Clearing Space

I think I'm a borderline hoarder.  This afternoon I was determined to clear out my office so I'd have space for my new hobby, painting. What a joke.  My old hobbies fill the room with things I find difficult to dispose of.

Reading is my lifelong favorite hobby. I love to read. But I own more books than I will ever read in my lifetime.  How did that happen, you ask.  I used to visit my library so often that the staff became my friends. They'd invite me to their holiday parties.  I'd take classes, do dinners, and hit the happy hours with these dear friends.  But the books eventually made me crazy. I'd lose them. I'd damage them. I'd keep them too long.  So, I decided to collect books I didn't have to worry about returning.  Because I spent my Saturdays yardsaling, my office soon filled up with books. I was happy, but eventually I felt overwhelmed. Then I discovered Paperbackswap.com.

Paperbackswap.com (or PBS as we insiders call it) seemed like the answer to a prayer.  You send books out and get books in return.  I figured I could get rid of a slew of books and make other book lovers very happy.  Yes, I got rid of a few books. But then I won fifty credits and that was the beginning of more books coming in than going out.  My mail carrier saw how much I loved receiving books, so she began leaving me bags of books. I have shelves or piles of books in every room of my tiny house.  I have multiple copies of books because I can't remember which books I already own. I'm smothered with books.  Then I discovered The Book Thing of Baltimore.

The Book Thing is a warehouse of free books.  You can take as many as you want.  You can donate as many as you want.  This seemed like the answer to a prayer.  So I painfully filled two big bags with as many books as I dared part with.  And I brought home a trunk load of new ones.  Fail. After today's clear out, I have three big bags of books to donate.  But do I dare take a trip to Baltimore? It's very difficult for a bibliophile to deny herself free books.  Every beautiful cover promises an escape to a world far more interesting than mine. I get excited just thinking about all the books to be read.  I need to get rid of the three bags I filled today. And soon because I don't want to dip back into the bags and convince myself that maybe I should keep just this one. Until I have a solution, where can I store them? In the office I guess. Sigh.

I made jewelry for a while. There was a lot of stuff to buy for that hobby.  I bought tons of beads and fixings at my yard sales from all the other jewelry makers who had given up.  I have containers to separate my beads. A light to view them as I put the pieces together. Tools to connect said jewels to the wires.  Then I had cataract surgery.  I can no longer see the small work the way I used to when I could take off my glasses and bring the wires and fixings up almost to my eyelashes. So I stopped making jewelry.  But I have boxes of great stuff if I want to start up again. Sigh.

I have fallen in love with painting.  It is relaxing. It is therapy. It is fun.  A few trips to Michael's and I have canvasses, watercolor paints, acrylic paints, brushes, frames, palettes. Where to keep everything?  Where to set up my easel to paint?  I managed to clear the desk in my office. I cleared a couple shelves for the paining supplies. But it's kind of hard to get into the office now since all the stuff I don't know what to do with is sitting on the floor waiting for me to throw it out or find it a new nook.

I am one person.  I live in a three bedroom house. They are three very small bedrooms, but three rooms never-the-less.  How in the world have I filled it up? Once I get some more paintings done, where will I hang them?  How do you minimalists do it?  

the trump blog

It has been a year since donald trump took over the White House.  It has been a year that I've posted snippets on Facebook, but never really sat down and wrote about the buffoon in office.  Yes, I said buffoon. So now that you know how this piece is going to go, read with an open mind. I do not know how anybody that follows the news can still support that fraud.  Believe me, I have tried to understand because I am gobbsmacked by his supporters.  But, I can't buy any of it.

People say they support trump because the economy is good.  I need to question that.  Yes, the stock market is booming.  But how many of his small town supporters even benefit from the market? My economy is not booming.  Gas prices are steadily rising. Health care and insurance, out of sight! Have you been in a grocery store lately?  Prices have skyrocketed! Garages have instituted payment plans for car repairs. Everybody I know is in shock over their recent heating bill. My real life economy is not prospering.  Everything I pay for is increasing dramatically.  My income, though, is frozen.  That's the reality of my economy.  Thanks for nothing donald.

