From early on in my life I have had people come into my life.  Some came in, stay for a while and then disappear.   Some others come and pitch camp here.  Some of those people had a heavy impact on my life intentionally or not.  Sometimes they were the people you would least expect who impacted you the most. 

When I started PS20 in Flushing in 1952 I loved school.  I soon became the teacher‘s pet until the last week of school. Anyone who knows me has probably heard this story!  As we all remember, at the end of the day you put your chair up on the desk before leaving.  I don’t remember if I put the seat on the desk upside down or simply stood the chair on the desk top but whichever way I did it was the wrong way!  Mrs. McNulty, maybe had a fight with her husband that day, but she was not happy with how I did it.  As she was reading me the riot act she probably accidentally hit the chair and it fell back and hit me.  I ran home the 8 blocks devastated. I refused to go back to school for the rest of that last week and my parents didn’t push it cause it was the last week of school.  Fast forward to the Fall and second grade.  Nope, not going! We had a round dining room table and I remember my mom chasing me around it trying to get me dressed.  I was determined not to go!  Poor mom, she would get home from the hospital from the midnight to 8 am Shift and had to deal with me.  Dad had already gone to work.   This went on for weeks. Finally the school stepped in and said I had to be home taught and assigned Mrs. Duncan To me.  Mrs. Duncan was a large robust lady with a big flowery hat, very little patience, and a stern demeanor!  Everyday though she would bring a dozen Dunkin Doughnuts with her.  She made my dad put up an American flag in our dining room and everyday I had to say the pledge to myself and sing My Country ‘Tis of Thee…..by myself! I went through most of the year that way- hating every day of it but too afraid to go back to school!

They didn’t have psychologists in the schools then but there was a thing called Child Guidance and the school insisted I go.  So every Thursday my mom and I took the Q 65 bus to Jamaica to Dr. Arciary at Child Guidance.  The funny thing is the person who affected my life was not Mrs. Duncan.  I liked Dr. Arciary (it wasn’t him either) cause we played games together and I could talk to him about anything.  At one visit he asked me if I would mind another one of his clients joining our session.  I did but he had been so nice to me I agreed. 

The following week Edward L. joined us.  Just so happened Ed was a kid who had been in my first grade class.  He was pretty severely disabled and developmentally behind.  He was a nice kid but the kids at school always made fun of him.  I don’t remember how the session went but it had a profound effect on me.  When we got home that night at dinner I asked my parents if they and the school thought I was like Edward.  My mom asked me what I thought.  I said I didn’t think I was like that but why were Edward and I going to the same place for help?  I went to school the next day. Already mid June.  My parents had to fight with the principal to make sure I was promoted to third grade instead of repeating 2nd.  To this day I attribute my success in school and my emotional well being to Edward L.  I never got to thank him!  But he turned my life around and I am forever grateful! 

I Need Thee Every Hour

I loved Hen’s organizing principle of people entering your life for a reason, season, or a lifetime. George met Edward L. for a reason, resulting in a life altering decision. Hen made a friend for a season in Bob – and experienced the vagaries of childhood loyalty. So, I will write about a person who entered my existence for a lifetime.

Of course, this will be about my partner, lover, and friend of fifty-one years. In fact, I’m writing this on our anniversary … all the more meaningful to us, because Linda almost didn’t make it. Three weeks ago, the emergency room doctor told me that they could not treat her and she needed to be rushed to a more specialized hospital. He said that in the ambulance, Linda’s heart stopped for 45 seconds – her condition was serious, he said. I needed to confront the possibility that our limitless horizons were in fact approaching rapidly. (Spoiler alert: Linda is making a fantastic recovery).

I first saw Linda on the main quad at college – -she was racing some other girls across the green. They looked happy and laughing. A couple of years later she was assigned to help costume me for a contest the college was running. We married at twenty-one and had absolutely no idea what we were doing. We simply had a resolve to co-author a life together. I guess there’s a learning lesson in that act: if you make that vow central to your being and subordinate other impulses, well, you become part of a new creation. Together we make a statement. Our shared history defines us. Sure there is plenty of yin and yang in the installation art that is our life – and times when it unravels a bit. However, our temperaments meld well on all the important aspects of our lifework. Linda is spunky, buoyant and wise, when I am dogged, dour and doubtful. I keep us grounded, she lifts us up.

Whether the time that is left to us is measured in decades, years, months,  weeks or days,  my sweet wife, — as the old hymn proclaims —  “I need thee every hour’.

People Who Leave People

George’s title immediately reminded me of Barbra Streisand.  And yes, I need her.  Unfortunately, she’s married, but this post is about people who need people, not about availability…  but I digress.

It is said that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.  When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for each person.

I have often confused reason and season with the idea that each positive encounter must undoubtedly be for a lifetime.  I now know better.  Not in a bad way as if, now I know not to trust that someone will always be there for me and I must always be guarded.  But in a peaceful acceptance way of understanding that life (and relationships) is fragile and there is no way of knowing in advance, how long we have to enjoy what’s before us.

When I was a young boy, I had a neighborhood best friend, Bob.  Neither of us fit into the athletic, “with it” social groups.  Both of us listened more to our parents and followed the rules than the other kids.  We rode bikes together, played in the woods, and confided in each other about the things that were on our minds.  I trusted him.

There was another group of kids in the neighborhood who were way cooler and, because we weren’t, had nothing to do with us.  One summer they built an underground fort in Pete’s backyard but still within eyeshot of the road.  One day, walking along the road with my dog Mickie, I saw Bob go into the fort with a group of them.  The feeling of betrayal swept through me. Had he been hiding his friendship with them, had he told them my secrets?  Later, when I asked him about it, he lied and told me it must have been someone else.  Now, I not only felt betrayed but began to question my sanity.  I know I saw him, yet how could my best friend lie to me?  Shortly afterwards, he confessed and explained that they enlisted him in a plot against me and threatened to beat him up if he didn’t cooperate.  While I understood his dilemma, I knew I could no longer trust him. That was my first but not the last example of how people come and go into our lives. 

What’s interesting for me is that each time someone has changed the rules and left or caused me to leave, despite vowing never to be like the others before them, I expect it to be different.  I guess being labeled a rampant optimist holds some truth.  Regardless, I try to use each of the experiences with the people in my life, past and present as a way of reminding myself to appreciate their impact on me.  Each left or continues to leave a gift.  How I choose to view those gifts is up to me. 

For me it’s letting go of the notion that “for a lifetime” is the goal and accepting that each connection, no matter how brief, adds value to my life.  Perhaps that’s what it is about after all.

Continuing George’s topic of random thoughts, I wanted to share some musings about my grandmother.

After the death of my grandfather, gram came to live with us and became an integral part of our family.  At sixty-nine, she was still a great cook, mobile, and strong-willed.  She could also sew everything and anything having been a seamstress in Bucharest Romania as a young girl.  At the time, we lived in a comfortable 4-bedroom ranch in a small but growing town in Westchester, just north of the Bronx where Gram and Grandpa raised their family.  Gram had her own room as did I.  My sisters bunked together and my mom had the master suite to herself as my father had disappeared from our lives leaving behind nothing but his empty side of the bed.

