Presence, Security

Lost and Found

July 16, 2022

A camping dispatch, from MacKerricher State Park, just north of Fort Bragg, CA

(One of my favorite places on the planet)

Wednesday morning. Last day of our three night trip. Heading home soon, after packing up camp and a final walk on the boardwalk, to say goodbye to the seals and the pelicans.

Seals on rocks at MacKerricher. A photo taken from a bit of a distance and made bigger. But still! Seals!

Nearly 8:00 am now, and I am sitting in the car, because everything outside is wet. It did not rain (unfortunately), but still, everything is wet. The table. The kitchen towels and rags hung out to dry. The cast iron pan. The tablecloth. The chairs.

We didn’t have much luck starting a fire last night. We did not have much luck any night, actually. Perhaps the wood we bought from the lady in the pickup truck on the side of the road just out of town was damp. Perhaps we are not the best fire makers. Anyway. All was not lost, because we were able to get enough of a fire going last night to roast marshmallows for a few minutes. We were lucky that my neighbor gave me half a watermelon before we left, and it came in two very sturdy Whole Foods paper sacks that we brought along. Good thing we had those bags. They were the only thing that enabled us to roast marshmallows for a few minutes.

(Also? I think campfires are a little overrated. No matter where I sit, I get smoke in my face. And when you get home, if you’ve had several nights of roaring fires, everything smells like smoke and has to be washed with at least one and occasionally two extra rinses. So much laundry! Without the campfires? It’s not as overwhelming.)

Anyway. At 9:00 pm, it’s close to bedtime at home, so after a long day outside, with some sun one day and not so much sun the other, but sunburns all the same, we were OK with heading to the tent and turning off the flashlights.

But here is something unbelievable.

I just found my Starbucks cup.

(If you missed my weekly Sunday letter where I tell the story of my angst over losing the Starbucks cup in great detail, drop me a note at robin@ordinaryholy.com and I will be happy to forward it to you. Also, why not sign up for my Sunday letter list? More communication! More connection.)

Somehow, that cup was in the camping cupboard.

I do not know how that was even possible.

Because I looked there, ever so closely. Several times!

So much unnecessary angst about that.

My angst was about the cup, and (as you probably figured) also not about the cup. Continue Reading…

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 2014. 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.