Another Time Today

Remember the time when we were a little freer, our minds were more open to new ideas, and our hearts were more open to not judging others based on differences. Am I imagining a time that wasn’t, a time that only existed in my mind?

I think these might have been only fleeting moments when we all seemed to step closer to each other and to understanding. Then, as suddenly as it came, we were pulled back into the all too familiar grip of division, fear of others, and hate. I know it is human nature, the longing for connection, yet here we are, building barriers, shouting slogans, and tearing at the connective tissues of hope.

Unfortunately, some of the people I once believed I knew, who were part of my inner circle, have changed, and I no longer recognize them. It saddens me, as I have grown older and expanded my own understanding of the world, to realize what it means to be open to new ideas, people, and cultures, just how small some people’s minds truly are. My worldview changed as I traveled and saw the world, while others tightened the cocoon around themselves and demanded that nothing change, or worse, that things return to a time they do not even remember.

Even more importantly, my understanding of how we individually affect others expanded, and I became more self-aware of the impact that both acts of kindness and acts of cruelty can have. I walked the grounds of Buchenwald, Dachau, and Auschwitz-Birkenau. I was soul-sick for days; something in my spirit folded up. As a young person, I visited Southern plantations and warehouses where human beings were bought and sold, beaten and belittled simply for their higher melanin. Their humanity ignored in favor of a monstrous false layering of ‘not like us’, therefore inferior to justify the hundreds of years of brutality this nation imposed upon a people they stole from another land, beat, and bred into inhuman enslavement.

By the time I was old enough to understand there was something fundamentally wrong in the world, I had begun to question my place in it. I questioned everything. My place in my family, how I fit with my peers, and where I fit in the world around me. My conclusion? I didn’t fit anywhere; I always seemed oddly outside of those around me. I rebelled, and I paid dearly for my rebellion. I broke my own heart more times than I can count. I had my spirit and my body broken by those who wanted me to fit into boxes that made them comfortable. Yet even when I thought there was nothing left of me, something rose up and fought, demanded I survive.

There are days even now that I question my place in the world, and I wonder why I fought so hard to get this far. There are mornings when I wake up after a restless night of bad dreams, where my body aches, my heart hurts, and my spirit is lonely; I wonder out loud why I fought so hard? There are days when my solitude weighs heavily on me, and I wonder aloud, why am I so alone now when I poured so much into so many for so long?

There are times when my spirit feels weighted down, and my heart is cracking. Those are times when I remember there was another time when it wasn’t like this, and I wonder if maybe the reason some of us from that time are still here is as a reminder of those days when we were walking toward something better? I think maybe it is, and those of us who still remember are the quiet reminder that it is worth the fight, even as we break inside.

Yes, it’s terrible today, and it feels as if everything has gone sideways, but some of us remember a different time. We remember, and we know there is a better way, but we also know we failed when we turned our backs and became passive. We own this failure; we may not have voted for it, but we failed to stand up and demand better, so we own it. Now, we must own correcting fifty years of ongoing and persistent destruction of everything we fought for.

If we don’t stand up now, tomorrow is lost, and the promise of this nation, however imperfect, will disappear forever and for all of us.

Maybe Next Time

You know that feeling? You know, the one when you think to yourself, ‘this is it, this might be that one I was looking for!”  Yes, that feeling. It doesn’t matter if it is a person, a job, or even some inanimate object; you get that high when you think, “This is the one!”

I am convinced that many of us are trying to recapture something that made us feel good in our past. The adrenaline high we got as children when we flew down a hill on our bikes without braking or climbed to the very top of a tree and then looked down. That holy shit feeling when we snuck out of the house to see our favorite band. Or even that time we stole away to our first teenage party at the beach, drank terrible wine around the bonfire and listened to music with our friends.

We are looking for that punch of Dopamine we got from first love. Maybe it was when we felt great about ourselves and how we moved through the world. Possibly, it was the feeling of buying our dream car with our own money. Or even when we purchased our first home, and they handed us the keys. It could be anything; each of us has our own idea of what that ‘it’ moment was when all just seemed like it was, well, perfect.