Gram was always there when we came home from school.  Food was her love language and there was always a snack or treat for us before we went out to play.  

In the summer of 1960 we lost our home to whom someone my father had sold the mortgage and we temporarily moved to a motel until the lease was up on my grandmother’s cottage.  In the fall, I went off to college, gram went to stay with my uncle in Long Island, and my mom and sisters rented a summer bungalow.  With only a kerosene heater for warmth, they managed and eventually moved into Gram’s 650 square foot, 2-bedroom, one bath cottage in mid-winter.  This is where I called home through college and into my first two years as a teacher.  Gram had one bedroom, my mom and sisters shared the other and I had the fold up bed stored in the living room closet.

Throughout my college years, grams health declined and she eventually became bedridden with rheumatoid arthritis.  She was no longer able to move around much and was unable to cook.  However, she could still hold a needle and thread and would often mend a tear or put on a button for us as needed.  It gave her great pleasure to be able to help us despite the struggle it was for her to use her fingers.

Gram had few things that motivated her to sit up or venture off her bed and into the kitchen or living room.  She loved good food and looked forward to my mom’s meals.  Of course it always needed a pinch more salt or slightly more sweetener, but she always ate it up.  And, every day at 3:00pm, Gram would will her body, aided by her small wooden cane, into a chair in the living room.  She would lean forward and pull out the on/off button on our 15” black and white TV and watch General Hospital.  How she loved that show.  She would laugh, get angry, call a particular character names, and become completely involved in the story as if it were really happening.  Her eyes would sparkle as she spoke aloud to them as if they could hear her warnings or displeasure with a decision they made.  I loved watching her watch her show.  Then, when it was over, she would use the tip of her cane to push in the button to turn off the TV and amble back to her bed hoping someone was home who wanted to hear what had just happened in the lives of those doctors and nurses.

Gram also loved money.  She loved seeing cash, feeling the bills in her fingers, and counting them one by one, over and over again.  This was the ritual every two weeks after I would get paid.  I would cash my check and bring home the bills for Gram to count.  She was thrilled that I had a regular job and was able to bring home what she considered to be a considerable amount of money on a regular basis.  But somehow it wasn’t real unless she could see it, feel it, and count it.  I still remember how animated she would get as I watched her lick her fingers to be sure she didn’t allow any bills to stick together as she checked and rechecked the amount.  

We didn’t have much during that time, but somehow Gram always gave us something to smile about and something to feel good about.  

A.K.A—Gamma

Baby Girl: Maria Matiacchio  ……Born June 21, circa 1881(birth records a little sketchy back then)  …..Cirigiliano, Basilicata, Italia.

A.K.A.— Gramma

Definition- unconditional love

Where do I start?  I never knew my grandfather.  He had had a stroke and was bedridden from before i was born til he passed away when I was 2.  My first memory of Gramma was when I was maybe three or four.  Gramma and my two aunts lived on the corner of 1st Ave and 23rd St on the Lower East Side in a 6 story walk up apartment building.  We lived a few blocks away then and every Sunday we would walk to their apartment for Sunday Dinner. I remember turning the corner and we could see Gramma sitting in her fire escaped kitchen window waiting for us to get close enough to throw down sugar cubes for my brother and I.  As silly as it sounds it was very exciting for us.  She said it gave us the strength to make it up the 6 flights of stairs!  I question the science there but if Gramma said it it had to be true!

She was unconditional love and I would feel totally safe wrapped on her lap, she in her house dress and b old lady black Italian shoes.  For some reason my dad was the patriarch of the family and relatives from far and near would come to see him to get permission to get married, or buy a house or move out of the area.  The only person who had any kind of authority over him was Gramma.  She was a tough old broad, and I mean that in the best of ways.  She loved American tv!  Her “shows” were sacrosanct and everything had to stop when The Millionaire came on and she would keep listening to hear someone walking up the stairs to the apartment with Mr. Anthony who she was convinced was going to give a check for her a million dollars.  She would always remind us that John Bears Fatipta would provide for us.  You have to be old enough to remember that show to know what that was.  And above all shows was her all time favorite….Hopalong Cassideetch!  You could not make a sound when good old Hoppy, as she called him, was on the tiny 13 inch screen with the rabbit ears on top.

Life was pretty simple back then and routine was rigidly enforced so we saw Gramma every Sunday til we finally moved out to the country when I was 5.  My folks wanted me out of the city before I started school and we bought a house in Flushing, Queens.  My dad soon after found an apartment for Gramma and the aunts two blocks away from our house, so I could now stop in and visit on my way home from school to see if they needed anything from Bohacks or the A&P just around the corner. 

She and I had a special bond.  On my 12th birthday, a few months before her death, she got me a miraculous medal.  Most Catholic kids in the city had miraculous medals, but this one was special.  My dad worked for a prominent doctor in NYC who had high end clients.  One client that my dad became very friendly with was Bishop Fulton J. Sheen. (He is currently up for saint hood).  He had a TV show called One Life to Live and he was a very controversial, sort of liberal, Catholic Bishop who was expected to become the next Cardinal for the city, but he did something to tick off the powers that were and Cardinal Spellman got the promotion.  My grandmother insisted that my medal be blessed by Bishop Sheen and so my little MIraculous Medal that to this day still hangs around my neck was blessed by Bishop Sheen.

Several months later, just before midnight we got a call from my aunts that Grandma was having one of her spells.  Dad and I rushed over to the apartment and even I knew as a 12 year old that this wasn’t just a spell.  Gramma was trying to hold on but I remember her saying good bye to my two aunts, my dad and then me.  She took my hand, squeezed it as bet she could and said good bye.  My dad got on the phone and called Bishop Sheen and within 45 minutes a limo pulled up in front of the apartment and His Eminency came rushing up to the apartment to give Gramma the last rights.  She passed quietly shortly after he finished and I saw my dad close Gramma’s eyes for the last time.  It was a very intimate moment and I will never forget my dad’s face, my aunts silently crying in each others’ arms and Bishop Sheen’s hand on my shoulder.  But for the last 52 years that medal hangs around my neck and at difficult times I still hold it in my hand and conjure up the one person who always made things better for me!

Pop

I envy Hen’s relationship with his Gram.  My maternal grandmother died when I was three or four and for a number of reasons we did not have a close relationship with our paternal grandparents. Luckily, our paternal grandpa was a treasure.

My grandfather was a man small of stature, but solid. He led a physical life – as a farm worker, shepherd, navy cook, iceman, and masonry contractor. He was an orphan, unschooled, who taught himself to read and write, both in Italian and English. As a young man, he prided himself on his luxuriant handlebar mustache – bright red. No wonder he loved my red-haired, blue-eyed brother so much! By the time we knew him, the mustache was trimmed and gray.

