Just Do It! Dream Crazy.

 

Believe in something, even if it means sacrificing everything. #JustDoIt

A few months ago I wrote a post about Freedom of Speech which included Roseanne Barr, Samantha Bee and of course a section on Collin Kaepernick.  In light of Nike choosing to work with Kaepernick for their 30th-anniversary campaign, and people burning their sneakers or cutting up their clothes, I felt the need to speak my mind about the way I see it – well because that’s what I do.   You’ve been warned!  (previously mentioned post can be found at the end of  this one)

How much “sacrifice” is enough?

silhouette of people beside usa flag

Let me start by saying that I support our Military and veterans.  I believe our veterans and their families make the ultimate sacrifice for our freedoms.  Not just freedom for a handful of power-hungry individuals, for but for all Americans. I will add that it’s a shame that the money generated by owners of professional sports franchises and professional athletes themselves is obscene compared to what “benefits” our active duty military and veterans get.  I believe that one does not “honor” our country, our Republic by honoring a piece of cloth waving on a stick.  We honor our country by honoring its people – all of our people, all the colors, shapes, sizes and abilities. The dreams of our people have made us a great nation. We celebrate strength and persistence in our people. I believe that is the message of the Nike campaign. 

Let me follow that by saying, just to be clear; I do not purchase Nike products.  Not now, or as long as I can remember.  They don’t suit me.  The shoes are too confining, the shirts and pants geared to more athletic types, which I am not.   It’s a personal choice to be comfortable especially when I’m paying my hard earned money for a product.  

Having said that, I have to admit that Nike has excellent marketing and a catchy slogan.  I’ve used it myself when I’ve been obsessing about something I want to take on; for example, a new job, a major move to a new city or merely to get back on the treadmill and be more mindful of my food choices.  Usually, it happens that after weighing all the pros and cons, sleeping on it, consulting each and every one of my friends and family, I get up one morning and after I’ve brushed my teeth, I stare at the mirror and say sternly to myself “JUST DO IT!”   Suddenly I’m all pumped up and feel strong and confident like an Olympic athlete.  Actually, that’s how I started blogging one day. 

I want to share the full commercial that Nike is putting out as part of this controversial campaign.  I find it pretty neat.  It’s bigger than Collin Kaepernick, and it’s bigger than DJT.    https://youtu.be/Fq2CvmgoO7I

Over the past couple of days, the networks and all kinds of social and news media have had lots to say.  One of the first conversations I heard was that people took offense to the slogan that suggests that Kaepernick lost everything, but they contend, that Kaepernick had nothing to lose.  I don’t know much about the game; the sports reports indicate that he was a second-rate quarterback that had one good season and then was underperforming each year after that. That may be true, but I think sitting on a bench and getting an NFL paycheck is better than being without a job or sponsors even if you did walk away with one-third of your original signed contract.  ( ALL these sports guys get paid way too much anyway, but that’s another story.)

I also want to make clear that I am not a football fan, never have been – except maybe in high school because I was crushing on a couple of football players, but the charm wore off quickly as I realized I had more in common with the philosophers and artists.  The sport doesn’t hold my interest long enough to understand why all these guys run and pile on each other over and over again.  People have tried to explain it but – well let me be frank, I’m just not into it. 

I give Kaepernick credit for feeling so strongly about something that he was willing to risk the dream he had worked for since the fourth grade.  Maybe he just decided there was something better to wish for, like equality and justice for all.  2016 was a terrible year for high profile police shootings of unarmed African American men.  I went back to look at the disturbing footage before I wrote this piece but I will not engage in rehashing the past.  I will say that based on my experiences, I can appreciate the fear, the pain and the rage at the loss of life in an undeserving way.   

What is the issue?  

The other opinion I will share is that I believe the situation became toxic once DJT decided to make it an issue.  I watched his “get that SOB off the bench, he’s fired! ” speech in Alabama in 2017 in which he also complained that the game was losing popularity because when the players hit too hard, they get a penalty. When the not so subtle hints didn’t work, he started putting more pressure on the team owners because as he said, “…It will happen…most of them are friends of mine”. 

Before NFL team owners started getting pressure from the Administration to discipline, fire or get “control” of their players, it seemed that each team addressed the issue and the players’ right to “free speech” was respected. It was obvious to most that players were not disrespecting the veterans, the military, the country or the flag.  They still “worked,” paid their taxes, and obeyed the laws of this country.  Some commentators say the uproar over “taking a knee” would have eventually died down.  Of course, that didn’t happen. The team owners felt obligated to play the other game and drew up rules to appease the rhetoric.  Essentially they said, we don’t care, what you do, just do it where the public doesn’t see you. 

