DICHOTOMY

“It has always been much easier (because it has always seemed much safer) to give a name to the evil without than to locate the terror within….”

~ James Baldwin

Who can make us safe? What will make us safe?
Here is truth:
We will never be safe.

Only one cause of death exists, and that is birth.
To be alive is to know that one day we won’t be.

Safety an illusion.
Only fear is real.
Here is truth:
The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

We are not safe from Christians or Buddhists or Hindus, or Jews or Muslims or Sikhs. (Well, maybe from the Buddhists.) We are not safe from atheists or devil worshippers or snake handlers or televangelists. Or false prophets.

We are not safe from the angry white person or the angry person of color. We are as at risk from the privileged as we are from the oppressed. We are not safe from terrorists or those who battle them. We are not safe from protestors or counter-protestors, pacifists or instigators, or from people who look the other way.

Teachers, preachers, rabbis, priests, imams, and gurus will not keep us safe, nor will astrologers, fortune tellers, or shamans. Not scientists, economists, writers or artists. Neither think tanks, nor blustery arguing heads, nor airwave pontificators, nor Wall Street Bankers. Corporations won't keep us safe, nor the mom-and-pop shop where the tire display was not securely fastened to the wall.

Can’t-we-all-just-get-along and a-pox-on-all-their houses won’t make us safe. Nor will our bubbles.

We won’t be made safe by the Constitution, laws, policy, politicians, presidents, prime ministers or all the king’s men (and women.)

Righteous folks and evil minds. Democrats and Republicans. Conservatives, liberals, progressives, moderates, feminists, Luddites, snowflakes, antifa, neo-Nazi, do-gooder, hypocrite, hippie, preppers, and the apathetic — we all are one in our vulnerability.

Police, spies, counterspies. All the generals and the admirals in the mighty military can’t make us safe. Nor troops on the ground, battleships on the seas, drones in the air. Satellites and nuclear arsenals will not keep us safe.

A wall will not save, nor will barbed-wire border crossings. Neither TSA pat downs nor airport X-rays. Not the defend-myself-arsenals, nor a pistol wedged under the mattress. Home security systems can’t keep us safe, nor armed guards, nor concrete barricades. The prisons are full, and still we are not safe.

Clearly the courts cannot make us safe.

The random bullet will find us, or the driver distracted by alcohol, texting, or rage. The mid-air engine failure. The unloosed boulder. A bee sting, a venomous snake does that does what it was born to do. An avalanche, a hurricane, a tornado, an earthquake, the raging wildfire and the rising seas. A hidden live wire, the slip of a scalpel, the stumble that connects concrete to cranium. One too many pills.

We are at risk from a sneeze on a crowded plane, the rogue cell in its malignant unfolding. A weakened heart, the burst blood vessel, a raging infection, the miscreant morsel of steak wedged in the windpipe. A mutant gene that decimates muscles, snatches breath, and denies dignity.

Should we survive the accidents, natural disasters, wars, disease, our stupidity and our own bleak thoughts, eventually, it will be time. No one can save us from time.

Science and facts! Reason and logic! Technology and great minds! Yes!
Yet they can’t make us safe.

Faith, God, Religion, and the rituals of an undefined Spiritual Path offer comfort, hope and peace. Compassion, Kindness, and Love light the world.
But these cannot ensure safety.

Good deeds will not make us safe, nor kumbaya singing.

Our parents, our spouses, our friends, our lovers, and our children — people we would willingly die to defend – how they want to keep us safe! They will fight with everything they have to keep us safe.

It is impossible.

If love cannot keep us safe, how can fear?

Fear can serve, of course. But left unfettered, it enslaves. We are lost in darkness.

We will never be safe. Safety is illusion.
Only by forgoing fear will freedom ring.

LEARNING TO SING SOLO

August 16, 2016
maren showkeir

Soon after I arrived in Colorado, early in May, a simple song came out of my car speakers. It was coming from the Bluetooth in my phone, but I had NO IDEA how it got there or why it started playing. It’s called “Oh, Sweet Lorraine,” and it’s produced by Green Shoe Studio. The first time I heard it, I started crying. I listened to it obsessively until I could sing along.

Oh, Sweet Lorraine. I wish we could do all the good times over again.
The good times,
The good times,
The good times all over again.
Oh, Sweet Lorraine,
life only goes round once, and never again.

Among my summer activities was learning to play the ukulele, so I decided to figure out the chords and learn to sing it. As I practice, I’ve begun altering the lyrics. (I know how much songwriters love that.) I began singing to “My Sweet James.”

And the memories always linger on,
Oh my sweet James, no, I don’t want to move on.
Yes, the memories always linger on
Oh my sweet James, that’s why I’m singing this song.

Last summer with Jamie, two months after ALS diagnosis

The memories linger on. They are a catalyst for sad and also for happy, but mostly happy-sad. The Year of Firsts will be over after today. I survived all the Bigs, along with many special days less publicly celebrated: The first anniversary of what I was certain would be my last First Kiss. The first time we said: “I love you.” Moving in together, which we called “Pod Day.” Our three honeymoons. Jamie had of those all marked in our shared calendar. But I wouldn’t have forgotten.