This man was always cheerful, whistling and singing Italian folk songs. But perhaps this was not always the case. In early pictures, you could sense a steely-eyed gaze. Grandpa had one distinguishing physical mark: his nose was crumpled with a pronounced scar, the result of a fight. Supposedly, his opponent had tried to bite his nose off. That had to be painful! I read somewhere that a guy had bees sting him all over his body to measure pain – and he reported that the nose was clearly the most painful place (thank heavens for such pioneering research).

Well, this is the stuff of legends — and hard to reconcile with the gentle, happy-go-lucky guy everyone call ‘Pop”. And when you think about it, what kind of fight results in someone trying to bite off your nose? I mean, seriously, who gets close enough to do that? Sounds like a last act of desperation. Let me ask you, would you want to bite off someone’s nose? Food for thought. Okay, enough about that…

I have many memories about Pop, although we did not see him regularly. He lived with my aunt, cousins and second-cousins in a stucco three story block building in Rockaway Beach – two blocks from the ocean.  The place looked like a white fort, built flush to the sidewalk with a courtyard behind the building. You entered the rear of the building through a stucco arch, which is generally where we would be greeted by Pop with an orange and a dime. He had an apartment in the back where he kept his fig tree and goat. 

So many stories: Pop was the one who had his own method of potty training (taught me to pee in a bottle – a habit I’ve since broken, but may be revived in further old age). He considered wine quite healthful, so he started my brother on 8 oz. glasses of wine – at seven years old (‘Mom, come quick!’). We had our first taste of raw goat’s milk from Pop’s goat. I remember him staking out the codfish on a board in the sun to make Baccala – salt dried codfish (another taste sensation – not!)

Pop used to make coffee in an open pot on the stove. He’d bring the water to boil, then add coffee grounds to the pot and liberally pour in Four Roses whiskey to make sure it all went into solution properly. I guess that’s how the pre-WWI Italian Navy rolled…

However, what I remember most about this man is how he took my brother and me aside for a discussion one day. In his broken English he told us “You be good men”. This was not a throw-away line – it was a moral imperative which we took – and still take — very seriously. It’s the prime value I assign to people: is this person a ‘good person’; am I acting like a good person? I hope so, because I’d like to please him. 

Anthropologists talk about the strength of the ‘skip-generation’ relationships. It makes some sense in that grandparents can be life coaches without the day-to-day authority issues parents have to deal with. My life coach kept it simple: ‘Be a good man’. I still have his beat up fedora and briar pipe…

Thinking for me was always a form of worry.  Even as a kid I used to worry about my dad coming home late a night after drinking with the men at the Knights of Columbus.  Or wondering if I would have to go to Mc Auliffe’s Tavern to bring him home for dinner.  But whenever I had a spare moment there would always be thoughts to fill the time.  It wasn’t all bad! I was a creative kid which would sometimes get me in trouble like the time Steven Bell from across the street and I decided to play mailman and we collected all the mail from the entire block and redelivered it to other people’s mailboxes. It was fun and we were just trying to see what it was like being mailmen. Unfortunately, our neighbors didn’t see the humor and Steve and I and my father redelivered the mail to the 30 or so houses on the block along with sincere apologies!  I decided I wouldn’t be a mailman even at age 6!   I did dumb stuff like this growing up, even after much thought that at the time seemed very logical!

Now some 70 years later I am still thinking a lot cause during this quarantine there isn’t much else to do.  My thoughts go back to those years sometimes and sometimes they look foreword.  There is a big bay window in my living room that looks over the neighborhood.  I stand in the window each morning just checking things out.  I have observed things I probably would not have noticed without this down time.    Everything is viewed through the lens of a street kid who grew up In NYC.   The first thing I realized is kids don’t play in the street anymore. We used to play catch or stick ball in the street, and when a car came somebody would yell, “Car,  Car,  C-A-R” and everyone would scatter to the sidewalk til it passed!  We picked sides by doing Boo Boo Boo, One Potato, Two potato…..we Used Spaulding balls and we always had a bucket attached to a pole to retrieve the ball after it rolled down into the sewer.  But the streets are quiet now and  empty.  There isn’t even much traffic!

Today,  I look for neighbors to wave to or yell to.  Just a connection to make me feel like part of the neighborhood- any kind of connection to help me feel like I belong.

Then my mind wanders to my family.  They have all passed except for my kids but now, with all this
time on my hands I have a bunch of questions for them.  Like I wonder if my grandparents ever became American citizens.  What made them settle in NYC?  I have a hundred questions for my dad about being on Iwo Jima during the war.  And how did he get to write a column in Semper Fi Magazine.  He never talked about the war.  And my brother who was 8 years older than I ( pre and post war babies)  said that he wasn’t the same dad who came home. They called it shell
shock back then not PTSD!  Later, he wrote a column in a little local magazine called The Gramercy Graphic in NYC.  My mom used to play the banjo!  I never asked her why.  My aunt was a tatter in a sweat shop on the lower east side. And another aunt, my mom’s sister, had a wing in the Mahanoy City Public Library named after her..  And I don’t know the answers to any of these questions!   

The remainder of my day’s thoughts move to life after Corona!  What will school look like?  Maybe kids will start playing in the streets again?  I imagine a world where people are kinder, more neighborly, helpful and friendly to one another. Unfortunately, the answers to these questions will be played out in the future.  I hope when it does that younger generations can look back and remember with fondness the way I remember stoop ball or I Declare War!

Ode to A Spaldeen

George’s memory has gotten me to thinking about street play. Perhaps many of us share the memory of playing stickball in the street… if the ball went two telephone poles it was a homerun… in a fly past the second baseman (if there was one) it was a double – and so on… Sometimes we would walk to the park a couple of blocks over and play two person stickball, using the cement wall as the backstop – drawing the strike zone in chalk. 

The one thing in common with many of the games – stoopball, stickball, or handball – was the gold standard Spaulding (or should I say the “pink standard”?). It bounced the best and felt just right in the hand – neither too hard nor too soft. We never bothered with the marketing name ‘hi-bounce’, but did call it the ‘spaldeen’. 

When we used the spaldeen for handball, it was usually Chinese handball – that is bouncing it once before it struck the wall. Sure I know, a real handball is black and much harder, but we used the Spaulding. However, we did watch the ‘old men’ play American handball (hit the wall on the fly) with their gloves and hard little black sphere rocketing around – looked fierce and painful to us eight year olds.

You could bring a Spaulding to school and play against the brick wall at recess or after school. I mean, the Spaulding wasn’t the be-all and end-all – it was simply a requirement. You had to have one. And of course, inevitably they would get lost.

Each week, my brother and I were granted a 75 cent allowance (do you realize that there isn’t even a ‘cents’ key on my qwerty keyboard anymore?) and our aim was to trek two miles into the hobby shop and buy a plastic WWII airplane model to build. The two of us would sit on our front stoop and glue it together. However, when the Spaulding was hit into the undeveloped lot, rolled into a storm sewer or landed in unfriendly territory – well – we’d have to divert part of allowance (was it 15 cents?) to getting a new one at the hobby shop and possibly forego the airplane model. I guess the Spaulding was like a utility for kids… we didn’t pay electric bills, but we had to have bounce energy.