Let’s not forget after all, that there are groups that do not salute the flag, for example, the Jehovah’s Witness or the AnaBaptist like the Amish or Mennonite groups.    

 Jehovah’s Witnesses intend no disrespect for any government or its rulers by a refusal to salute the flag. It is just that they will not, in an act of worship, bow down to or salute an image representing the State. They view it as similar to the stand taken in Bible times by three young Hebrew men who refused to bow down before the statue raised up on the plain of Dura by the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar. (Daniel, chapter 3) – From Watchtower Online

and,

“The flag is fine, but we’re the only nation that worships the flag. It’s very heathen. The kingdom we live in, we pledge our allegiance to God, not the flag.” – quote from the PBS film “The Amish.”

All this research today, trying to get to the bottom of this leaves me with questions instead of an answer.  If Collin Kaepernick said was on a jet plane, and God spoke to him and told him to kneel before the flag instead of pledging, would it be OK? If it were Tom Brady, the number one quarterback in America, and who decided to take a knee to protest something that he felt strongly about would it be an issue. Maybe a better comparison would be Tim Tebow as another controversial figure and a mediocre quarterback who brought his personal beliefs on the field each time?  Is it really just a racial issue?  Was it more about saying “there is no problem here.”   Does Nike really aspire to inspire to unite?

Any ideas?

https://rosalind.life/2018/06/03/roseanne-samantha-and-free-speech/

 

Politics Anyone?

silhouette of people beside usa flag

Primaries are done here in Florida, and my two favorite candidates did not move on to November’s general elections.  I suspected as much, but I was hoping that others would get on board after they got to know them and saw how hard they were working.  Don’t get me wrong, we had many qualified candidates running for various seats, but these two guys gave me a good feeling.  They were in it, heart and soul; no frills, no deals –just hard work.  

I am pretty passionate about politics, not necessarily politicizing all current events or as in nonstop mud-slinging campaigns, but I am a firm believer that every vote does count.  I often hear people say they don’t vote because they don’t believe in the process or politicians are all crooks.  It is sad that people don’t care enough to do the research or look beyond the headlines.  In some cases, it’s getting past the smoke and mirrors to see behind the Wizard’s curtain as Dorothy did the Land of Oz.  It irritates me when the same people are the first to complain about the schools, roads, and the water pollution for example.  I have known a few politicians personally who sincerely got decided to get involved in politics for the love of their communities.  These individuals stepped into the arena believing one voice; one vote could make a difference.  We have seen it in recent history in Congress and the Senate and elections around the country.

I can speak most about the man who was running for a congressional seat in my district in this recent election. He lives in my city. I didn’t know him before, but I saw firsthand how he managed the campaign, but more importantly, how he handled himself, and I was moved to support him.  Let’s call him Fred.  

Fred is an educated professional, a trained social worker, and an executive director of a large healthcare facility.  If I were to guess, I’d say he’s in his early forties and looks fine in his campaign photos.  Fred is an unassuming family man who moved to Florida about 20 years ago from the Midwest, looking for a better life for his family with the chance to enjoy a variety of outdoor sports.  He and his family have been active in a local church and through the years have been involved in a variety of volunteer projects like Habitat for Humanity.  

Fred decided to get into politics after sitting with families in financial crisis due to medical bills while dealing with terminal illness and end of life realities.   Before the big news about toxic algae and intensified red tide blooms, he was concerned about the ecological changes to Florida’s natural resources and talk in Washington about eliminating Environmental Protection Agency safeguards.  In short, Fred decided to enter politics because he wanted to be a voice, an agent for change.   He had no interested in becoming a “career politician,” he wanted to get in get things done and get back to his family and his career, his life’s mission of helping the less fortunate.

During the campaign, Fred worked hard.  His was a barebones, grassroots effort.  He took pride in not taking any money from donors with big pockets who would later come knocking on his door for favors.  For the most part, he supported his campaign from his own finances.  He rolled up his sleeves to make signs, and tee shirts.  He traveled around his district knocking on doors and holding town meetings to hear the concerns of his constituents.   So why would a nice, qualified guy like Fred not make it past the primaries?   The answer is complicated. 

