition that not all Jews are white. There are Ethiopian Jews, and other black-skinned Jews from a range of countries. There are Hispanic Jews, with their own language, Ladino, that is an amalgam of Hebrew and Spanish, just as Yiddish is an amalgam of Hebrew and German. When I was just barely into my teens in the mid-1950’s I was taken to a number of historic sites in Manila, including both churches and an already 100 year old by then synagogue in Manila, learning that there were Filipino Jews and Chinese Jews who attended, as well as the European Jews who had fled Nazism by going east instead of west.

A white teen choosing to wear a Chinese dress to her senior prom, because she thinks it is a beautiful style, is attacked online. “Cultural appropriation!” is screamed at her. Would that  denunciation be leveled at a Black or Native girl who did the same? Or is it only white skin that made her action offensive to some?

When I go to a party wearing the traditional Cameroonian clothing gifted to me by my husband when he returned from his trip home last year, will someone look at me with anger because my skin is not black? Based on experience from earlier in my life I can predict that the answer will be yes. A long time ago in Boston, shopping in a store that catered to the African American population, to get a dashiki for my then husband who also was dark skinned, the store owner refused to sell to me and ran me out of her shop, accusing me of “taking our men like you took everything else from us.”

I can understand, while not accepting, her anger. My husband had asked for the dashiki to wear to an event where he would be performing. He was genetically equal parts black, Native American and white. Was he guilty of cultural appropriation, even though the term was not “on the radar” forty years ago?

I don’t understand, and also do not accept, any leaders encouraging their followers to judge people by such surface traits as skin color, clothing choices, language preference, use of particular terms (like Negro, black, Black or African American), place of birth, age, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. (You betray your age as comparable to mine if you just imaged Yul Brenner.)

But mine seems to be a minority voice these days, when I speak up for tolerance,  understanding and efforts toward bi- or multi-partisanship. I recently was cut out of the life of a woman with whom I have had a 30 year quasi-family relationship, apparently because I appeared to her to have taken the side “against” her, when what I did was choose not to take sides at all. Between “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” and “if you’re not with me you’re against me”, there is no room left for disengagement, reflection, tolerance, or occasionally for a carefully judged neutrality.

Yes, I agree there are many situations where a clear right/wrong demarcation needs to be upheld. Preaching/teaching hate is wrong, period. (I won’t soften that statement with an appeasing “in my opinion.”) Ignoring abuse, starvation, the effects of natural disasters is wrong – again not minimized by being only an opinion. What is a matter of opinion, in my opinion, is how one chooses to respond to these wrongs.

In my opinion, it is wrong to shut off/shut out the voices of reason, to block communication, to label and blame based on misperceived differences and unexamined biases. And it is particularly wrong to enshrine those blocks and biases in government and law as has been happening, and looks likely to be continuing, in the upcoming Supreme Court session.

I have no answers, and sadly little optimism for the next few years, outside what I can do in my own immediate circle, to continue to embody the values I espouse. I wish it were otherwise.

My lack of optimism most probably explains the relative infrequency of posts, of late. Or maybe I am only shut down by the gray, cold depths of winter?

 

Novels

November 17, 2018

I read novels to relax, to escape daily tensions, to forget about the ugly politics that slam into my email inbox despite my continuing efforts to remove myself from mailing lists shared without my consent. I read well written novels – often mystery fiction – for the glimpse into worlds different from my own, and for the benefit of intelligent and thoughtful observations of human interactions, motivations, behaviors – all the aspects of what we bipeds can do and be.

Emphasis in that preceding sentence on intelligent and thoughtful.

I don’t have much opportunity for intelligent and thoughtful conversations. Working from home, providing health care coordination to members of a Medicaid managed care entity, my face to face conversations are primarily with my clients and focused on their immediate health needs. Interaction with coworkers is by email or on Skype, and limited to the basics of our work. Occasionally a suggestion I make for an improvement in the work process gets a “good idea, we’ll put that forward” reply, and sometimes I see the idea implemented, which is gratifying but does not meet the criterion of a conversation.

So it is in my relaxation with books that I am most apt to experience an approximation of dialog with the author, when I come across an observation or comment that stimulates reflection. If an opportunity arises I will discuss the ideas with a friend. If, as more commonly happens, no such opportunity presents itself, I can at least turn to this blog and post my side of the conversation.

Which is what I am doing today, with the juxtaposition of quotes I encountered in two books recently read. The first is from Willful Behavior, Donna Leon’s Inspector Brunetti series set in Venice, more philosophical reflections on life in that city than determined “catch the criminal” detective work.