I have read that the pink Spaulding ‘hi-bounce’ was discontinued in 1979 due to decreased popularity of stickball (or maybe it was the rise of disco), but it was reintroduced in 1999 in a variety of colors. Amazing that such a simple object can be the source of such enjoyment.

The New Thinking

George opens up another facet of this pandemic that also affects the majority of people around the word; what are we all thinking about during our minimal interactions and limited options for mobility? Are some of us simply contemplating more of the same kind of thoughts? Are some of us more reflective, now that we have fewer distractions and obligations? Are we turning to the past for comfort and guidance, or are we thinking this is the opportunity to break old habits and move forward?

Depending on the day or my mood, I can accept responsibility for being in each of these categories. Most of the time though, I’m inclined to use this experience of isolation to rid myself of actions/reactions that don’t feel good. It is a perfect time to reflect. I find it easier to focus on what I’m doing and being present. My daily mediation (from The Daily Stoic – Ryan Holiday) is devoted to paying attention to a habit or behavior you wish to diminish or eliminate. The process involves setting your intention and then marking off each day you can accomplish it, extending your streak for as long as possible.  My progress is painfully slow but moving in the right direction.

But, like George, I also find myself drifting back to my childhood.  I recall many days of wandering about in nature, more often with my dog than with friends.  And today, as a senior citizen living in New York during the Coronavirus pandemic I spend my days wandering about in nature and only with my dog.  However, unlike my childhood, instead of sprinting down a hill or climbing a perfectly laddered sapling, I stroll down the hill and simply gaze up at the tree. Every once in a while though, as my boyish sense of adventure wells up in me, I smile and think, maybe tomorrow I’ll sprint and climb. But then I remember that I haven’t yet taught Duke how to fetch the first responders from my driveway and bring them to my side if I should fall and break a bone or two. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll teach Duke, or take a chance like I did when I was a kid.

I also think about how much I miss sharing my space and my adventures with friends and family. As much as I receive intense satisfaction from my daily escapades, it’s never as grand (this word’s for you Laur!) as sharing them with others.

And again, like George, I think about post stay-at-home life. I try not to think about my re-emergent world without hugs and handshakes. I remind myself to be grateful that I’ve lived a long and happy life without restrictions, extreme cautions, and with great freedom. And now, I’ll prepare myself for appreciating what remains.   At least that’s what I think right now.

Lately, I’m increasingly aware that many of my daily routines have taken on added significance and meaning beyond the need to get them done.  They have become rituals.  Perhaps it’s the reduction of distractions during this time of sheltering in place that has allowed me to be more mindful.  Or, it could be that without regular stimulation of ideas and interests I seek them from within the confines of my home.  For example, rather than allowing my mind to wander while rushing through the task of raising my window shades, I now often think about, well, just raising each shade and welcoming first light into my home as I begin my day.  As I slowly pull the cord of my kitchen window, I watch the shade fold into itself as it reveals the unique perspective it affords of my backyard.  Then I move on to the next window that will allow additional light and a slightly different view.  It sets in motion an action that often impacts how I feel about my day.  This routine and others, now receive more of my intention and deliberation.  They have taken on a level of significance that positively influences my initial disposition.  They are new rituals.  They are no longer chores to be completed, but actions that add significance to my life. 

In an article written by author, writer, and coach Steven Handel, he describes routines as things we need to get done on a regular basis but that are not necessarily meaningful.  Rituals tend to have a sense of purpose and their meaning is often symbolic.  He further illustrates the difference in this table:

As I thought about the things in my life that are chores and that are now taking more of my attention and thought, I remembered the notion of the Japanese Tea Ceremony.  The tea ceremony in Japanese culture represents purity, tranquility, respect, and harmony.  It is a great illustration of the singular focus given to the performance of serving a simple cup of tea.  It is a grand collaboration of art, discipline, attention, and care.  Philip Stanhope 4^th Earl of Chesterfield said, “In truth, whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well; and nothing can be done well without attention.”

I also thought about the commitment of the Samurai in their attention to detail and purpose in everything they did.  There was an unrelenting focus on mindfulness in even the most basic actions and routines. 

Zanshin is a word used commonly throughout Japanese martial arts to refer to a state of relaxed alertness. Literally translated, zanshin means “the mind with no remainder.” In other words, the mind completely focused on action and fixated on the task at hand.  In practice, though, zanshin has an even deeper meaning meaning. Zanshin is choosing to live your life intentionally and acting with purpose rather than mindlessly falling victim to whatever comes your way.  It was as if everything in their lives was a ritual.

Now, as I spend more time in silence and thought, I’m able to better recognize the significance of preparing food, letting light into my home, and attending to things that require my attention.  Of course, my mind still wanders…often.  But I’d like to think that this time has afforded me a way to elevate at least some routines from tasks that must be done so I can get on with my life, to appreciating the things I do in my life because they matter.

Have you noticed any shifting of routines or rituals in your life?

Traditions, Rituals, and Routines

Hard to know where one ends and another begins!  Perhaps the definitions intermingle and have very subtle differences.   Perhaps it has to do with what Henry said, that rituals have an importance that routines don’t.  Traditions may then define the need for rituals.  For example, my family had a tradition at Christmastime of setting up the Christmas village which necessitated the ritual of laying track and checking out the engines and cars of the train and organizing the town.   The routine then became sitting down in the evenings and my brother and I running the trains around the village, while the engine smoked and the whistle blew.  We had other rituals associated with the Christmas tradition- like hanging stockings on the fireplace, and decorating the tree.  Routinely we hung the tinsel one strand at a time or my mom would yell at us.   

When I taught school for years I had a tradition of wanting the kids to know the day and date.  Every morning ritually, I wrote the day and date in the upper right corner of the blackboard and the kids routinely wrote it on their daily assignments.  I also had a tradition as an educator of wanting the kids to expand their vocabulary so each day I would write a new word and its definition on the board.  It was a ritual that helped me as much as the class. The routine came when the kids used the word either in their writing or in discussions each day. 

Right now, when I’m not sure what my purpose is anymore in the time of COVID-19, tradition and ritual have pretty much been pre-empted solely by routine.  Wake up, shower, take pills, which helps me remember what day of the week it is, let out the dog, eat, wash yesterday’s dishes, eat, nap, eat, nap, eat, nap!  Tradition now is out the window.  Without some direction old traditions don’t necessarily apply and new traditions can’t start because they may not have the time to develop.  Without the traditions rituals devoted to the traditions can’t find air.  Routines are all that is left and in my case they tend to be diminishing!  I may be going crazy but this makes perfect sense to me!  And I didn’t have any author to quote so this unfortunately was entirely concocted by me during the routine boredom I face daily during this crisis!