As I said at the beginning of this post, both primary candidates were well qualified but this is the Twenty-first Century, and it takes a bit more than good old blood, sweat, and tears to win an election.   His opponent, let’s call him Doug, decided to run shortly after newly elected officials began their term in 2017.  Doug then had a six-month head start to get his team together and get his name out there to begin networking and making connections for fundraising efforts.  Doug’s training was in administration and finances.  He had his own company and was skilled in marketing and selling his agenda in social circles.  He had a more integrated web presence including a well-organized and attractive web page.  These things are critical in today’s elections because our society has become reliant on social media for answers and information.   

Doug will need more funds for an intense media campaign to include TV and print ads as he looks toward the general election in November.   His opponent is the incumbent and has personal resources as well as the backing of the NRA and ultra-conservative Political Action Committees which can represent business, labor and a variety of special interests.  This brings me to why I am in favor of campaign reform, especially when it comes to fundraising efforts.

We have seen time and again good candidates, backed by well-meaning grassroots operations, unable to move forward due to insufficient funds.   We have seen special interest groups pour money into campaigns in order to cash in on favors that will benefit a specific group by way of policy changes or government spending.  In 2010 the US Supreme Court ruled that political donations and spending is a form of promoting free speech protected under the First Amendment.  Since then the Federal Election Commission, which regulates campaign money, has repeatedly asked Congress to amend the law.  If you follow politics, you will notice how much of what can be called “dirty politics” is protected under this law. 

I think we need to get back to protecting the rights of our citizens so that anyone who has the ability and the passion can run for office and succeed.   In the meantime, I will back the candidates that support my beliefs.  I don’t believe in extremes of black and white.  I think reality is mostly shades of gray.  The truth lies somewhere in the middle.  I believe that the United States of America is a great country. I believe that the writers of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution had the foresight to know that the future would change their reality but the upcoming generations would be entitled to the same “unalienable rights.”  

With that in mind, I intend to volunteer for the candidates of my choice to represent me.  I will continue to encourage everyone to make informed decisions, to look beyond the headlines. Please don’t pass on misinformation just because the heading caught your eye. If something sounds outrageous, go beyond the headlines, look it up in different sites or publications.  Mostly I challenge people to cross over and listen respectfully with an open mind to what “the other side” has to say.   Not trolling for argument’s sake, but to really understand.  You’ll find that the average person on either side wants similar basic things.  Don’t buy into the fear and hysteria LOOK It Up and then share what you’ve learned. 

And there you have it my friend, my political spiel.   On to November! 

Happiness Is Like a Butterfly

After another WP workshop to improve my writing, I am going back to some of my favorite posts and reworking them a little. I don’t think this one is done yet. Any thoughts on the subject?

Lindi Roze's avatarA Roze By Any Other Name

Happiness is like a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. Author unknown, printed in “The Literary American,” 1848. (Credit- Quote Investigator)

brown butterfly perched on pink flower Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I have difficulty finding a favorite quote to share because I have many.  I store bits wisdom from a variety of people and sources.  First and foremost I often quote my parents and grandparents, especially to my younger generation. Its the Wisdom of the Elders.

Through the years I’ve memorized quotes from the Bible and preachers; from educators and authors – even quotes from “the mouth of babes.”  As we know kids say the truth no one else dares to. 

These quotes and special thoughts are put away in seemingly random places in my mind, but they are usually available when I need them. I often sprinkle them…

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Each Day the Sun Rises

Life is not what it’s supposed to be. It’s what it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference. Virginia Satir  http://www.brainyquote.com

from Morguefiles

The ocean’s waves came up, splashed around her and sprayed her face as she sat there waiting.  She smiled.  It was a good omen, she thought, like when the Priest comes around sprinkling everyone with Holy Water.  Luella Delsapo came out for a walk early this morning, the beach town just starting to stir, the tide was out and the morning was gray.  The sand, full of tiny holes and bubbles was cold and damp under her feet. She didn’t care that the rocks were still wet as she took a seat to gaze at the horizon.  It was chilly for summer, and she was glad she brought a shawl.  She sipped tea from her travel mug and took a deep breath.  The salty air of a brand new day filled her lungs, and she breathed again deeper into her belly.  She tried to relax. 

Luella liked watching the sunset and closing the day with a colorful display, but she loved the sunrise.  There was something promising about imagining a Higher Power slowly pulling up the shades to let the sunlight fill the day and bring us out of the darkness.  Compared to sunsets, the morning colors seemed softer, gentler to her as the lavenders and pinks turned to honey behind the brilliant golden ball.  Luella was not disappointed this morning.  As the sun crowned the horizon, she closed her eyes to take it all in- the sounds, the smells, the cool breeze on her face; she waited for the sun to warm her.  Luella Delsapo had longed to be here.  She needed to be here.