Abortion is a big, big issue with most of his Christian supporters.  It's been a year; have you seen him focus seriously on stopping abortion? No! What Republicans are proud of, are their efforts to defund Planned Parenthood.  What idiots! Contrary to popular propaganda, Planned Parenthood is not "94% abortions." (Sen. Orin Hatch) The actual statistic is 3% of their services involve abortions.  Unwanted pregnancies are not going away.  And Christian tsk-tsking is not going to stop women from taking unsafe measures to end these pregnancies. I personally know a number of women who are vehemently anti-abortion; however, they conveniently forget that they had safe abortions when they felt they had no other choice. Defunding Planned Parenthood means denying health care to poor women. But, that is no surprise as trump supporters seem determined to deny the poor any government services. This link will take you to a Washington Post article exposing the myths behind Planned Parenthood. Copy and paste to read this truthful piece.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/five-myths-about-planned-parenthood/2011/04/14/AFogj1iD_story.html?utm_term=.0c48d06305aa


And speaking of morals, abortions, sex and so on, who can accept the fact that we have a president whose immorality is a matter of pride to him? How are the same Christians supporting him as the anti-abortion president content to ignore his documented immoral behaviors? He has bragged of assaulting women because he's so rich and powerful he can do whatever he wants.  This is documented!  He has cheated on his marriages.  Stories abound of his perverted carryings on with prostitutes.  He has been accused of molesting minors. This is the president of our country! Political careers have been ruined by stories of far less evil behavior, yet he remains unscathed.  This is what you want representing our country? This is the role model you want for the youth of our country? That kind of behavior leads me to wonder just how anti-abortion old 45 really is.  Just saying....


trump supporters try to tell me he is not a racist bigot.  He was raised in the home of a member of the KKK.  Family values being what they are, it is easy to see what has made him what he is.  He wants to build a ridiculous wall to keep out "those dangerous hombres,"  the Mexicans.  Yet, he opens the doors of Maralago to white Russian women who want their anchor babies born in the USA.  He strives to make our citizens fear Muslims, persuading his supporters they are all terrorists.  He convinces his supporters that dark people are dangerous people.  Yet, he remains rather quiet about white men who shoot blindly into music concert crowds or drive cars into predominantly anti-trump protest marches. His attitude is everything. He is a racist, and his obvious racism encourages a violence that we haven't seen in a long time in our country.  I have confronted trump supporters about his racism and their support of him.  They are indignant! They refuse to denounce his racist acts.  They become furious with me! How dare I imply they are racist! Yeah, how dare I?

The lies!  Google trump+lies and there are pages of listings documenting the trash that spews from his lips.  He has admitted to telling lies, and then laughing about it as if his words were a silly prank. He's on video telling his lies.  However, he'll complain to the people he is being maligned by "fake news."  He answers any questions about his traitorous behavior with the two words, fake news.  His admirers believe him.  The news is biased against him.  The news lies.  Granted, one must be discerning as to what constitutes the news, but if CNN is good enough for the world, it is good enough for me. One of the techniques Hitler used to bring about his regime was to discredit the people seeking to stop him, the news reporters.  Holocaust survivors are still here to witness to their experiences, and they will parallel trump's disregard for the law, his attempts to discredit the media, and his fear mongering to Hitler's rise to power.   Santayana has said, "Those who cannot remember the past are  doomed to repeat it."  As I watch ICE shred families, I remember history. I remember Nazi Germany.  I am frightened for America.

I have barely touched the surface of my dislike and distrust of the faux president of our country.  His tumultuous attempts at a cabinet. His universal dislike among other leaders of the world.  Except Russia. Russia!! His rantings and ravings voiced in the vocabulary of an elementary school child. As I debate whether-or-not to suffer through the blowhard's State of the Union Address, I remember how many people I know who thought they were doing the right thing by putting a non-politician in office in the first place.  Some have come around and see the damage he is doing.  Others brag that he is shaking things up and he is just what America needs.  Think about such logic.  Would you want an inexperienced non-teacher educating your children?  How about someone who learned everything he could about medicine from "Grey's Anatomy." Would you feel confident with that person treating your cancer?  Experience is important!  Yet, we have given our country over to a habitual golfer who lies about his education, who has bankrupted many of his businesses, who has cheated on wives, contractors, and anyone else in his way, who tweets like a scorned teenager, who ignores the Constitution, who throws temper tantrums, and who embarrasses this country on a daily basis.