Wrinkles

I am seventy-two years old and a dishwasher in a restaurant. I am looking at the pile of skillets in the deep sinks and preparing to start the process of transformation. Today, I have driven for four hours to return to my post and I’m an hour later than expected – I like to keep ahead of the curve, but the chef has already started to prepare sauces. So it’s catch-up time.

Surveying, the scene, there are remnants of carbonara sauce, Thai chili sauce, a large pasta colander, and several pans with a series of brown sauces for schnitzel, and a garlic laden food processor. Okay: Carpe Scrubber! Wait — a drop of water bounces off my bald spot – and then another – What the… It has been raining heavily for a good part of the day; looks like a leak in the roof over the kitchen. All right – note for tomorrow, get on the roof. I reach for the faucet and — no water. This is irony for sure: unwanted water dripping on my head, no water from plumbing. What’s the old saw: the opposite of irony is ‘wrinkly’. This is wrinkly. Life is wrinkly. The topography of our lives is full of wrinkles. That’s why we have rituals: to smooth out those crenellations.

A ritual is structured behavior in support of a magical or symbolic result. ‘Magical’ being a placeholder for all those things we don’t quite understand… like the Pacific Islander cargo cult. My ritual actually begins much earlier than reporting to the job. First, I must shower. This is less about cleaning than it is about cleansing – starting the day like a fresh page in an old book. Consecrated.

Then, as head (and only) dishwasher, I assemble the mise en place at my work station: wet and dry towels (from Morgan Linen – remember them from college?), gloves, washing tub, spray station, stainless steel scrubby, long brush, and putty knife; prep the dishwasher and lay out the drying station. Our dishwasher has sliding doors and trays that carry objects through infeed and outfeed. The pots, pans, containers, spatulas, stirring spoons, tableware, and dishes all go through the washer for the extra cleaning and sanitizing cycles, but first anything that experiences direct flame is separated: cleaning the carbon on the bottoms is a parallel process and uses different cleaning aides. When this is complete they join their comrades through the main process. 

So, the main process involves soaking the pots, pressure spraying, brushing, and then scrubbing. All the detritus goes into the 1000 gallon grease trap. The restaurant ware is sanitized in the dishwasher, air-dried and returned to its station. Routine or ritual? It is necessary – and it is done mindfully. I fantasize that I am the director of a halfway house for skillet rehabilitation. I am a social worker for the stockpot family. My goal is to return each cooking implement in better condition than I received it. Some of these old boys have dents or loose handles – or are a little crowned due to direct heating over an open flame for years. I clean them up so that thirty or so skillets and a dozen assorted stockpots greet the next meal with a fresh face and new sauce. That’s what it’s all about! I say it is Ritual – with magical results!

Now to prepare for the next day’s ritual: water pump repair and preventive maintenance.  

As sheltering and snacking in place is becoming routine I sometimes find myself on my knees and leaning my head on my arms resting on the windowsill like the cartoon where the guy says to his dog that he now understands why he always barks as people pass the house. It is an event! I don’t have many events about now unless getting the cookies or chips out of the cabinet classifies as an event!

But recently I have been trying to figure out what it is going to be like when the quarantine is lifted. At first I thought we’ll all race to the local establishment and drink a toast to the death of the virus, clinking glasses, shouting “salud!”, slapping friends on the back, hugging and kissing folks we’ve missed for months. But I don’t think it’s going to work that way now.

Our Governor, who has become a guiding light in leadership through this darkness, uses the term “reimagining” how it is going to play out. The thought of returning to post quarantine life as being a return to normal is probably far from actuality, hence reimagining.

So my thoughts go to how will young love be expressed? New emojis online? Pulsating red hearts and lips after each text. We probably won’t be kissing anyone soon. Kids playing on the playground won’t be playing tag cause we can’t have kids touching each other! How will detectives catch criminals cause fingerprints will be a thing of the past! Rubber or polyethylene gloves have replaced skin So DNA must be encased on the body. I worry that a generation of kids who don’t play outside much anyway will have even fewer experiences interacting with humanoids. Will we just keep to
ourselves and be reduced to written communications with LOL’s and OMG’s expressing our emotions?

Life is going to be different. But hopefully with time touch will return as a venue for interaction. Human contact can once again comfort people in need. Laughter and tears will return as ways of expressing our emotions. And maybe even a renewed urgency to put the electronic technology down and reach out to those we have desperately missed. My reimagination I’m afraid is limited but I long for an earlier time when my scraped knee could be healed by my mom or dad’s hug. I hope our grandchildren will experience this again and future generations will talk about the time when people had to isolate as a dark spot in history they have only heard about!
However, we can’t forget that the air over LA is breathable again, the canal waters of Venice are clear enough to see the sea life that lives in them. That’s part of the reimagining that we have to take advantage of and protect. I’ll take one from column A and several from Column B! Call me old fashioned!

The Macro

Both George and Hen focused on the intimate details of person-to-person interaction in a possible “new normal”. I think their comments are cogent. The effect of the virus on physical closeness will certainly outlast the current edition of the corona. For instance, we can imagine that hand, mouth and nose coverings will morph into enduring fashion accessories. Perhaps grooming and fashion styles will gravitate toward the easily cleaned and maintained – maybe lapels and pleated layers give way to smooth lines and treated fabric.

If we look down from 5,000 feet, the macro influences of surviving a pandemic – and the fear of the next one — says the future is a less tolerant society. Individual choice vs. the ‘summum bonam’ is in constant tension. As we experienced during the New Deal and World War II, the tendency for central control and larger government seems like powerful leverage to attack economic – and perhaps social — problems… and I don’t speculate in this manner as a fan of big government.

But, after all, will we be able to tolerate not having universal healthcare in some form or another? If we cannot assure that every citizen will have effective access to health services, how can we assure the containment of future outbreaks? When the dust settles, our infection tallies will show large discrepancies by race and economic variables. Will this place more emphasis in future on large, homogenous public policy solutions? Certainly it is doubtful that piecework approaches will be encouraged, when disease crosses borders and governments. 

It’s probable that we won’t return to past behaviors quite as readily as we’d like, but we will move forward. Even now, dating apps have apparently been successful in hosting virtual dating experiences. I’d guess this fad subsides, but lingers as a bit of dating rehearsal while individuals try to ‘qualify’ one another before investing in a more physical relationship… unless we can have virtual careers, babies, and parenting experiences all from the comfort of your own couch? (Sounds like the old ‘Second Life’ application experiment). 

At the end of the day, I sign up with George and Hen – soothing behavior is a basic need — and that behavior is an experience of touch that is unlikely to be abandoned for long. We are smart enough and resilient enough that solutions will be invented to allow kids to be kids, friends to be friends, and loved ones to all come together.

It’s How We Respond

I’m with “Old-Fashioned” George when it comes to physical touch.  If I’m suffering from anything these past two months, it’s likely from hug withdrawal.  Of course, there is an old fashioned way of forgetting the hugs that I miss.  It’s called a bourbon old fashion!  I’ve had one or two of those “quarantinis” over the last few weeks.  They helped!