“People in possession of what they believe is truth will do anything to see that the facts are arranged to agree with it.”

The second idea jumped off the page of Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland which I read just afterwards.

“If you discredit the source, the quality of the evidence has no relevance.”

Put the two together and you have what, in my opinion, is a perfect description of the way in which our current political discourse is being twisted, distorted, denigrated, destroyed. From the Discrediter-in-Chief on down, facts are denied, sources denigrated, research suppressed and opinion presented as truth. There can be no meaningful nor beneficial discussion under such conditions.

So I read novels.

 

Looking Ahead to Blessings

December 17, 2017

Having stressed repeatedly to different clients the importance of a personal goal, apart from improved health which most of them seek, and having heard my husband reiterate this same objective to his parents as an key contributor to continued energy and engagement despite the various pains and slowly of age, I am guilty of failing to keep my own personal goals updated. The result is that lately I’ve been feeling weighed down by all the “have to’s” of my daily life, and also as though so much of my core energy is being expended on those requirements that I am simply depleted and have “nothing left” to expend on enjoyment.

To some extent, the energy drain is unavoidable – there’s only so much reserve left in this aging body, and so very much that it is being required to get through by way of work, housekeeping, support of mate and extended family, and the myriad chores of daily living. But what I recognize I’ve shorted myself on – and also recognize as a frequently encountered shortcoming in all those people whose work or life roles fall under the heading of care-giving – is making sure our activities that refill the reserves get as much priority as do our daily duties.

So my personal goal that is being re-established as I write, is to assure that I do refill the cup with activities that give me pleasure in and of themselves. My daily spiritual practice is one of those that has not been neglected; it is absolutely necessary (but apparently not sufficient yet) for me to maintain at least a semblance of balance, and a comfortable engagement with my outer life. I’ve cut way back on attention to the broader political and social scene, the hysterical reactivity of which is totally exhausting and debilitating. I continue to distance myself from whatever will trigger the “been there, done that, didn’t think I’d have to do it again in my lifetime” discouragement of seeing so much hard work, and advances toward a kinder and more caring society, erased and replaced with unfettered greed.

My work as a Medicaid-program Care Coordinator is rewarding, and as jobs go, just about ideal. I get to work from home (no daily commute), see my clients in their homes, support people toward improved health and management of their lives, experience directly their appreciation and pleasure as their circumstances improve, and know that I am functioning as part of the solution rather than being part of the problem. My home life is all that anyone could ask for, and more sustaining than I ever imagined I would enjoy. Overall, my health is apparently still fine, with only this irritating decline in energy and will that I need to sort out.

I don’t have the answer(s) yet. Only some hints as to where to look. For the physical depletion, I’ve resumed taking an adrenal supplement recommended to me some years ago, and it does seem to be helping. For the psychological, I’m looking to specific activities that I’ve enjoyed in the past and have not been participating in lately, notable among those being more regular blog posts.

I’m also taking seriously the increasing evidence that substantive ‘screen time’ alters mental functioning. My work requires a good deal of computer data input. Keeping up with news summaries on my phone (we don’t have TV) adds to the screen time. Writing will do so also, but more productively than the hours I have lately been spending in somewhat mindless Solitaire or Scrabble. I am undefeated in Free Cell and win better than 97% of hard level games against the computer in Scrabble. So what. Neither accomplishment is nourishing me. At best they have provided a sort of ‘zone out’ from thought, akin to ‘stopping the mind’ in meditation. I can do better, focusing my attention where the inflow of energy will be beneficial, not merely neutral.

I have yet to understand what those targets of focus will be, other than a continued extending of my attention to spirit. But now, the goats have escaped their fence and need to be corralled, and dinner needs to be put into the oven. I am reassured by the knowledge that when I  pose a question in my daily spiritual practice, I will receive needed answers, including on how to refresh my psychological energy.  I am so very grateful to have that guarantee in hand!

May these blessings be, for all who seek them.

New Technology

June 25, 2017

I’m learning how to use a new device, getting used to the touch and the different sort of storage process. One more step into the rapidly advancing digital age. This “book” is so light and thin it certainly doesn’t feel like a computer, and according to the salesperson, is more of an online streaming device. Everything is stored “in the cloud” rather than on the machine. Not quite sure what that will mean when I want to return to a document created and stored?

Well, I guess I’m finding out that it remains available somehow, because I’ve just opened it up again several days later, in a different physical location but one that has otherwise said I don’t have Internet access. So… I can write anywhere, which is what I was looking for (smile).