She had visited other beaches, like the beautiful beaches in the Caribbean with aquamarine waters and parades of colorful fish.  She had been to the white sand beaches along the Gulf of Mexico and enjoyed watching dolphins in their natural habitat.  It was as if they performed their dance just for the pleasure of being alive.  But it was this gray, rocky beach that through the years collected much of her tears.  She came after the heartaches or to remember loved ones on her personal memorial days. It was this part of the immense ocean that allowed the winds to take away the hurt and give her the strength to start over.  It was here she dared to dream again, and that’s what she came back for.

Recently when a friend passed expectantly, Luella heard the words one can’t escape at every funeral.  The expressions of condolences are meant to be of comfort, but after the one-hundredth time, they seem to lose meaning.  Well-intended friends and family try to be reassuring with phrases like “she’s in a better place” or “he’s no longer in pain” or “they would not want to see you suffering”; Luella remembered. She had heard it all more than once.

The first time Luella lost someone close, it was shocking to her that a person can actually feel the physical pain of a broken heart.  She was twenty-three and never knew the heart could hurt so much.  It was as if an elephant was sitting on her chest to make it burst like a water balloon, and yet it didn’t.  After a while, as the days passed, when someone approached her to say: I’m sorry for your loss, she said: “Well don’t be, it wasn’t your fault, and there is nothing we can do about it now.” 

People told her to give it time; everything is better with time.  Well, Luella found out they were right, but it’s not magic.  Time heals, but the pain doesn’t go away.  It is there in the background, in the corners of the mind.  She learned that over time the pain of grief is not felt with the same intensity or frequency, but on any given day something will trigger a memory and the wound is fresh again.  Fortunately, she developed the ability to recognize it and give it a moment before continuing with the business of living.

Luella came to understand that to manage grief; one needs to prepare for the flooding of emotions.  The first year, was the hardest.  On every holiday and every birthday, she was reminded that the life she had dreamed of with her husband was no longer an option.  She often cried for herself and for her children.  She was familiar with the process now.  She created traditions to remember, and activities for self-care.  And so it was that each time Luella lost a loved one, she didn’t feel as confused or overwhelmed. 

In prayerful mediation, she became aware of the sun warming her soul as her breathing caught the rhythm of the rolling surf – in and out.  With each exhale, the ocean rolled out with the pain and gently came back in with hope.  She opened her eyes to find the sun well over the horizon, the grayness had dissipated, and it was the start of a beautiful summer day in New England.   She found what she came for – a new day with hope for new beginnings.  

#shapingyourstory   Week Two   I’m incorporating assignments into new posts while I’m working on another project.   Really enjoying the lessons.  Thanks a bunch Michelle W.

Weeds and Flowers in our Life

 

As I mentioned the other day, I am doing an editing course right here on WordPress called “Writing: Shaping Your Story.”  I have re-worked one of my most recent stories looking for an angle to develop a unique voice in telling stories of ordinary life.   Enjoy.

Love who you are and what you are and what you do. Laugh at yourself and at life and nothing can touch you.   Louise Hay from AZ quotes

The other morning I had one of those incidents where I had to laugh at myself or in spite of myself. I find I do it quite often these days; I believe it’s one of the perks brought on by aging and the wisdom of our years.  I do think if you can’t laugh at yourself, maybe it’s time for soul-searching.  No one is perfect, and if we can forgive ourselves for that, if we can be OK with our shortcomings, we become more tolerant of others.

dandelion flowers

I started my day, unlike other mornings.  I had my mind set to do a little weeding in the yard.  I’m house sitting while taking care of my daughter’s eighty-five-pound furbaby.  She and her husband have their hands full with careers and a toddler size human baby, so I decided to make use of idle time and clean up the yard a bit before they got home.  Nothing major, I’m not a gardener. I had a flower garden once which was mostly landscaped already when I bought the house.  With minimal fuss, that garden managed to come back and thrive every year from spring through fall. These days I’m working on trying to get a potted orchid to flower again or at least to give me hope by staying alive.