I appreciate the notion George brings up of reimagining what our new future will be.  At first, my thoughts go directly to what I’ve lost: not necessarily a positive or proactive endeavor.  After all, transitioning from no direct social interaction to spending time with others in groups will take a very long time and will likely require a transition phase of wearing masks, no touching, and physical distancing.  I can easily equate this to a negative.   But if I push past the loss, and, as George reminds us of some of the gains we made, we might be able to reimagine a way of being that can benefit us and future generations.  And without this global “pause,” the idea of exchanging old habits for even better ones, would have been near impossible.  In his New York coronavirus briefing this morning, Governor Cuomo reminded us that it often takes a crisis to wake people up.  And Dave Pelzer, a contemporary American author, said, “Something good comes out of every crisis.”  So how do we revise our behaviors and spaces to make life even better?  I believe each of us begins with what we can control:

The evidence of a healthier environment for all living things is enormous.  I will continue to make changes to use fewer fossil fuels, create less waste, and to be more aware of my purchase power regarding products and their environmental impact.

I will be more aware of the direct contact time I have with family, friends, and colleagues.  I will work harder at being more present and attentive when I am with them.  I seek to remember not to take any handshake or hug lightly.

I will create a set of reminders for me to continue the relationships I’ve re-established during this time of remaining at home.  

I will strive to remember that it’s never about what happens to me, but how I respond that grants me to happiness and contentment.

And you…?

I’d like to end with the essence of a story I recently read written from the perspective of a senior citizen who was a child during the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic.  He was responding to his grandchild who had just studied in school about this horrific time in history and how difficult and troubling it must have been for him.  His response was something we can still create as we live out this moment in time.  Grandpa said it was a difficult time for many indeed, but in his case he remembered it differently.  He remembered more time for playing with his mom and dad.  He remembered baking with his mom and fishing with his dad.  He remembered his mom coming up with new ideas for him to try and without the need to rush or to put them off until a better time.  He remembered impromptu games of tag, barbeques, and peanut butter and jelly picnics when the weather turned warm.  I hope many of today’s children will remember this episode similarly, when their grandchildren ask them about it.

We’ve all heard the jokes about weight gain during the shelter-in-place phase of life — COVID-19 lbs. and such.

It’s gotten me thinking about a seven year period in which I measured life in quarter pound increments. This was during high school and college, while participating in wrestling. I would have told you then that I was an expert in weight loss. Like a jockey, I weighed in several times a day – but without the saddle – and monitored before and after bathroom visits. I knew the expected weight in ounces of my waste products. Each September, I’d lose up to 20% of my mass in four to six weeks and keep it off until April.

I’d dream of the chocolate milk dispenser in Parker dining hall for seven months a year.

All of this would be executed in order to qualify for the weight class in which I would be most competitive. Actually, this was mostly a byproduct of fear: I didn’t want to face larger, stronger opponents! To maintain this weight, many of us would sojourn to the “hot box” in plastic suits. The hot box was an insulated room that could be cranked up to 120 degrees F. The objective was of course to sweat out any excess water. It wasn’t weight loss, it was desiccation. I remember taking the GRE exams in Potsdam in between wrestling matches at SUNY Potsdam and Hobart College. I donned the plastic suit and ran the aisle in the team bus enroute to lose the half-pound I was overweight – that was good for a quarter pound. The security guard escorted me to the exam room and I suppose the GRE was responsible for losing the additional quarter pound I needed.

Once, I dated a person who during a postseason April, asked how much I weighed. When I replied, she said ‘Well you look good right now, but I think you will run to fat in middle age’. Hmmm, she was right. At that time, we wrestlers would call anyone whose six-pack was undefined, a ‘bloat’. Clearly, I am a bloat.

However, I owe her a debt of gratitude. Her words have been a rallying cry for me to not let weight gain get beyond control. Unfortunately, most of the diet prescriptions I’ve tried were not lifestyle regimes, but short term efforts: Fit for Life, South Beach diet, Bullet-Proof diet, Body Fuel diet, etc. All had different premises: eat fruit, separate complex carbohydrates from other foods, avoid white foods, trick your metabolism by fasting. My Dad lost over 50 lbs using Dr. Dean Ornish’s rice diet. He had the discipline to keep his weight down – but yikes!

These days, it’s hard for me to envision weight control without exercise and eating dinner before eight o’clock. That’s it – I have to keep it simple to remember. And worse luck, my diet must include pasta, baked goods and ice cream! What about you?

In for a Penny, In for a Pound

Good time to write about this as covid19 is causing many of us to snack in place!  Weight has been a struggle I have dealt with my entire life but from the opposite end of the scale.   I was the scrawny kid first in line in school.  Short and skinny! Really skinny!  I hated going to gym in high school.  Aside from the embarrassing red and white gym suits we had to wear which on me looked like a cute little red skirt ballooning out over my tooth pick sized thighs, I was the brunt of high school bully humor in the locker room.  And to add insult to injury, we were given spots on the gym floor so the coach could take attendance.  In Flushing High in the early 60’s, you could have 100 kids in gym class.   First day of class we were lined up by size places and given our spot numbers. Across the front of the gym were the letters of the alphabet and 15 spots behind each letter! Yup, you guessed it.  I was A-1 for all 3 years in high school!  The only good thing about those large classes was that once attendance was taken I could slip back into the locker room until the team sports were over.

But even before that as a little kid my family tried to fatten me up.  I was a finicky eater and wasn’t big on meat and veggies so my dad made a bowl of macaroni for me every night for dinner.  Back then it was spaghetti or macaroni.  We never had pasta.  I never even heard the word.  My Italian aunts would bribe me with quarters if I would eat more.  Of course they would only “pick” themselves until there was nothing left in the serving bowls.  So I was a skinny melink.  I would have to get on the scale in front of them to get the damn quarter.  So while Wal was trying to lose a quarter pounder, I was praying to gain one. Through college and for the first 2 decades of teaching I didn’t weigh as much as the average kid in my 6th grade classes.  It was always an embarrassment for me.

Then the magic happened.   My wife and I separated, I came out of the closet and miraculously I gained about 20 lbs.  With a new sense of self pride I strutted into school finally at ease with myself and how I looked!  I was proud of my girth for the first time in my life.  I hadn’t anticipated the problems it would bring on like high blood pressure, and a little pot belly. But I carried that proudly too because unless you were ever skinny you don’t realize how that can be as painful as being fat.  And now with snacking in place, I get panicky if my supply of cookies and jelly candies get low!

I hope Wally only dated that woman once!

Pillsbury Doughman, No More!

On my first birthday, I weighed in at 30 pounds and was obese.  By grade school, I was in George’s weight class and could have been a poster child for the kid who needed weight gain supplements.  Eventually, I found a relative balance between intake and calorie burn, and my weight offers little to conjure up a story.   However, over the last six weeks of sheltering in place, food has taken on a significance I’d not noticed before.