I rarely experience what I am in the midst of now – a waiting time gap between two appointments, not long enough to head home and back into town, rather long to fill by sitting over a beverage in a restaurant or coffee shop. There are a few places in town where it is acceptable to sit and write, and I’ve found one now to pass the remaining hour of my gap. I would probably not be so aware of this odd hole in my day under slightly different circumstances. If I had my cell phone with me, there would be newsletters to read, mail to check, even solitaire games to play. But my phone is with my husband, because his has crashed. We’re waiting for a new one to arrive. I have an old style slider phone given me by my employer, useful for being reached by clients, and to stay in touch with my husband, but lacking all the services of my usual cell phone menu.

Another piece of equipment that recently crashed is the portable, 800 hours on two AA batteries AlphaSmart writer that I’ve carried around with me for many years. I will replace it soon; meanwhile this new Chromebook is the only tool available to me. As I get to know the Chromebook better, and also to know where around town it can find the Internet, I’m hopeful I’ll find it satisfactory. Just now, I’m still adapting to the fact that it doesn’t have a delete key, nor the tabs at the top and bottom of the scroll bar I’m accustomed to using to move the page up or down.

Not so very long ago, I complained that makers of copy machines and of computer printers seemed united in their determination to frustrate users, with each machine requiring paper to be placed just a little bit differently, or fed in ever so slightly differently, to get a good quality well centered printed page output. The same sorts of differences, and some not so small ones, clearly pertain between operating systems. I get it that later arrivals believe they need to tweak the process to make themselves somehow distinct, but must they also fail to provide easily accessible explanations of how they differ? Yes, I’m being cranky. I’m entitled. I grew up using printed manuals to understand how to use machines. Now if I ask about such a thing I’m looked at askance, as if I’d asked for a free key to the bank vault and unfettered access to all of that vault’s contents.

Mostly I get impatient with myself, feeling blocked from accomplishing what I’m used to doing with my writing, because of “technical difficulties.” This will pass, I know, and before long there will be one more system I can comfortably use. It’s said when you stop learning is when you start dying. So long as computer technology continues being tweaked, and I have to keep learning new systems, I guess I can be assured that I’m very much alive!

Out of the Depths

April 22, 2017

I’ve come to realize there’s a subtle dynamic at work behind my long absences from posting. I first thought it was just a function of the many other demands on my time: an often 50 hour a week job, keeping house in a still new marriage, guaranteeing my own needed “down” time, assuring enough together time with my husband, and looking after our growing collection of animals. I’d thought I was, as I put it once, “too busy living to reflect on that living.” That may be true, but it is now apparent to me that it is not the whole truth. And in this age of alternate facts, blatant lies, and outright perjury, it is vital to me to be unflinchingly and unfailingly truthful.

I follow, very much enjoy, and not coincidentally frequently agree with, the blog Musings From a Tangled Mind. But I cannot conceive of myself ever following that pattern, with daily posts (sometimes twice daily) about anything and everything that arises in the tangle. I have the thoughts, I just can’t imagine myself sharing them.

It’s not just a generational issue, although I’m aware that the age groups beginning, some 20 years younger than I, do have a different ethic around filtering – or rather not filtering – their thoughts. There’s another more subtle dynamic at work that has become clear to me as I live with and beside my husband, and observe both of us in social settings or on the phone. He talks easily, especially in groups of his country mates, and I sit silently except when I have something to offer that puts a different slant on the discussion. He chats freely by phone with friends across the globe, whereas I prefer to text hellos to those not near at hand.

A couple evenings ago I spent over an hour on the phone with an acquaintance, answering her questions about my employer and the way my job is done, to help her decide if she wanted to apply for a similar position in her corner of our large state. My husband was amazed that I was on the phone for so long, commenting that there is only one person, a special quasi-daughter, with whom he has known me to talk on the phone at length. “You must have really wanted her to join the company” was his observation. I do think she’d enjoy the work, but I also want her to have a realistic picture of what it entails.

Back to my point – I have only just begun to peel off layers in order to get to the nub (in the onion, the sweetest part) of why I fall into long blogging silences. Outermost layer is the obvious outer, daily life demands on my time. Next down is what I perceive to be a reluctance to air matters I’ve not thought/felt my way through completely. Below that is recognition of a personal style of reticence somewhat at odds with the “spill your guts and let it all hang out” expectations of social media.

But there are more layers, and I’m aware I have not yet identified them all.

I used to write – usually letters to one special friend – in order to clarify my mind on a topic, or to help me sort out my feelings. What would stay roiled internally could be perceived clearly in the act of explicating it to someone else. Not infrequently those essays were adapted into blog posts as well. I’ve not written, not needed to write, such clarifying documents since having the benefit of a caring and able listening partner in the house with me.