I was up and dressed bright and early with my improvised gardening outfit.  Yes, I needed a gardening outfit, like I use to have one for walking the dog or play clothes after school. I wore comfortable workout shorts, t-shirt, old sneakers-without socks and a safari hat. Perhaps I should have taken a selfie, but you can probably visualize the image.  We live near the southernmost part of Florida and I wanted to get weeds out before the temperature became unbearable but I couldn’t find my daughter’s gardening gloves. I have allergies and an intense dislike for creepy crawly things, so I wasn’t going out there without gloves.  What a dilemma! I was going to have to run to the store to pick up a pair of gardening gloves, but I was dressed for tropical weather gardening, not shopping.  To quote the grown-up Christopher Robin,  “What to do, what to do.”

Some may say my quandary was “just a girl thing” but to understand my problem; we’d have to go back to my family of origin where the mantra was “We may be poor, but we are proud!”  Mom always made sure we were with hair combed, clean hands and nails, our clothes ironed with starch and our shoes polished.  When we went to church on Sunday, she had to make sure that we looked ready to visit The King of Kings.  She learned from her mother to check us out before we walked out of the door to make sure we were “presentable.”   

My grandmother was an adorable, plump little woman. Over the years I’ve mentioned that someday I wanted to be a loveable, little old lady like her. (I’m practically there – wink).  She wore her thinning white hair in a small bun at the nape of her neck. Her back slightly curved from years as a seamstress. In her late 70s, her alabaster skin was without blemish and smooth, and her eyes were a light turquoise green like the tranquil waters of the Caribbean Basin in the early morning. It had been just recently that my aunt had convinced her that she didn’t need to iron my grandfather’s boxers or her bed sheets because of the new permanent press fabrics. She still starched and pressed her house dresses and my grandfather’s white cotton shirts and khakis.

One summer when I was visiting, my grandmother asked me if I wanted to go to town for some shopping. She was walking to town and wanted some company. We were already in town, but she meant about a 20-minute walk to the stores on the main street, more if she saw friends along the way. I dressed quickly and waited for my grandmother on the porch.   This was in the era before cell phones so to entertain myself in the meantime; I checked out the boy next door who was about my age and helping his dad bring things in from the truck.  When I saw him, was glad to be feeling cute that day.  Little did I know that years later, he would become my husband. 

My grandmother, Mrs. Plumeria Martin-Ponte put one foot out on the porch, looked at me and stopped in her tracks. She looked up and down at me, and I noticed the tranquil waters in her eyes were starting to churn like angry waves before a storm. “Go in and change. I’m not taking you with me like that.” Period and end of the story were implied in her tone.  Of course, I was young and feeling cute, so I needed to ask why: “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” At the time, I thought it was cool for a girl from the big city to wear overalls with a T-shirt and sneakers. My question triggered a lecture on the proper attire of lovely young ladies going into town. She didn’t want to hear what I did back home, so I went in and changed to a sundress, ladylike sandals and wore my long dark hair in a side braid.

Fast forward to 2018, and I’m standing at the doorway with my car keys in hand, ready to go to the Town Center in workout shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt, sneakers without socks and my wild hair particularly unruly this morning. I was just going to run in and out but what if I saw someone I knew? Well, I don’t know many people in this town, I thought as I encouraged myself. Besides Hollywood A-listers do it all the time, I just won’t take off my sunglasses! That’s when it happened; I laughed at myself for giving so much thought to explain my options as if to my grandmother.

As it turned out, once I was at the Town Center, I remembered a couple of other things I needed and made another stop. I was not just in and out at either store. I chatted with the clerks and a woman behind me in line. No one asked me why I was wearing comfortable workout shorts and sneakers without socks to the trendy Town Center.

At another point in my life, I probably wouldn’t have gone out, or if I had to, I would have changed to something more “presentable.” I realize though that if anyone passes judgment about me because of the clothes I wear, then they don’t value me for the person I am. I am beyond the point where I feel the need to prove my worth. I am what I am, and it is what it is.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”   Wendy Mass, The Candymakers from Goodreads.

Since it’s my nature to ponder, I reflected on how time and again we judge others by their appearance. I often say that it seems like the experiences from our school years play out throughout our lives. We see the same behaviors at work or in social groups. Only the names and faces change. Naturally, whenever this topic crosses my mind, I am reminded of a young girl, a classmate from my middle and high school years, he name was Grace Fore.

I was an average kid. I managed to stay under the radar and out of trouble. I wasn’t especially popular but had friends from different groups that I had met through various activities like art electives, tutoring, orchestra, boosters, yearbook, and church. 