If you still support donald trump, I don't get you.  I just don't get you. If you support 45 by starting any sentence with, "But Hillary..."  I don't want to hear it.  She is not the face of America, so don't go there.  Don't tell me we have to agree to disagree, because I don't have to do any such thing.  I will not be silenced in my attempts to wake up America.  On this day, the day of the State of the Union Address, I challenge you to actually think for yourself, research the daily stories, and don't just sit back in blissful ignorance.  We are in dangerous times, and we can't make America great by being blind to lies, hate, racism, the NRA, big business greed, and so on and sadly, so on.

A Journey Through Dance

I've been told that I have a face that encourages people to talk to me.  In fact, it encourages people to spill their guts to me.  So I've been told. And so I've experienced.  Today was one of those experiences.  My dance instructor spilled her life story into my lap.  I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.

She is a presence, a whirlwind of a presence.  She flies into class all decked out for belly dancing: two piece outfits with form-fitting bras and flowy harem pants, scarves, jewelry, a jingly coin belt,  full make up, exotic perfume.  She speaks quickly, promising to tone our lady parts,  slim our torsos, and strengthen our cores.  Turning the music up loudly enough to irritate the class next door, we dance.  In fact, we dance so enthusiastically as we follow her lead, that one of the ladies flipped herself smack onto the floor today.  (She's fine.)  The whole time the teacher encourages us to smile, to feel the music, to express the joy and the freedom of the dance.

She's talking to me, an arthritic old fat lady in shorts and a t-shirt, like I'm the next Shakira.

She believes in us.  She loves shaking us up, literally and figuratively.  Because she knows where she came from, and now so do I.

R. was a chef in Singapore at the Hilton Hotel.  I remember being in Singapore, and indeed, that was a very prestigious hotel and she must have been a very important person.  Maybe so, she said, but she was miserable, depressed and hated her life.  This little woman I now know was once 300 pounds.  Every movement was a chore.  All day on her feet was torture.  She was the brunt of every joke ever told in that kitchen and in her social life.  Being overweight in America is difficult enough.  But to be that obese in an Asian country where small is the norm, she was an oddity and people did not hide their comments and contempt.  Every day brought new humiliation, and she could not stand her life.  So, she decided to end it.

When she's teaching us a stomach roll, I stare at R's belly to understand the move.  She has an ugly scar that is exposed by the outfits she wears.  I assumed she'd had surgery.  No.  That's a self-inflicted wound.  In a rage, in a fit of anger and hatred for herself, she began stabbing at her ugly body, determined to kill the ugliness she believed was her. By the time she was taken to the hospital, she had torn the body she hated into pieces and was on the verge of death.

R. will tell you she saw God.  He told her that her life wasn't over.  She had more to do on this Earth and He was sending her back to do it. After thirty days in the hospital she was released to nothing. No job. No friends. Nothing but the determination to figure out how to live and do what God had planned for her.

R. found a job in a small café and began to work on herself.  She studied dance.  She studied the body and how it worked.  She became certified to teach dance, and she took her skills to other women who needed to learn to free their bodies through dance.  She ate a strict vegetarian diet.  She rented time at a dance studio where she worked out her frustrations and practiced rebuilding her life.  She traveled to other countries to study dance, Cuba being one of them (she'd noticed my Havana t-shirt that day).  Women around the world were changed as she taught them the freedom of dance. It took her four years, but she lost the extra weight.  She has a body that is imperfect enough that we oldsters are able to trust her to teach us, but it is healthy and just perfect for R.  She married a military man who brought her to America and to us.

Belly dancing class is on hiatus until January. If you'd like to join the winter Belly Fit class, registration at the Senior Center is open until December 22.


Dance is for everybody. I believe that the dance came from the people and that it should always be delivered back to the people
Alvin Ailey


If we danced and shared music, we’d be too busy en-joy-in’ life to start a war.
E.A. Bucchianer

What makes me smile

Lately, all I've written about is what makes me sad.  Today I realized I was smiling as I drove to cardio class. Smiling on the way to torture class?  What was that all about?

