Power, Presence

My Grumpy Fourth of July

July 9, 2022

Fourth of July.

Would it be terrible to say, “Bah Humbug?”

Sorry. I don’t really mean that.  Not entirely.

But the Fourth of July felt different for me this year.

Maybe you can relate?

Fourth of July parade, circa 2017. My son has grown several feet since then!  That was a good day.

There’s an annual parade in my little hometown. It’s been going on for decades, and parade participants march not once, but two times around the block, since our town isn’t very big. In year’s past, I’ve enjoyed watching the vintage cars, the horses, the children with their decorated wagons and dogs dressed up with ribbons.  Vintage planes made an appearance, doing a flyover. Children from the local elementary school sang the Star Spangled Banner. There was a section of the parade route designated for water fights.  Folks would bring water balloons and squirt guns. Sometimes, a local cement company would bring their truck and shoot water at exuberant bystanders. Cal Fire firefighters would join in, squirting water from their firehoses.  After the parade, there was a salad luncheon at the community center. Local families donated salads and cookies for the event.

It was fun for all of us.

This Fourth of July, I was sad for a few reasons, not all of them related to the holiday. But I confess I felt some Independence Day angst. I was up early for my usual walk around the cemetery, and was just coming down the hill when I heard Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” blasting from the street below.  It was barely 8:00 am.

“And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free,” Greenwood sang.

That line right there? Brought tears to my eyes. And they weren’t happy tears.

Because it’s not true. Not all Americans are free.

If you are a victim of rape or incest or get pregnant for any old reason and you live in certain states and don’t want to have a baby, you are not free to make that decision for yourself anymore. If you are black and want to go for a run and explore a neighborhood, you are not free, because it’s possible you will be murdered for it (the Ahmaud Arbery shooting). If you are unfortunate enough to live in a place that is riddled with everyday gun violence, you are not free. My “New York Times” July 8 morning briefing talked about how gun violence in Chicago, for example, is “highly concentrated” in a very small area.

“A small sliver of blocks- just four percent there- can account for a majority of shootings,”  The Times said.  “Many of the people in these blocks live in terror. The sound of gunshots is common, sometimes coming multiple times a day. Parents worry that their kids could be next, and young people fear for their own lives.

And what is life like for people in urban areas who are often subject to air and water pollution that damages their health and is especially dangerous for children (Remember the Flint, Michigan water crisis of a few years ago?)?

That’s not freedom.

I also thought it likely that some rowdy “Let’s Go Brandon” fans would join the parade, or that Trump flags would ride alongside the US flag in the back of some of the floats.  Of course, that would be their right. Freedom of speech and all.

I just didn’t want to be there for it.

So I had a lovely day. I went to a friend’s house, and we talked and solved most of the world’s problems.

Another good friend who is also a social studies teacher helped me work through some of my angst. She said she was reading the Gettysburg Address that day, and Lincoln’s words helped her remember. (“It is for us the living to be dedicated to the unfinished work… to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us…”)  In other words, we can’t give up. We have to keep showing up.

One of my neighbors who attended the parade said that, actually, it was lovely. There was maybe one very small Trump-ish sticker, but no Trump flags or “Let’s Go Brandon” cheers.

That may seem like a small thing, but it gives me hope.

I might even be brave and go to the parade next year. It could be one small way that I show up myself.

 

 

Featured, Power

Best Kind of Bossy

July 2, 2022

(Milo is a fan of resting on the couch. And on the front steps in the sun.  And on my bed.  All day long. I think I could learn something from him.)

Rest

Not just for those who are weak, hurting, worn down, beaten up. Not just for those who have a doctor’s note ordering them to stay home and recuperate.

Rest is for all of us.

Especially in times like these.

So says one of my good friends and readers of this blog.

Here is one of the best things about writing these weekly musings: sometimes people write back. Now don’t feel bad if you’ve never responded. There’s no expectation of that. But occasionally folks do, and their thoughtful comments help me.

Even if they are sometimes a little bossy.

But if they are bossy, it’s a loving bossiness. It’s bossy for my own good.

I desperately need friends who are willing to speak truth to me, especially when they sense that I may be wandering off into my own little universe of dysfunction. That I might be overdoing because some phantom drill sergeant in my head is shouting out orders, commanding me to march march march, and then shrieking at me to do more. I have to keep producing, the drill sergeant in my head proclaims, if I am going to earn my place here, if I am ever going to amount to anything.

Funny, that drill sergeant voice.

I think we all have one.

It takes different forms for me. Sometimes, it looks like OCD. (Aack! There are dust bunnies under the bed. Why have I never noticed those before? They  must be eliminated, now! Oh! And look at the dirt in between the sliding shower doors! Disgusting!) Even if the dust bunnies and dirt have been there for months and I never cared about them before. Because something, for some reason (I’m tired? I just paid $60 for a tank of gas? The Supreme Court? The first major fire of the season is raging in the county next door?), went awry in my head, and suddenly that particular task was the only thing that mattered.

Walks are a good antidote for me. They help calm my inner drill sergeant. Also sitting in the yard. Emphasis on sitting. Not weeding. Not trimming. There is a hammock out there, you know, hanging between two giant redwood trees. Maybe the hammock and the trees are longing for me to visit them, too. Feeding the birds calms me. And it’s never bad to make time for an impromptu Centering Prayer session.

Friends are also crucial to helping me regain my equilibrium. You are especially lucky if you have a friend who will write you something like this, after you post something that says that you are not very good at resting and make fun of yourself for it like I did last week.

It’s possible you saw her comment, depending on when you read last week’s post.  How lucky am I that those of you who read my writing are also darn good writers yourselves?

She wrote,  “Dig out that twenty minute timer you used to have for blackberry work. It is badly needed. Stop scoffing at carpal tunnel as a mild inconvenience. If you don’t stop aggravating it now, it will soon stop you from working. Sit on the sofa, love on your pup, get bored, doze off in the middle of the afternoon. When you think of something to do, ask yourself how urgent it really is. Know that you will be ok and the weeds will still be there tomorrow.”

Yes.

The weeds will be there tomorrow.

That might be my new mantra for the summer.

I would be lost without my friends. Especially ones who are not afraid to be the best kind of bossy.