Grace Fore was a loner. She was a good looking girl with her blonde hair and big, blue eyes, but something always looked “off” and not quite right.  I didn’t know anything about her home life, but I knew she played the viola beautifully with sentimentality that it moved me. I remember that it was often apparent that she was trying to “fix” her appearance.  The kids in school teased her when she tried a new hairstyle and her hair still looked disheveled or when she wore a misshapen dress that she made herself in sewing class. They called her Grace Forlorn. I never actually defended her, I usually just moved my friends along before the taunting got worse. I always wished I had been braver. Can’t help but wonder what it would be like in today’s social media era.

As the world turns, a few years ago, I received a Facebook friend request from Grace Fore with a simple question “Do you remember me?” “Of course,” I answered, “you played the viola beautifully. Do you still play?” She wrote to me about the difficult life she had growing up and how it turned out not much better as an adult.  No, she didn’t continue playing, but she wished she had.  And then she broke my heart when she said: “but you were always nice to me, and it meant so much.”  I never really went out of my way to be nice to her, but I was taught to be kind and not do harm. 

If she hadn’t reached out, I would have never known that one small kindness would mean so much after all these years and all she had been through. She unfriended me shortly after over differences in political ideology, but I’m glad we connected. It validated my core beliefs that I continue to develop through my life.

beverage breakfast cake chilled

After driving back to my daughter’s house in this meditative state, I decided I needed a drink before I tackled the yard. It was the middle of the day in Florida with temperatures in the triple digits. I poured a tall glass of iced tea, put my feet up and stared out into the yard. 

I remembered that in another life during the summer, I would frequently get small bouquets of yellow dandelions from my daughters.  They would run into the house filled with love and anticipation.  Despite my allergies, I would marvel with oohs and aahs as if they were a dozen long stem roses from a long lost lover and put them in small cups of water till they shriveled up.   Sometimes they would bring them one by one, white and puffy so that we could make wishes together.  As they blew around the backyard like snowflakes, I wondered how many more weeds I would have to deal with next time. 

“Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.”  Quote from Pinterest attributed to Eeyore. 

What a perfect quote from Eeyore.   Isn’t it the truth?  Yes, dandelions are weeds, but they are bright yellow flowers and conduits for wishes.   In the real world, we have found that they also have healing properties and are an excellent source of vitamins and minerals.

What great lessons we learn every day, I pondered as I continued sipping my cold drink.  I shook my head in amazement and snickered to myself as I closed my eyes and decided I would start fresh tomorrow. 

#Shaping your story  – Week One

 

The Practical Aspect of Romance

I like to read other bloggers stories. I truly believe the human experience is one.  Often I find something in the blog that resonates with my spirit.   Yesterday I was visited by Simplytrizah, and when I visited her page in return, I was quite amused.  In Trizah’s Random Thoughts, she tells the stories of her adventures looking for romance from the perspective of a millennial newly cast in the adult world.  As I commented on one of her posts, some things about dating during this time period are the same regardless of age.  

I was reminded that on my trip back from visiting my family, I had a three and a half hour layover between flights and I started looking for something light and funny to read.  I came across an e-book that looked promising.  It was supposedly a humorous look at romance in the Third Age.  I enjoy romantic comedies with the likes of Jane Fonda, Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep and of course the adventures of Grace and Frankie.  When I looked at the reviews, however, I was discouraged.   It seems that some readers were disappointed that the protagonist did not exhibit or reference any signs of aging.  I suppose the idea aging gracefully is subjective, but it did get me thinking about the message we are leaving for the young woman.  What have we learned as the generation who created the sexual revolution is aging?

I decided to share a portion of a short story that I’m working on.  I’ve enrolled in an editing, and re-writing course and this is one of the stories that I want to do.  I might even work it into a longer piece about One Ordinary Life.   This part of the story centers around a modern tribe of women who periodically get together for support and encouragement – think Red Tent in modern day New England.  The friends are gathered to make a large pot of fish chowder on a cold winter night; add a little wine and conversation and I have a story!

Is it possible to be practical and a romantic at the same time?

 “At this stage of the game,” Nan continued her lecture, “dating is all about the practicality of the matter. It’s not about Disney princesses or Hollywood’s love stories. That doesn’t happen in real life and much less at our age. Before you step into the labyrinth called dating, ask yourself why do you want a man. Do you want entertainment, part-time companionship, just sex, financial security? Determine that first, and then go after what you want…”

Examples and testimonies followed, but Clotilde was unusually quiet and had stopped listening. She sipped her wine and chopped her vegetables as her mind wandered to places where her friends could not imagine.