I also used to write to create a sense of connection with others – reaching out from my quiet sideline position to drop comments into the broader stream of national conversation. Now my job puts me into close, often highly personal, interaction with a wide range of other types of people, plus I’m still learning the ways of a spouse from a radically different cultural background. I have all the “connection” anyone could want, and then some.

But I do miss my exchanges with those distant readers who had become friends through our process of commenting on, and knowing something about each other’s lives through, our posts.

Back to the onion… Letters to clarify thinking or feelings meant using writing as a means to better understand my mental and emotional states of being. As I have proceeded deeper into my spiritual life, it has become less salient to me to give attention to those states. I do need to recognize their antics in order to let them go, but I don’t need to dwell on them, seeking understanding. Staying focused on a more purely spiritual state of being allows me to function effectively in my daily life without wasted energy. Insights arise, are recognized and usually shared with my spouse, and then let go rather than enlarged upon in a blog post.

So what has now changed? Perhaps a sort of “coming out the other side” of introspection, to feel at least occasionally like sharing the insights for no other purpose than just to put them “out there”. They may not be profound, nor necessarily of broad interest, certainly they won’t be “well thought out and reasoned”, but I suspect it is nonetheless important to share them. Because whatever arises from Soul and spirit to make its way through our mental and emotional barriers has a deeper meaning for someone, somewhere.

I seem to have a knack, dealing with my clients at work, for reframing or restating their issues in a way that helps them see themselves or their problems differently and more productively or positively. It seems to me to be time to use that same skill in this blog, reframing my occasional insights to have broader-than-just-my-life potential. I’m not sure how it will go – but rely on my readers to let me know. Thank you in advance for your comments.

And to start the new process… I just encouraged my husband to choose a topic for his “argumentative essay” assignment in his English Composition 2 class,  that is unique to his experience rather than one – like climate change – that has been widely discussed and reviewed. My reasons included that his proposed Africa-based topic would be more familiar to him and more easily argued, as well as having more accessible and concrete data points to use in constructing his argument. But I also admit to a mischievous interest in helping him demonstrate to his “new diploma clutched tightly in her hand” young teacher that there remains much in this world that she does not know. There is more to skilled writing than following a standard format, and there is vastly more to teaching than setting rigid standards and marking down for every small deviation from manuscript formatting.

Writing, whether an English class essay or a blog post, is communication and its import lies in communicating content: ideas, perspectives, insights, analyses or persuasive arguments.

So does that mean my long silences have indicated that I have nothing to communicate? No, I don’t think so. That I have not been willing to make the effort? Perhaps. That I’ve been resisting fulfilling my role as a channel for spirit? Probably.

If my resistence is the true core of the onion, I know just what to do now. Admit my stubbornness, give over the resistance and just get one with what’s expected from me. So be it. Amen. Baraka Bashad.

May these blessings be.

I Went for a Walk

August 14, 2016

Cleaning out unneeded documents in my computer files, I came across an essay I wrote for myself about eight years ago. I don’t recall writing it. Rereading it now, I recognize that I’ve integrated the essence of it into my self, my life, my philosophy of living, my spiritual path. I choose now to share it with others, offering a bit of my beloved grandfather’s wisdom to those who honor us both by reading my words.

A Walk with My Grampa

I Went For a Walk in the Forest was the book title and first phrase I learned to read, precociously at age three, sitting on my Grampa’s lap as he read the story over and over to me. The book was paper bound, about 6 inches high and 10 inches long, with a black and white cover sketch of the forest surrounded by a pumpkin-orange border. If you opened the book out flat, so that the back and front covers made one whole picture, all the animals met on that forest walk could be seen hidden among the trees. In the delightful manner of children’s fantasy, the animals collected in that forest ignored the habitat restrictions which would normally prevent them meeting, except perhaps in a zoo.

From the safety of Grampa’s lap I learned about lions and horses, a giraffe, an elephant, deer and antelope, and a monkey. When the reading walk was done we rested. He smoked, and I trapped the smoke rings he blew into a wide mouth bottle, where they magically retained shape until the genie who also lived in the bottle stirred them into a fog to give himself shelter.

I went for a walk at the zoo, with my Grampa, most Sundays from when I was seven until I was twelve. He would come down on the train from Baltimore to spend the day with us, and would take me for ‘our’ time. Not always to the zoo, sometimes to the park or just for a walk around the neighborhood. He would ask me about my week in school, what I had learned and what I was reading, and he would tell me about the poem he was working on, or the article he was writing (in Hebrew, or Yiddish) for The Forward (which he pronounced as though a “v” began the second syllable). It was important to him to pick just the right Hebrew word from among several choices for his poems, to convey mood and spirit, as well as meaning.