I love sunny days, and we have experienced a crisp autumn full of them.  The leaves have changed slowly, and they were gorgeous this year.  I love the bright yellow and red leaves as they shimmer in the sky.  This season seemed like payback for a skimpy spring when my flowering trees were severely damaged by a late freeze that left them unable to fully blossom.  In fact, the dogwood seems to barely be hanging on.  But I'm raking up the leaves as they finally fall, and it's the kind of exercise I don't mind.  For a little while.  Before I get too cold or I step in poop as I rake. Or it's time for "The Young and the Restless."

The belly dancing class I'm taking could be called belly laughing.  The teacher comes to class dressed in character, dangling earrings, bracelets, coin belts, I Dream of Jeanie pants, and her velvet bras.  I wear sweats and baggy t-shirts around which I tie my bedraggled coin belt.  Over my ragged breathing, I'm supposed to hear it jingle when I shake my hips.  Rose's movements are flowing, graceful, and straight out of Bollywood.  We mimic our teacher and feel like goddesses.  I can see what my classmates really look like, and I can only imagine how ridiculous I look, so I smile and laugh for the whole hour. I love these ladies with their beet red faces.  Afterwards, a hot shower feels therapeutic as every muscle in my body aches from the exertion. I can imagine, dear reader, that you too are smiling as you picture a bunch of arthritic sixty years olds in sweatpants wiggling their flabby hips and jelly bellies in time to exotic music. Laugh all you want, but as the teacher says, we are keeping our lady parts vibrant! Ha! Can you say the same?

I love my trivia team.  Once a week we meet in Port and set out to beat Trainwreck. We'd like to beat everybody, but they have been our friendly rivals since the good old casino days, so beating them is especially gratifying.   We are one of the smaller teams, but we are probably the loudest, and maybe even the most obnoxious.  Every time I think I'm saying 'Oh shit' to myself, I just have to look at Trainwreck staring at us to see I've yelled again.  We argue over everything.  Because I sit across from her, I've come to recognize that Clare gets a certain look on her face when she's disgusted with us, but she's going to let us give our dumb answer. We have developed "the Pose" for members whose right answers were rejected by the team.  Someone strikes the pose by leaning back in their chair, folding their arms in front of them, and sneering, sneering, sneering. I like to use the word "Wanamakers" when I  strike the pose. (Team L&B, you know why.) We cheer over everything we answer correctly.  We have no humility.  I absolutely love my teammates and my Wednesdays!!!  The fact that we are on the fast track to semi-finals is pretty exhilarating, too.

St. John's Food Cupboard also makes me really happy.  Times right now in our country are hard, hard, hard.  I make no bones about it; I despise our so-called president and question the motives of the  repubs trying to pass legislation that screws the common person. But every time we open our doors and share food and friendship with our clients, I feel like we are positively impacting our crazy world.  I'm the greeter, the attendance taker, the Paperwork Bitch, the sympathetic listener, and the first friend. I sympathize with their tales of woe, I worry when a regular misses a week, I rejoice when something has gone right for one of them, and I flatter them by remembering their names.  In a world that sometimes feels hopeless, I feel hopeful when I see myself and my church friends making a real difference. They care about me too.  They're concerned that I need to set up shop outside in order to do my job correctly. Sometimes it's melting hot; lately it has been freezing cold. One of my ladies told me last Friday that if I don't start wearing a hat she'd going to bring me earmuffs because she worries about me being cold.  She worries about me....  I love "my peeps."

Realizing that the holiday season is upon us and has been upon us since early October, I smile knowing I am soon going to start saying  "Happy Holidays" just because this snowflake can!!!  Take that,  Faux News!

Autumn

This time of the year always evokes memories and emotions in me. 

It used to be Back to School time!  Fifteen years a student.  One year a teacher's aide.  Thirty years a teacher. That's a lot of new school supplies!  My niece, Billie, recently reminded me of my love for new school supplies because she has the same bug.  As she told me in a text, she was most excited about returning to school because she could use her school supplies. "...they just give off this 'use me' feel."