That night she wrote in her journal:

“They tell me that there are no castles in the clouds, nor do valiant princes exist who ride on white stallions and risk their lives for fair maidens. They tell me it’s all a question of convenience, the practicality of the matter. They say that the years pass us quickly and if we don’t act with good judgment now, we are weighed down by life’s regrets. 

I was a lonely, caged dove unable to spread my wings, imprisoned by fear. Your eyes sparkled with mischief, and I said “Who cares! Let’s fly!” With you, I believe there are indeed places where dreams come true.  Your warm breath touches my cheek, and your kiss awakens the sleeping beauty of my soul. My spirit flies like an eagle! The years fall away. I transcend the clouds safely nestled in your arms to find that castle where dreams become a reality.”

Nan and her friends were too late with their intervention that night; for Clotilde had already crossed over to the land of unicorns, rainbows, and pots of gold.

Laughing on the Inside

You grow up the day you have the first real laugh at yourself. Ethel Barrymore from AZ quotes

The other morning I had one of those episodes where I had to laugh at myself or in spite of myself. I find I do it quite often these days; I believe it’s one of the perks brought on by aging and wisdom of our years.
I started my morning with my mind set on a plan for a project in the yard. I’m house sitting while taking care of my daughter’s eighty five pound furbaby. She and her husband have their hands full with careers and a toddler size human baby, so I decided to make use of idle time and clean up the yard a bit before they got home. Nothing major, I’m not a gardener. I had a small flower garden once which was mostly landscaped already when I bought the house. With minimal fuss, that garden managed to come back and thrive every year from spring through fall. These days I’m working on trying to get a potted orchid to flower again.

person holding green leafed plant
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

I was up and dressed bright and early with gardening shorts, t-shirt and safari hat. I wanted to get it done before the temperature became unbearable but I couldn’t find my daughter’s gardening gloves. I have allergies and an intense dislike for creepy crawly things, so I wasn’t going out there without gloves. What a dilemma! I had to run to the store to pick up a pair of gloves, but I was dressed for tropical weather gardening, not shopping.
To understand my problem, we’d have to go back to my family of origin where the mantra was “we may be poor, but we are proud!” Mom always made sure our clothes were clean, ironed with starch and our shoes polished. She learned from her mother.
My grandmother was an adorable, plump little woman. Over the years I’ve mentioned a few times that someday I wanted to be a cute, little old lady like her. (I’m practically there). She wore her thinning white hair in a small bun at the nape of her neck. Her back slightly curved from years as a seamstress. In her late 70s, her alabaster skin was without blemish and smooth, and her eyes were a turquoise green like the tranquil waters of the Caribbean Basin. It was just recently that my aunt had convinced her that she didn’t need to iron my grandfather’s boxers or her bed sheets because of the new permanent press fabrics. She still starched and pressed her house dresses and my grandfather’s white cotton shirts and khakis.
One summer when I was visiting my grandmother, she asked me if I wanted to go shopping in town with her. She was walking to town and wanted some company. We were already in town, but she meant about 20 minutes to the stores on the main street, more if she saw friends along the way. I dressed quickly and waited for my grandmother on the porch.

My grandmother, Mrs. Plumeria Bridge put one foot out on the porch, looked at me and stopped in her tracks. She looked up and down at me, and I noticed the tranquil waters in her eyes were starting to churn like angry waves before a storm. “Go in and change. I’m not taking you with me like that.” Period and end of the story were implied in her tone. Of course, I was young, and I needed to ask why: “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” At the time, I thought it was cool for a girl from the big city to wear overalls with a T-shirt and sneakers. My question triggered a lecture on the proper attire of lovely young ladies going into town. She didn’t want to hear what I did back home, so I went in and changed to a sundress, ladylike sandals and wore my long dark hair in a braid.
Fast forward to 2018, and I’m standing at the doorway with my car keys in hand, ready to go to the Town Center in workout shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt, sneakers without socks and my wild hair particularly unruly this morning. I was just going to run in and out but what if I saw someone I knew? Well, I don’t know many people in this town, I thought as I encouraged myself. Besides Hollywood A-listers do it all the time, I just won’t take off my sunglasses! That’s when it happened; I laughed at myself for giving so much thought to explain my options as if to my grandmother.
As it turned out, once I was at the Town Center, I remembered a couple of other things I needed and made another stop. I was not just in and out at either store. I chatted with the clerks and a woman behind me in line. No one asked me why I was wearing comfortable workout shorts and sneakers without socks to the trendy Town Center.
At another point in my life, I probably wouldn’t have gone out, or if I had to, I would have changed to something more “presentable.” I realize though that if anyone I know passes judgment about me because of the clothes I wear, then they don’t value me for the person I am. I am beyond the point where I feel the need to prove my worth. I am what I am, and it is what it is.
Since it’s my nature to ponder, I reflected on how often we judge others by their appearance. I often say that it seems like the experiences from our school years play out throughout our lives. We see the same behaviors at work or in social groups. Only the names and faces change. Naturally, whenever this topic crosses my mind, I am reminded of a young girl, a classmate from my middle and high school years, Grace Fore. I was an average kid. I managed to stay under the radar and out of trouble. I wasn’t popular but had friends from different groups that I had met through various activities like art electives, tutoring, orchestra, boosters, yearbook, and church.