I went for a walk on the beach – alone now, a world away from my Grampa, he still in Baltimore and I on the sand at Nha Trang, picking up tiny pink and black and pearl-colored shells which elderly Vietnamese refugees from the north collected to string into elaborate necklaces. I wore a small gold pendant my Grampa gave me, with the Tree of Life etched into it. A link, he said, that would stretch from Vietnam back to Maryland, to keep us sharing our walks. Those were harder years, without his immediate presence and gentle wisdom to balance the emotional stresses of my early teens.

I missed him still, when I went for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne during my high school years. I wrote to him, sitting on a sarcophagus in Pierre La Chaise cemetery, one of the few places in bustling Paris that I could find solitude and quiet. Those were very hard years, for both of us. He was no longer working in his dental practice and had fewer places to publish his essays and poems. He was no longer as able to care for himself, and not very aware of time, so his replies to me were intermittent, and rarely responsive to the questions I asked.

I went for a walk in the Crum Woods on Swarthmore’s campus, during my college years, and felt his presence through the guitar in my room, a fine instrument I’d found in a pawn shop, which he gave me the seventy-five dollars to purchase. I’d asked my parents for the money, but my mother had responded in her usual fashion. “Why don’t you prove your interest in playing guitar by learning on a borrowed one before you ask me to spend my money on something you may not pursue?” Fifty years later, that guitar stays easily in tune and its tone is admired by everyone who plays it.

I went for walks by the Chicago shore of Lake Michigan, and along the Charles River in Boston, after helping my mother to settle Grampa in Miami, where the better weather and the presence of a few close friends made it easier for him to manage. We talked on the phone since his eyes had failed to the point that he could not write, nor easily read. With a metal-bound, rectangular, hand-held magnifying glass left from his collection of dental tools, he would slowly read the daily Yiddish press, sharing his opinions with me on the events which he didn’t trust TV news to present fairly. He worried, after the Six Days War, that while its outcome improved Israel’s security at the time, there would come from it a negative turn in world opinion toward the Jewish state. He would, I know, be distraught over the actions and decisions taken recently – the wall, and the West Bank settlements which have become symbols of oppression rather than statements of freedom.

I went for one last walk with my Grampa, along the path beside the railroad tracks in Lamy, here in New Mexico, after he could no longer live on his own. My mother and I moved him into a nursing home outside Santa Fe, where I visited with him several times a month, and brought him to my little converted boxcar house for an outing, the one weekend he was strong enough to come. I told him the story of looking out the train window, age twelve and on my way to Vietnam, seeing Lamy as a strange, wild and western place – missing him desperately and never imagining that we two would walk together there. He answered that it was good to walk with me, though he didn’t really grasp where we were, and complained to me that there were people in his nursing home whom he could hear speaking Yiddish from a distance but who, when he came close and spoke to them, would not answer. I tried to explain that they were speaking Spanish, not Yiddish. He was by then seriously deafened, hearing just enough scraps of language to know when it wasn’t English being spoken. Like most speakers of more than one tongue, with advanced age Grampa’s communication abilities lasted longest in his first language, or in his case his first two, Yiddish for everyday and his beloved Hebrew for poetry and praise.

My grampa died within days of his official 91st birthday. Official, rather than real, because he had to transfer a birthdate from the Jewish (lunar) calendar used in what he called the “dot on the map village outside the dot on a map town” where he was born in Russia, to the western calendar he encountered when he entered the US as a twenty year old man in 1907. Knowing Shvat to be a spring month, he arbitrarily called it March. He equally firmly rejected the proposed Americanizing of his name to Hill, insisting that “no, my name is Domnitz, Aaron Domnitz.”

I go for walks now, often a brisk measured mile by Storrie Lake, or a leisurely stroll along Bridge Street, and realize I am just the age my Grampa was as my parents prepared to take us (his only close family) across the world to Vietnam. After 14 or more years of weekly trips from Baltimore to DC (he began them when my mother became pregnant with me), how great a change – and loss – that must have been for him!

I wonder – but obviously have no one to ask – why my parents didn’t bring him with us? Perhaps it was discussed and he refused? More likely, I’m afraid, my mother determined that she ‘didn’t want the responsibility’. That was her standard reply with which to block everything from my having friends for a sleep over, to helping host visiting dignitaries whom it was my father’s job to entertain. Blessedly it was also her response when Grampa needed nursing home care, so that I got to have him close to me for those precious last 18 months of his life. We went for so many lovely walks, in our talks, during my on-my-way-home-from-work visits with him!