I loved this season during my school years.  The song "Dancing in the Moonlight" by King Harvest immediately takes me to college: dances, bonfires, parties in the bush, football games, touch football, laughter.  Lots of laughter.  Everything seemed so new and exciting.  Life was a never-ending adventure.  It hit me recently, for forty-six years of my life, September, not January, signaled the REAL new year.  When everything was new and busy and exciting.  No wonder I was so alive during the fall.

So why am I so damn depressed this Autumn? 

I seem to be grieving all over again for my brother.  I didn't understand why at first. He was born in June, died in December.  Why is September giving me such a hard time?  Yesterday it hit me like a ton of bricks. September was the month when I moved to Helen's house to help take care of him.  When I drove him back and forth to chemo, to radiation, to doctor appointments.  When the days were golden and bright, and I was anything but. When the only beauty in the day were the changing colors of the trees we passed daily on our many, many rides. (The symbolism of those leaves and the seasons of life not escaping this poetry teacher's notice.) When I'd sit outside on the deck and hope that the cool crisp Autumn air would blow the hospital stink out of my hair, my clothes, my being. When I knew deep in my heart that we were going to lose him.

Times are sad for so many.  I have to write out a list of people to pray for because there are so many that I can no longer recall them all without my list.  So many sick.  So many doing the same cancer rides my brother and I did.  So many people breathing in the crisp fall air as they gather their strength and prepare for another desperate day.  Guests to our church's Cupboard whom I hadn't seen in a while sharing the sad reasons for their absences, a wife who passed away, a father gone, a serious hospitalization. Wildfires in the Northwest. Hurricanes in Texas. Hurricanes in Florida.  Total devastation in the Caribbean.  My country torn apart by racism, ignorance, homophobia, and totally incompetent "leadership." Sometimes, it just all seems too much.

I am a strong and stubborn person. I will count my blessings every day, because I do recognize how good I've got it.  I will help those in pain with my words, my prayers, and my actions. I will use the gifts of compassion and empathy God gave me through first hand experience with a grief so deep that it haunts for years afterwards. I may even eventually dance again in the moonlight. 

Suicide, Bullying, and Kids

I've been thinking a lot about a news story I heard today.  A sixth grade girl committed suicide at the end of the school year because of bullying.  Her parents are blaming the school as sole contributor to her suicide, and they are proudly suing the school district because "they should have done something."

Something.  What something? 

When I taught, kids were very careful to keep bullying a secret from the teachers.  I rarely saw it, and when I dealt with what I saw, I was met with opposition.  I called parents who basically didn't believe me but said they would talk to their child. I reported cases to the office, but often the bullied child refused to admit what had happened, so their tormentor went free.  Or even more frustrating was when I was encouraged by administrators not to write up an incident because the bully had an IEP and could not be held responsible for behavior caused by his disability. Yes, you read that correctly. 

Those were the "old days," the days before computer use was commonplace. Cyberbullying, now, is widespread.

Kids have very sophisticated ways to cyberbully other children.  And parents are quick to go to school authorities about what is done on social media. I don't understand why they think the school is responsible for handling what is happening outside of school.  Schools teach kids how to use technology, but a school can't restrict a child's use of his/her home computer.  How are schools entirely responsible for controlling and stopping the bullying?

If it gets so far that a child is suicidal, where are the parents?  Why haven't they taken the technology away from their kid for the kid's own mental well-being?  Why aren't they dealing with the other parents and, if necessary, the police?  Why isn't the kid in counseling? Some bullying could simply be stopped by teaching a child how to handle mean kids.  How does an eleven year old reach that point of no return and nobody intervene before that child commits suicide?

I just don't understand.  There are an awful lot of "bullying" programs worked into school curriculum, but are any of them effective?  Schools proclaim they are anti-bullying, but they consistently do not follow the policies so idealistically established.

What is going on in our world that children are unable to defend themselves or be defended in a mean society? What is going on that leads them to death by their own hands?