woman looking at camera
Grace Fore was a loner. I didn’t know anything about her home life, but I knew she played the viola beautifully with such sentimentality. I remember that it was apparent that she was trying to fix her appearance. Kids teased her when she tried a new hairstyle and her hair still looked disheveled or when she wore a misshapen dress that she made herself in class. They called her Grace Forlorn. I didn’t verbally defend her, I usually just moved my friends along before it got worse. I always wished I had been braver.
A few years ago as the world turns, I received a Facebook friend request from Grace Fore with a simple question “Do you remember me?” “Of course,” I answered, “you played the viola beautifully. Do you still play?” She wrote to me about the difficult life she had growing up and how it turned out not much better as an adult. And then she broke my heart when she said: “but you were always nice to me, and it meant so much.” I really didn’t much. I was taught and always believed in the message:
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” Wendy Mass, The Candymakers from Goodreads.
If she hadn’t reached out, I would have never known that one small kindness would mean so much after all these years. She unfriended me shortly after over differences in political ideology, but I’m glad we connected. It validated my core beliefs.
After driving home in this meditative state, I needed a drink before I tackled the yard. It was the middle of the day in Florida with temperatures in the triple digits. I poured a tall glass of iced tea, put my feet up and decided I would start fresh tomorrow. I shook my head, I snickered to myself.

A PRECIOUS Tribute to Mom

This has been a week of anniversaries for me.  I’ve come to a place where I am at peace with each one.  I’ve reposted this in remembrance of my Mom.  I know she is free and sometimes I feel her so close to me.   I am forever grateful for her.  She wasn’t perfect and yet she was wonderful.  I hope you can enjoy

via AtoZ Challenge P is for PRECIOUS

Why Is It So Hard To Reunite Immigrant Families Separated At Border?

I don’t begrudge this administration for getting tough on securing borders or irregular immigration (new buzzword from State Department). You will find most of us can agree on that, but I think all points of entry should be secure, not just the Southern Border.  I also oppose the spirit of the policies implemented to “uphold” the laws. The message has been clear that zero tolerance is for Muslims and people of color. 

Numerous fact-checking and media sites report that Barack Obama deported more people than any other president. DJT was correct on that one. Records show that he deported a couple million at least. All you have to do is type “Deporter in Chief” in your browser.  The difference is that the Obama Administration was upholding the law without the reality TV mentality, without fanfare or bells and whistles.  They followed the law as it was written by administrations before until they could make sustainable immigration reform. It was not all sunshine and lollipops, but they did not gloat in the predicament of those deported unable to obtain asylum.  They utilized family detention centers trying not to separate families, especially with small children. Unaccompanied minors were held in centers or placed in the least restrictive settings while trying to connect them with parents or families already in the US.  The Obama Administration did not set a goal of teaching lessons on illegal immigration to people from Central and South America.  The Obama Administration did not make a spectacle of the annual pilgrimage sponsored by religious groups and Pueblos sin Fronteras (translated People without Borders) to assure safe passage to people in need of Asylum.

The significant difference in 2018 immigration policy and procedure that has caused humanitarian outrage is the story of the “tender age” children that were separated from parents without warning.  Some too young to speak, others less than five years old didn’t know their parents’ real names or where they came from.  It has been reported that parents seeking asylum did not have an opportunity to speak to children to explain what was happening before the children were taken away. Younger children and toddlers, of course, are the most vulnerable.  I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that there was no reliable documentation about the separations.  No one knew which kids were sent where?  They need DNA to find kids to match with parents?   

I’m glad others have contributed additional information about the fate of these children, Lest we forget. 

Please read below.

https://wp.me/p14KRi-2eLU