The “Big Firsts” didn’t leave me too battered. I knew enough to wrap myself up in a tender cocoon of solitude and reflection while my family and friends, wherever they were, held me in love and support. It’s the smaller, unexpected memories that pierce the cocoon and leave me feeling breathless, exposed and bereft. Hearing “Hotel California” in the coffee shop where we met. Breathing in the smell of his signature plaid wool cap. Stumbling across the red shoe polish that he used to shine my red cowboy boots — Jamie’s first birthday gift to me. Driving through a mountain pass last traversed with Jamie at the wheel. Sitting alone in a darkened theater. Filling out forms that ask for marital status. Zip-lining through the Colorado with my 14-year-old grandson. Spying a couple holding hands on the hiking trail.

That Facebook Memories app showing up in my newsfeed. Every. Damn. Day.

And now, the August 16 triple whammy: His Birthday, the Day We Met, the First Anniversary of his Death. Today initiates the end of the Firsts, one year without Jamie in the world. Tomorrow officially marks the beginning of something else.

            But the memories always linger on,
            Oh, my sweet James, no, I don’t want to move on.

Memories are tumbling around in my head all the time. I recognize all that grinding is knocking the edges off, making them softer, smoother, easier to hold. This is designed to make our memories about loved ones who have died easier to bear, I suppose. But I don’t want to lose those sharp edges.

The good times,
The good times,
The good times all over again.

As I began practicing with my ukulele, the lyrics felt inauthentic. Jamie was my soul mate (I admit this sheepishly, because I bullied that term big time before we met. And — I swear I am not making this up — while editing for a client today, I went to the Merriam-Webster site to look up a word. The “Word of the Day” was soul mate.)

Believe me, our 10-year partnership included plenty of “dark nights of the soul.” And days. They were as real as the good times and more important, I think. Life can be vexatious, and how you navigate those rubble-strewn, dangerous relationship roads matters. Difficult times demanded the most and the best of us. They reminded us that love wasn’t just about dancing in the kitchen while we cooked, it was also about finding our way out of a tense, resentful silence at dinner. We chose this commitment. The first of our six marriage vows was “to be fully responsible for the success of our life together, even in difficult times.” We had plenty of opportunities to make that vow real. Who doesn’t, really?

Jamie used to wish aloud we had found each other sooner. "We found each other exactly when we were supposed to," I would insist. I have this vague recollection of an early argument about this or something equally silly and irrevelant. The details are washed out, but I remember something I said to stop the fight in its tracks. (This memory is vivid, because that had never happened, and I don’t recall it happening again.)

“You’re always saying we found each other so late! Come on, Jamie, do we really have time for this kind of fight?” He stared at me for a moment, eyes wide, and then his expression transitioned from cloudy to clear. “You’re right. I’m sorry, baby. We really don’t have time for this.”

I’m not going to state the obvious here.

The point is, I don’t want to start idealizing my memories now that I’m in charge of our relationship history. That feels counterfeit. Our partnership was nothing more than two flawed human beings having a human experience, from the beautiful beginning until the bittersweet end. We both brought a lot of baggage to our marriage. What made us work was a willingness to help each other unpack and put things away, but often it got unpleasantly messy until we did. When I worried that the mess would obscure what really mattered, Jamie would insist that the discomfort of working it through was just as important as feeling the love and savoring the joy. He was right.

Of course I’d take the good times all over again, but I’d happily take the hard times, too. So I sing:

The good times,
The great times,
and the hard times all over again.

 Except for the watching him die of ALS part. I would never want us to do that all over again.

The most insistent advice I got after Jamie died was to take it slow, not to make any big life decisions for a year. It was good advice. But now that this year is behind me, I’m reminded of a story about a little girl who had been exhilarated about the thought of being old enough for kindergarten. As the big day approached, however, she became increasingly anxious and agitated. The night before school was to begin, she hysterically insisted to her parents she couldn’t possibly go. They were mystified. “But why?” they asked. “You were so excited about kindergarten.”

“Because I can’t read yet!” the youngster sobbed. For months, her parents had been concluding their bedtime reading with comments like, “When you go to kindergarten, you’ll be able to read these books all by yourself!” I get it. I still can’t imagine how to navigate life without Jamie, all by myself.

It helps to remember that life is a practice. I am still the strong, smart, independent woman Jamie fell in love with, only with added experience,  more wrinkles, and white hair. I can, I will, figure it out as I go along. This year of grief and the summer of love have given me plenty of opportunities to stay focused on the now. Gratitude reigns.

Being in Denver these past few months has spawned its fair share of happy-sad memories, and it’s also been a delightful distraction. Seeing Kadin, my little man, becoming an adult.  Watching 2-year-old Audie Rae using her words and asserting her indomitable toddler will. Welcoming a new life. When I look deep into baby Iris’ beautiful blue eyes and listen to her baby coos, I like to imagine she is telling me how she and Jamie passed each other along the way.