Sometimes I wonder if people secretly admire the "mean girls" for their popularity and "leadership" qualities.  Sometimes I wonder if boys are considered more masculine if they torture weaker classmates.  And sometimes I wonder how much of the bullying behavior is actually modeled as normal by the adults in charge of raising the next generation.

When asked what the parents filing the lawsuit hope to accomplish, they claimed they wanted schools to stop sweeping bullying under the rug.  I don't think it's being swept under any rug, but I honestly don't know how much more schools can be expected to handle outside of reading, writing, and arithmetic.

I feel such sorrow for those parents and the parents of other children who have ended their lives.  But, the problem is far more complex than any school's responses to bullying.  I guess the lawsuit will help those parents feel like they are doing "something."  But what?

YOLO

I was chatting today with an acquaintance I hadn't seen in twenty some years.  Obviously, we were much older than when we last saw each other, but we were certainly recognizable. Our hair is still brown; maybe hers is natural, but mine comes out of a box.  Her face looked great, skin still as smooth as a peach. I look a little apricoty, if I do say so myself.  One thing we always had in common was our weight, and the never ending battle to keep it under control.  However, she made a comment that bothered me and got me to thinking.  She refuses to wear a bathing suit.  This woman loves the water and spent many, many days sunbathing at the beach.  Now, as our days grow shorter and the time we have left on this earth to do what we enjoy is waning , she is too embarrassed to wear a swimsuit and do what she once enjoyed. (Did I mention we were at a memorial service for a man who would have given anything just to plop his weathered old body into a Speedo and drink his rum and Diet Cokes at Rehoboth Beach one more time?) I hope I got through to her.  Seriously, we look like grandmas.  Who's even paying attention to us at the pool, the beach, the hot tub? Wear that bathing suit, dammit!

We will not live forever.  And even if we do get close to forever, we will probably not have the healthy mobility to do what we want.

I hate the term "bucket list." I don't know why, I just do.  My friend Dottie and I used to call it "The List," and we'd congratulate each other when we checked something off of it.  I recently checked something off my list, a trip to Cuba.

There's a difference between traveling and vacationing.  Traveling can be hard work.  Our first day in Cuba included three tours in 95-100 degree weather with humidity, stifling humidity.  We visited a cemetery known for its white tombs, and the sun that blindingly reflected from them.  I was melting like butter on toast.  But I kept up with them! I was not going to waste the tour cowering under some skinny tree and looking longingly at the air-conditioned bus. Tour Two took us to an art museum.  The guide warned us that the elevator was not working, no surprise in a third world country.  Three of the five in our group opted to stay on the air-conditioned bus.  My friend, Liane, and I trudged the trail until we got to the top of the museum.  Our guide gave us a personal tour and explained the local art.  I am forever thankful for his insight, and the very special opportunity we were given.  Some years ago I weighed more than I do now, and I might not have made it up the various levels.  Some year from now, I may have to be the one who stays on the bus because I just can't do it.  But, I could do it that day, and I did!  That night was our third walking tour.  My legs ached.  My feet were killing me.  But the fresh mojito at Hemingway's favorite bar kept me going.  More walking and climbing the next day, but hey, we saw Hemingway's Havana house!  It was a fabulous trip.

When I got home, I gave in to the sheer exhaustion.  Lots of sleep.  Lots of OTC pain relievers.  Lots of blisters.  My bad knee became gangster naughty, locking up on me, threatening to send me flying across the floor, and causing me to use a cane for a while. ( It's very hard for me to get up when I fall flat on my face. Don't ask me how I know.)  I don't remember being in this much pain when I returned from a three week European tour when I was in my thirties.

It was a short trip, and it took a lot out of me.  But, I will gladly go back and spend more time in that hot humid country if given the chance.  Because I realize, I'm getting older;  good health is no longer something to take for granted, and life is offering more opportunities than I will ever be able to enjoy.  I'll don my ugly walking shoes, wear my goofy sunblocking hat, and push myself as long and hard as I am able.  For I know many who are no longer able, and none of them thought it would happen so soon. You only live once.  Don't let some candles on a cake determine what you can or cannot do.

Take that trip.  March on Washington.  Play that piano. Learn to paint. Take dance lessons. Learn to ride a bike. Wear that bathing suit.

Live!