Because life in his natal village had gone virtually unchanged for centuries before he left it, his awareness bridged nearly 300 years. Thus, we talk-walked streets of the 1700s in Russia as readily as those of Santa Fe in 1975. He shared the concern of many, that our technological skills so far exceed our ethical advances. “Will we now bring war to the moon?” was his question after that ‘one giant step’ for mankind.

Grampa’s dental cabinet, filled with a fragile, gaily decorated porcelain tea service from Vietnam, sits in my dining room. I use his magnifying glass when I need stronger eyes. The guitar provides music from many cultures, when I entertain students from the United World College. I pick my written words with care, respecting the importance he gave to nuances of meaning.

My Grampa started me reading about a walk through a forest to meet different animals. He continues to guide me on my walk through life, meeting its varied challenges. Some of that guidance arises from one of the last things Grampa said to me, shortly before he died. I’d asked if he had his life to live over, what he might have done differently. His answer was that he had only two regrets. The first was that he thought perhaps my mother might have been a happier person if he had remarried (he raised her on his own), but he’d never found the right woman. The second was that he wished he’d learned to play the mandolin. No wonder he supported my learning the guitar!

However long my own life walk turns out to be, I hope that when it ends, I will have as few regrets as my Grampa did. With his gifts surrounding me, and his ethics a part of me, I have every reason to succeed.

Passing

July 4, 2016

One aspect of the current inter-connectivity of social life that I’ve noticed, without being able to integrate it into my sense of place in the world, is how the absence of someone from that ethereal network can become a prominent feature of daily existence. Over the past 18 months I developed a relationship with Cheryl, following her blog at Artzzle, as she followed mine here. Through comments on postings, we got to know each other a bit – certainly as well as I know some of my coworkers in my day job, given that we all work from our respective home offices and only meet in person on a quarterly basis for training events. Cheryl has been “offline” for several months now; one of her last posts mentioned awaiting the results of pending medical tests, without specifying whether they were her own or for a family member. I can only suppose the news was not good, and that there is now no room for blogging in Cheryl’s life. I don’t know if she still reads my posts – or if she is totally off line and not able to know that I would offer support if I could reach her.

Upon reflection, the tenuousness of this sort of online link is not greater than that I have with face to face (or at least phone call to phone call) friends who live in distant places and whom I only see a few times a year, if that. When we do get together, or have a long phone conversation, the friendship seems not to have suffered any interruption. And I think we take for granted that it will continue as well into the future. Only rarely, as some years ago, have I been brought up short by the discovery, after the fact, that the other person is gone. Not just out of touch, but out of this world, moved on to another plane of existence without my having an opportunity to say goodbye, or even to know that a transition was impending.

It has been the pattern of my life that my closest friends are not usually found in my physical proximity. Partially, perhaps, because for the first half of my life I moved around so often. Although I’ve now lived many years in one location, the majority of my close friendships continue to be with people who live elsewhere. Not sure why, not sure that why matters.

What does matter is that all these relationships – physical or online – have inherent within them the risk of an ending occurring without my knowing about it. My discomfort is not that there is an ending – that is inevitable – but that the other person can cease to be and I not know it for months or even years.

When my father died, some thirty years ago, I knew that – like me – he had friends all around the world with whom he stayed in contact by letter and phone. I didn’t know who those people were, but I projected from my own sense of ‘wanting to know’ that they would also care to be told he had passed away. With no other guide, I turned to his Roladex and sent a death announcement to every address I found there. I received a heart-warming number of replies. The expressions of sympathy were equaled by the appreciations of my effort to inform.

Most of my dearest distant friends have family members whom I trust will inform me if there is a change in status affecting our ability to interact. A few do not. My main communication with these individuals is email. Will anyone trouble to go through a record of email exchanges to send me the sort of notice I mailed out about my father?

With social network links as the primary basis for many friendship interactions (no comment at this time on the “reality” of those friendships), won’t someone please invent – or make me aware of – a mechanism for informing “in the ether” friends of a death or serious restriction on ability to communicate?

Or am I one of too few for whom out of sight is NOT out of mind? No matter – if money can be made out of creating a social network death notification system, someone will set up the site. In the meantime, perhaps I should attempt to develop a sufficient psychic sensitivity to be directly aware when there is a hole in my net of linked relationships.