My mom was the most fantastic cook.  It seemed as if she was always in the kitchen preparing meals that were filling, delicious, and nutritious.  We didn’t order out, and the rare visits to a restaurant were reserved for special events.  For example, at the end of each school year, my mom would take us to a local Chinese restaurant to celebrate our promotion to the next grade.  That being said, tasty food prepared just the way we liked it, was always available.  My mother couldn’t give us much in the form of things money could buy, but she never held back on food.  The time and devotion she gave to her cooking was her currency: her gift of love.  The whole experience created an anticipation of what awaited us at dinner each evening.  The clatter of pans and the sounds of mixing and pouring were following by the aroma of onions or sauces drifting throughout the house.  It seemed like each meal that began promptly at 6:00 pm, started with an appetizer and/or soup, the main course with two or more side dishes, and finally, if we joined the “cleanup plate club” and finished everything we were served, a sweet dessert.  I used to marvel at how long everything took to prepare, how everything finished cooking at just the right time, and how quickly we devoured it.  And while I noticed all of this (and the cleanup afterward), I never appreciated it in the way I do now.

My sisters learned to cook from my mom, but I didn’t.  And, over the last several years, after just getting by preparing the same few dishes I begrudgingly mastered, I ate reasonably well and relatively healthy but never really appreciated it.  However, in the last month and a half, much of that has changed.  With even more unhurried, alone time at home I made a conscious effort to look at cooking and eating with more purpose and intention.  I’ve tried many new dishes each week and found the entire process of planning, preparation, cooking, and cleaning up a rewarding one.  And I’ve also taken the time to taste my food, wondering what it would be like if I added more of this or substituted some of that.  It is a new form of self-care that I intend to continue long after we can get back to our busier, more collaborative lives. So far, I haven’t noticed any weight gain.  However, my sisters always said that if you are a fat baby, then, when you get old, you’d eventually explode into that previous pudgy version of your younger self.   (Hmm, I have this awful vision of myself in six months slogging through the woods looking like the Pillsbury Doughman!)

Napoleon Hill developed the term Mastermind Alliance to identify the concept of bringing two or more people (minds) together for a singular purpose in a friendly, trusting, and harmonious environment. The outcome of this focused collaboration often yields extraordinary results that could never be reached alone or in loosely connected partnerships.  This synergy has been the secret ingredient for many successful people and organizations. I believe it offers a timely solution to many of the challenges facing individuals and small businesses during this global pandemic.

I am currently a participant in such a group, gathered to help a friend and small business owner decide how to move forward when business has all but stopped.  As we are all sheltered in place, we are using one of the many programs available for video-conferencing.  This solution to overcoming the restriction of not being able to meet in person provides the added benefit of collaborating with people who can offer invaluable experience and wisdom but who live hundreds of miles apart.  These digital gatherings are energizing, thought provoking, and highly interactive.  They regularly bring people together who would not have this opportunity to share knowledge and offer support.  And not only does the recipient benefit, but so do each of us.  Just today, while listening to a suggestion made to the facilitator, I realized a need of my own that requires action.  We also get to see and talk to people, which mean physical distancing doesn’t necessarily mean social distancing.  And we always get when we give.  This feeling of contribution and helping others feeds our own needs to be of service and to feel valued.

So I’m wondering aloud if this is way of coming together online in small groups might be something all of us could offer a friend or colleague who is facing a challenge brought on by the Coronavirus pandemic.  There are many references to the concept you could find using Google or other search methods.  Of course if you have any questions I might be able to help with, feel free to reach out in our comment section.  I will be happy to respond.

Wishing you all good health and strong connections.

No Downside!

Henry’s idea is difficult to respond to because what ‘s not to like? The concept makes perfect sense. An individual struggling to make important decisions regarding business or future has the opportunity to consult with a group of people all focused on that one situation or problem. I love the idea. I could use some masterminds right now to help me deal with the forced isolation I am experiencing because of this awful virus. By myself, my imagination runs wild, and I come up with the worst-case scenarios and doom and gloom. A group of people focused on helping me deal with that situation would provide a great opportunity. It seems like a win/win situation. I am sure they could come up with ideas and solutions I cannot even conceive of.

I can see this being an incredible add on to therapy and constructive goal setting and achieving. I guess you have to pick your advisors/collaborators carefully, but beside picking people who aren’t focused on the problem or who have even less common sense than I do, I can’t see any downside to this idea. What an opportunity to socially undistance ourselves through technology at a time when we have too much time to contemplate, fret, and worry. The process sounds great, and seeking others’ advice through a group effort where ideas can be discussed and kicked around is a great opportunity to define your problem with razor-sharp clarity. I really find the concept perfect for people like me whose minds race during the early morning hours when my imagination gets locked on a pessimistic solution to a problem that won’t go away. That is when I have no sensible, realistic conception of what to do, whereas if I had had such a gathering, I would be able to replace my worry and concern with ideas presented by the group. But what is more significant is that I would feel responsible for seeing the solution put into action so as not to let the other participants down. That holds much more weight than doing it for myself! Imagine having a team of intelligent people all addressing your needs over time. What an opportunity to succeed!

Great idea and a great piece to discuss. I do, however, worry about Wal’s reading list as a teenager. When I was in my teens, I wasn’t reading books like Hill’s. I was reading The Hardy Boys and Ralph of the Rails, along with magazines that I had to hide from my parents, but hey, to each his own!

Lateral Allies

Hen suggests that the Mastermind Alliance can serve several goals: a) help others b) help yourself, and c) maintain positive contact with a group.

I read Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill when I was a teen. This book, published in 1937, is one of the all-time best selling business books. Hill describes 13 principles that are the foundation of a philosophy of success — the Mastermind concept is one of them. 

When I read the book, the principle I focused on was ‘auto-suggestion’… still use it as a matter of fact. Hill said you don’t need an alarm clock; simply look at the clock when you lay down and say out loud what time you wish to awake. Works like a charm! Your internal clock wakes you up. That alone gives Napoleon Hill some street cred. 

The Mastermind Alliance principle is an example of lateral thinking in a group. While individuals certainly can succeed on their own, collaboration can increase our favorable odds. It end-runs our tendency to define a problem within a narrow frame of reference and therefore limit the boundaries of a solution. It’s interesting to listen to Hill’s account of how Andrew Carnegie came up with a Mastermind Alliance to understand how to make and market steel – (see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuGW8ZCJUDE). Although the Mastermind Alliance concept is over 80 years old, it is still remarkably fresh.

In fact, there’s a Facebook community devoted to spinning off new products and ideas that uses the Mastermind approach: The Inventor’s Mastermind. Rules are simple:

In a Mastermind group, the agenda belongs to the group and each person’s participation is key, your peers give you feedback, help you brainstorm new possibilities and set up accountability structures that keep you focused and on track.

In order to use this concept effectively, preparation is important. Hill emphasizes that a person needs to know exactly what they want and be ready to work diligently to attain it. What does diligent mean, exactly? I think it means examining the details that surround us. Being observant. Being aware of the world around us and being ready to enter into new situations with an open mind.