 “Well, Papa Jamie, I’m heading out to the world,” Iris tells him. “Wish me luck.”
“It will be awesome. You’ll be amazing,” Jamie replies, giving her one of his superlative hugs.
“I’m so glad I got to meet you. Give everyone my love.”

And the memories always linger on,
Oh my sweet James, I know I gotta move on
Yes, the memories will always linger on,
But my sweet James, I won’t stop singing your song.

Don’t look for me today. I’ll be in my cocoon somewhere. I’m thinking about finding a quiet, private spot on a Colorado mountain. I’ll take my ukulele, and I’ll sing what I now think of as “Jamie’s Song” (with sincere apologies and deep respect to Fred Stobaugh, who at 96 wrote the lyrics after his wife of 73 years died.)

You won’t hear me sing, but I hope you’ll feel me.

Because I couldn’t have done this without you.

GO ON, GET OLD!

Today is my birthday, and I have a birthday wish for you: Get old.

I really, truly hope you get old. Really old. Worn out, exceeding expectations, wrinkled-and-wise old.

This is on my mind not only because it is my birthday, but because lately I've heard people telling those who are much younger than they are "Don't get old!"

No one means it literally.. That would mean early death and heartbreak. I get that they say it as a gentle and humorous way of letting off steam about their own aching joints, memory lapses, and muscles that motor more slowly than they used to. That's happening to me, too.

Even so, I want to get OLD! And I want that for my children, and their children and all my loved ones my friends. It's a gift denied to so many.

There's no denying that with age comes loss. But then again, youth has its own challenges. If you're lucky enough to get old,  you've a survivor. You've learned thingsIf you're old, you have gained far more than you lost. And in the (literal) end, your exit from this earth is completely out of your control anyway.

This year, my gift to myself is to strive harder to be present to my life. What better gift? I want to savor every moment with the people I hold dear. I want to connect deeply with people so they that become dear to me. I want to recognize life's challenges for what they are — momentary pain that provide opportunities for a little humility, learning. and personal growth. I want to immerse myself in love and gratitude. 

I want to get old without apology.

When I blow out my birthday candles, I will wish that for you, too, no matter what your age. I will wish for you a rich life filled with sparkling, mindful moments, and enough challenges to make you grateful for the good times.

And I will hold the vision of you and I getting old.  Really, really old.

EASY LOVING

Who is easiest for you to love?

Erich Schiffmann, an internationally renowned master yoga teacher, posed the question during a weekend intensive I attended a few months ago. He quickly refined the question: It was not about who do you love the most. It is not about for whom would you do anything. Nor for whom you would die protecting.

Who is easiest for you to love?

My mind immediately snapped to the obvious answers. Well, my family, of course! My husband, my children, my grandchildren. Without a doubt they are the ones I love the most. They occupy a vast and prominent landscape in my emotional territory. Their place in my heart is assured. And though I hope I’m never put to the test, I would do anything to protect them.

But... easiest to love? Honestly? Not always. Like most human relationships, my love for family is layered with expectations — mine and theirs. Though it is usually subtle and subconscious, I struggle when they don’t do what I want them to do, or see things in the way I think they should.  I judge. We argue. I expect them to be who I think they should be, and I get disappointed when they aren’t.

My love for my family is boundless. Our tethering and the profound connection we share is bedrock. No doubt about that.

But easiest to love? Well, that would have to be Bodhi Qat.

Schiffmann describes love as the willingness to see and accept what is real in another. In other words,  truly loving someone means saying, “I see you. And I willingly choose to recognize and honor what is real and true about you.” With complete acceptance. Without expectations.

I see Bodhi. I never expect him to be anything but a cat.

When he begins to sharpen his claws on the chair in the second bedroom, I don’t explode in anger because he isn’t taking better care of the furniture. Why would I expect a cat to care about furniture? I direct him to his scratching post or trim his claws.

When he jumps on my head at 4:30 a.m. every morning, I don’t simmer with resentment because he won’t let me sleep. That’s the time he wakes up. He wants to eat, and that’s how he lets me know. Bodhi either gets fed, or I put him out and shut the door until I’m ready to feed him. Have I trained him to keep off the kitchen counters and dining room table? I have, while acknowledging that it's his nature to jump up there.

Never have I stewed over why Bodhi doesn’t sleep less and work more. When he bites my elbow while I’m trying to work, I don’t take it personally. I know he wants to play, and I throw him a toy mouse.  I never expect him to take my advice, follow my instructions, pay more attention to me, or help around the house. I never expect him to be anything but the feline creature he is.

Bodhi is easy to love because I see that a cat is all he can be.

Since that weekend, I’ve thought a lot about why it is so hard to truly see people in the same way I see Bodhi. Why do I let ego block my ability to see and recognize and honor what is real about people — the ones I hold most dear and those who pass fleetingly through my life? Why do I choose to cling to expectations and slog through a swamp of disappointment when they don’t get met? Why do I expect them to take care of the furniture, let me sleep, take my advice, and behave the way I think they should?  

Learning to love people in this way is a practice. Awareness is the first step. With intention, action, and practice, I hope some day to learn to see people as they are, not through the lens of my expectations. I want to learn to love people in the way I love Bodhi.