What I know I can do is assure that someone close to me knows to post an announcement on my blog, should I cease to be able to be here to do so. Do not worry, therefore, if I seem to disappear from sight for a time, as I did when my day job overwhelmed my time. I’m fine, and will be back, unless/until you hear otherwise, here.

And thank you, all, for liking and for following 1eclecticwriter.

Signs of the Times

April 24, 2016

I order books from Daedelus, usually fiction, often mysteries. I enjoy exploring places and time periods unfamiliar to me, via the settings of the stories, and am particularly happy when the writing is really good – vivid, original in its imagery, witty or incisive. I have been especially pleased, recently, with my discovery of Richard Crompton whose lead character is Detective Mollel, a Maasai working in modern Nairobi. Crompton skillfully weaves tribal culture into the present-day narrative.

But the interplay of traditional and modern African culture is the topic of a different essay than this.

Quite by chance the previous two books I read each featured a lesbian protagonist. What stayed with me was not that coincidence, but rather the matter of fact tone of the stories, each of which adhered to the expected blending of investigation into “who/how done it” with development of the character of the investigator. One was a current inhabitant of the U.S; the other an historical figure, a writer herself of “puzzlers”, now cast into the role of investigator of fictional events which might have occurred in her life. Both authors (Ellen Hart and Nicola Upson ) meet my criteria for a good read – they create the backdrop world for their stories with clarity, originality, and a fine use of language. Both present the love relationships of their protagonists in a style appropriate to the time period in which they take place. And both happen to present those relationships as lesbian.

What most struck me, as I read the novels, was both how matter-of-factly the lesbian material was included in the stories, and how matter-of-factly I accepted it as normal and natural to the characters. I think I’ve always been comfortable with the fact of homosexuality, certainly never one to think sexual orientation should be relevant to employment, housing, entertainment or any other aspect of public life.

One of my first (boy) friends shared with me that he enjoyed dressing in women’s clothing and sometimes thought he was born into the wrong gender body. Later in life he began exploring the process of changing gender identity. I lost touch with him about the time he met a woman whom he had come to love deeply, and whom he said he could share his life with as he was, “somewhere in between”. Perhaps for Jan, and many others, the solution to the North Carolina bathroom crisis should be the European model familiar to me from decades ago – unisex bathrooms, with the calm expectation that women would walk past men using the urinals, to reach the stalls at the back of the room.

But I digress from my original point, that mystery novels now include lesbian relationships as a matter of course, are marketed to a general reading public, and are not singled out or “flagged” except perhaps by the intolerant few who still think they have a divine right to judge. With so much strident name-calling and ugly rhetoric usurping public dialog, it’s reassuring to find quiet examples of tolerance and acceptance between the covers of a good book.

Returned

April 3, 2016

I’ve done the one thing I’ve been told is lethal to a blogger’s career – abandoned posting without an explanation. Do I have any followers left? I guess I’ll find out now – or maybe not, since I rarely received comments even when I was posting reliably, although Cheryl at Artzzle always responded and I greatly appreciate her for that.

When I started this blog, I thought I was embarking on a new phase of a sporadic writing career that has spanned decades. I finished a novel and was starting to look seriously at marketing it; a blog with followers was a step toward finding an avenue to get my novel published and read. Then I got a job – a really good job with most of the characteristics I desired: working with people, working from home, good pay and a modestly flexible schedule. The volume of work has, however, been rather overwhelming, stretching to 55 or more hours a week. My limited “free” time has been devoted to a new marriage and other changes in my personal life. As I said in one of the few posts to go out in the past year, I’ve been too busy living to reflect on or write about my experiences.

The demands of my job are finally reducing a bit, to something closer to 40-45 hours a week and the schedule within my personal life has settled as well, giving me two evenings a week, alone, which I can use for interests that have been shorted of late.

One of those interests is reading. Most of my life I’ve buried myself in a book whenever I had an unoccupied moment – even standing in the grocery checkout line, or on occasion when stuck in a traffic jam. I was fortunate to be encouraged to learn to read very young, sitting in my grandfather’s lap and following along as he read me “I Went for a Walk in the Forest”. Fictional worlds soon became my escape from an unpleasant family life. Long before the household was transferred to Asia and then Europe, for my father’s work, I had visited many countries – both real and imaginary – and had great adventures solving crime with Nancy Drew, or uncovering ancient tombs on archeological digs on the plains of Argolis.

What better indicator of just how demanding my job has been, than the realization that over a period of 18 months I read at most 6 books – the number I normally devour in a month. In the past half year, I’m pleased to see, by the size of the pile of books ready to go to the exchange, that I’ve been able to resume reading at something closer to my habitual rate.