But it is also about being ready to go beyond the bounds of common expectations. To stretch out laterally – creative confidence. To connect dots in different puzzles… to synthesize.

In order to do this, it helps to cultivate a diverse set of connections. You need to form an alliance with others so that you are not trapped by your own perspective. This is well illustrated in Dr. Tina Seelig’s, (What I Wish I Knew when I was 20). She describes the ‘$5 Challenge’ she assigned her students at Stanford. Each team was given $5 and asked to increase the investment within two days – and present their results to the entire class. The most successful teams never used the seed money, but rather brainstormed solutions to problems they observed around campus — solutions that could be monetized. One group offered to check bicycle tire pressure for students and simply asked for a donation. Another team noting the long lines at restaurants, secured reservations at several restaurants and sold them to folks waiting on line. They made over $600. She makes a fine point about being a “T” individual: deep in one specialty, but reaching out to other areas to seek out connections – an alliance.

The most successful person I ever met didn’t work the hardest and was not the smartest individual I ever knew, but he had a super optimistic attitude – he expected to be lucky and he was. He was open to new ideas and rewarded people for creative approaches. He connected an array of colleagues to dig up good ideas – a Mastermind Alliance. Even if he did not have expertise that was deep in any one field, he did have the motivation to stitch ideas together and get others to mine the rich resources of information. Essentially, he mirrored the approach Andrew Carnegie used. Many new projects flourished in this incubator. Was that luck? I don’t think so. All I know is that it seemed to permeate all areas of his life… he was one of those people who found more lost golf balls, made more good friends, avoided the sporadic consequences of mistakes, and lived a long, healthy life. Perhaps the fruits of a Mastermind Alliance?

This sheltering in place is getting old!  But the seriousness of the situation necessitates us to do our civic duty to our community, family and friends, while at the same time protecting ourselves. My friend called last night and wanted to have a serious conversation about our current situation.  Both of us are in our 70’s, both with risk factors.  He is struggling with what to do if he gets sick.  He wondered, do you ask your spouse or kids to come and take care of you?  Best case scenario, you don’t get sick!  Option 2, you get sick but you recover!  Option 3- you know what happens.  So he asked me what I was going to do.  Was I going to have my kids come and take care of me or tell them to stay away and keep taking Tylenol. Or do you suffer alone until… ?   We don’t want to infect people we love but to just deal without  anyone to hold your hand or to whisper loving words seems unabashedly cold. These are really tough decisions and we are going to talk again tonight!  There is no doubt that families are having this kind of discussion all over the country.

And yet the last couple of days I have heard the bells ringing. They are hopeful bells, happy bells, even jubilant because they promise that tomorrow, however long today turns out to be, will be better.  I worked in the yard yesterday.  It was good to clean out the flowerbeds to prepare for tomorrow.  I could smell the dirt and the promise of blooms just waiting to form and pop into a rainbow of colors and fragrances. There is anticipation.  I saw the signs all around me that until these last few days my eyes were blinded to. All I saw was darkness til now. 

But there is no mistaking it.  The birds were singing, little green sprouts are popping up in the garden beds.  I heard other rakes scraping the ground in neighboring yards.  Shouted to neighbors to see how they were doing.  The guy next door held out his rake and I held out mine—-we laughed!    I guess that’s the new handshake.  Leaf bags for pick up were popping up at the curb up and down my street.  My neighbor’s lawn service came today and actually mowed.  I could smell the grass cuttings!  Others are looking to tomorrow as well.  It was uplifting!

In spite of the cloud hovering over the nation for the next couple months, I can hear the bells.  The ones that toll for sadness are going to be heard but the ones that announce a new beginning will overtake them.  And so if we have to look out the window to see the beautiful blossoms for awhile, I’ll press my nose against the glass like I used to when I was a kid and breathe in the fragrance and the sounds and the scenery telling me that hope is on the way!  And I will continue to imagine having lunch with my friends, hugging my daughter and son, and sharing a glass of wine at the bar until this darkness lifts and I can actually not be afraid to shake a stranger’s hand again.

Streamside Spring

George, I really enjoyed sharing your anticipation of better season! What struck me was our need to have contact and mutually celebrate what the earth has to offer. Shake those rakes! 

My harbinger of hope is the phoebe, the eastern flycatcher. Lately, we have been hearing its distinctive call. Once upon a time, we rented a cottage in the woods, adjacent to a stream. Our location was a breeding ground for bugs: the brook produced a grand variety of nymph-born insects. I’d take Art Flick’s Streamside Guide down to the water and observe the hatches — and so did the kingfishers and phoebes. We’d watch new insects, small to big — mayflies to Dobson flies — launching from the waterside. The phoebe became a favorite companion. Not too put off by humans, they always chose to fashion their mud and moss homes on the side of our garage, sheltered by the roof overhang. These little guys light on branches or clothes lines and dart to catch flying bugs of all sorts, using quick movement and hovering maneuvers like helicopter pilots. 

Phoebes are industrious! We would watch them dodge and juke, nipping their prey and returning to the perch. All the while, flicking their tails and whistling their short ‘pee-wee, pee-wee’. (Now I know some of you are just now thinking about ‘Pee-wee Herman’, but just let that go, already)! Anyway, these fellows are among my favorite birds, along with the thrush, rufous-sided towhee, and cedar waxwing.  

Most folks say it’s the redwing blackbird that is the harbinger of spring – although Linda votes for the evensong of robins and peepers — but when I hear the phoebe, I know it’s warm enough for insects… and therefore warm enough for shirtsleeves. I’m also reminded of those pleasant, peaceful days in the woods. Thanks, George! 

Game On!

George led the way this time with hope and anticipation of what is to come.  He writes about looking forward to post COVID19.  I think we all need to balance dealing with the present with the knowledge and understanding that, like all things, this is temporary, and it too shall pass.  Several months from now, we will transition out of restrictive pandemic behaviors into more freedom of choice.  I wonder what we will learn from all of this that might inform our future actions.

I heard a psychologist speak on one of the news programs about shifting our current thinking about what we’ve lost to accepting our shelter in place lifestyle as a challenge.  A challenge we can meet with an attitude that boasts, “Game On!”  I like that.  From time to time, it helps to test our mettle and ramp up our self-discipline efforts.  And, when we emerge into the sunlight of handshakes and hugs and the freedom to come and go as we please, the connections and liberties will be even more meaningful and appreciated.

As George finds hope and uplifting feelings in the natural signs of spring, so do I.  The warmth of the sun, the smell of early blossoms, and the sounds of spring peepers bring a smile to my face during each morning walk with Duke.  I also embrace the physical activities associated with preparing the gardens, clearing the detritus left by winter storms, and even the machine maintenance required for keeping the lawns, gardens, and driveway in good order.

I prefer to embrace the blending of two philosophies as I engage in meeting this challenge.  I know that the past is gone and the future is not yet, but the present is the place and time for me to make my stand, in style and with a smile.  I also know that it is the hope and anticipation of things not yet realized that often adds more joy than the thing itself.  I choose both.