And with reading comes reflection, ideas, and the urge to resume writing.

So here I am, probably not with any consistency yet, but back from the deep silence of the past … oh my goodness, nearly a year!

My apologies for the abandonment.

Returning to Reading

November 15, 2015

I’ve started reading again.
Or, more accurately, I’ve resumed reading for pleasure at what used to be my normal rate of 2-3 books a week. For most of the past two years, until a couple weeks ago, I haven’t achieved more than two books a month. Knowing the why of the drop off did not make the dearth of reading any more acceptable to my impatient mind. It’s certainly mind that is now celebrating evenings spent on the couch with a book as a return to “normal”.

Mind had best not get too comfortable with this normal, as it’s a new one, with frequent interruptions to discuss medical terminology questions with my husband and sister-in-law as they work on their respective anatomy and pharmacology studies. I had better not get too comfortable with this new normal either, since it derives primarily from a lessening of my work caseload, and I don’t trust that this easing will endure. It should – my client list is now, after two years of numbers circling ninety, reduced to where it is “supposed” to be, around sixty-five. That’s a full third reduction, bringing my work week down from 60 hours to 45 and freeing time to read for relaxation.

In this past week I’ve been with Rei Shimura back to Japan, and accompanying an itinerant weaver to solve a string of murders in a Shaker community. It’s pleasant to go traveling again, without the stress of packing, driving (I do so much of that for my daily work) and sleeping away from loved ones, in seldom fully comfortable and always unfamiliar beds.

Being markedly less engaged with books these past eighteen months has made me noticeably more sensitive to them now that I’ve returned my attention to reading. In particular, I’m aware of the too frequent typos, words missed out of sentences and similar flaws of production which seem to be a different type of new normal for print publications. Or is this perhaps the new normal for the comparatively inexpensive, remaindered reprints available from discount supply houses, where I frequently shop?

I wish I could afford the $25-30 per book of a bookstore hard cover, but I can’t. I feed my … I started to say addiction to reading, but maybe it’s no longer an addiction?… pleasant habit of reading with acquisitions from second hand stores, and from remaindered and discount house catalogs. Books from these catalogs, in particular, seem to contain frequent composition errors. Sloppy workmanship? Or the results of computer-based typesetting that doesn’t recognize when a word is missing, or a cognate replaces the word that should be in the sentence.

I don’t read e-books. I spend too much time already in front of a computer screen. So I don’t know if e-books are similarly flawed in composition and construction. And I’m not sure whether to hope they are, or that they are not. If they are, then an entire profession that once prided itself on accuracy has fallen into slackness and error. If e-books are error free, then it would seem that a serious disregard for paper books is being made manifest by compositors who used to be in competition for the most perfect, flawless output.

Is my cranky complainer side showing? Am I sounding like a stereotypical older person ranting that standards are falling and are so far from what they were in my younger days? That complaint has been with us at least as long as the works of Homer and Cicero, and probably longer. I choose not to generalize, merely to observe that in my resumption of reading I am encountering more proof-reader errors than I have noticed before.

I will try not to make my own such errors. Now that reading for pleasure is once again part of my days, perhaps writing posts will also pick up a former pace? Please do call my attention to any proof-reading errors you find. I want to keep my own standards high.


Health News

tips , tricks , reviews , advice's

Life with an Illness

Sharing my chronic illness journey, while helping others. I spread awareness, love, and positivity along the way!♡

MICHAEL GRAY

Original work with a spiritual connection.

sandsoftime10

A peek into Megha's mind

Neurodivergent Rebel

Rebelling against a culture that values assimilation over individuality.

The Beauty Along the Road

Discovering Beauty in the small details of our lives

Flowerwatch Journal

Notes on Traveling with Flowers

1eclecticwriter

Wide-Ranging Commentary

Spirituality Exploration Today

Delving into the cross roads of rationality and intuition

O' Canada

Reflections on Canadian Culture From Below the Border

smilecalm

Life through mindful media

San'in Monogatari

Legends, folktales, and anecdotes from Japan's San'in region

Immaculate Bites

African and Caribbean Recipes Made Easy

wild life weeks

your weekly nature and travel blog

Ray Ferrer - Emotion on Canvas

** OFFICIAL Site of Artist Ray Ferrer **

aka The Versatile

Food | Fashion | Lifestyle | Beauty | Finance | Fitness | Education | Product Reviews | Movies | Doodling | Poetess

Aging Abundantly | Women Over Fifty | Empty Nesters | Caregivers | Aging Gracefully

Finding Joy at Every Age with writer/philosopher Dorothy Sander