The days move at an uneven pace these days. As if there is no rhythm to them anymore. It use to be there was some dependability to my days; I knew where I should be, what I should be doing, and honestly, who I would be with most of the hours of the day. I didn’t always love all of it or the people I had to spend time with, but at least I understood the days. Now? Now, I feel as if there are simply broken people, broken promises, and broken dreams somewhere screaming, save me, in a bottomless chasm.

Honestly, I don’t have the energy. I spent most of my entire life trying to ‘save’ other people when I should have been trying to save myself.

You would think I would know better.

You would think after all this time, all these failures, I would not fall prey to the fairytale of happily ever after. But I do because I very much want to believe the following things are real in this world;

Kindness and compassion –

Real love –

Sustained devotion and commitment –

Truth-telling –

Joy, yes, I said it; joy. Prolonged and encompassing joy.

The world is upside down these days. The things we thought we knew about life have been upended, and many of us are left floundering for anything to hold onto. We beat ourselves up for our failures and shake our fists at God and the Devil in equal measure for the holes in our lives we once believed would be filled with love, laughter, companionship, pleasure, and that elusive thing we cannot quite identify, but know might be joy.

Something shifted in the world. Something fundamental in our spirit changed how we saw ourselves and the world around us. Was the shift in the world, or did we somehow lose that spark that made us dance in the rain, laugh at silly jokes, or want to cuddle with someone we loved. When did this happen to so many of us that now we live these terrible lives of isolation, fear, and ever-increasing aloneness?

I think it is both good and bad, uplifting and soul-crushing. I am at the bridge of the Baby Boomers, born in 1957; my mother is on the bridge between Boomers and the Silent Generation; it is strange in many ways; we had the same experiences and witnessed the same social disruptions no matter where within the generational range we fall. The one thing we have in common? We both find ourselves wondering what in the hell happened to that damned fairytale, that whole ‘cake and eat it too’ we were promised if we just did all the right things.

Okay, I know; I didn’t always do all the right things. But hell, who did? What I did do, was I busted my ass, all day, every day and provided when no one else could or would. I lost everything more than once and rebuilt my life from the ashes of heartbreak. I loved immensely and hard, even when I wasn’t loved in return. I got up, brushed myself off and laughed, even when I wanted to cry until there were no more tears, even when I didn’t wonder if it would be easier to lay down and never get back up.

Here we are; the world is changing, and being called a Boomer is now a slur. Strange. The generation that marched to end war, to move the nation towards more freedom, that invented many of the things that make life easier. The generation that freed women like me to have careers, own homes, and choose different lives from our mothers. The generation that changed this nation in very real ways, at least for a while, is now the same generation that is miserable because of those changes.

Did we look away? Did we grow apathetic? What happened to us? I ask myself this more days than not. It seems we lost some spark, some passion for the things that mattered. I am desolate that my generation forgot about justice, empathy, compassion, and yes, more than anything else, we seem to have forgotten joy.

Somewhere, I know that spark exists. Somewhere buried inside it is still in there just waiting for something to re-ignite the flame. But not today, not yesterday, and likely not tomorrow either. These days? These days, all I hear is to much, to smart, to fat, not enough, oh yeah and today, desperate… to mean, to honest, to much history.

All if it might be true, but like they say, “Want a perfect girl, buy a Barbie doll.”

Don’t Mind Me

I am sitting here in the quiet of my own space wondering what in all the world I should do with all the spare time I have. You know, the time that stretches in front of me into the horizon of the unknown. I hadn’t thought there would be this narrow and dark void I would be walking along, not now when things should be settled, peaceful, and maybe a bit brighter than they are. But here I am, staring down a future that feels uncertain and frequently terrifying.

No one knows how many hours they have to spend on this earth, how many breaths they will take, how many “I love you’s” they will say or hear in their lifetime. No one knows how slowly the sand will run through the hourglass of their life or how each grain will be spent. The best any of us can hope for, we will be present and gather the grains of our misspent youth as lessons for a richer and better-spentjourney during the remainder of our lives.

This year I lost a sibling and a friend. I am watching as another friend slides into depression while another is gripped by dementia. I am struggling with these losses. This year, I have had to reconcile myself to the idea that some of my longest-lasting friendships have changed, even fallen away. I miss them, and some of this is my fault as I push myself deeper into my own spaces and my own comfortable isolation. I recognize my reluctance to create human connections for what it is, knowing that each time I try to step out, I feel judged, rejected for my imperfections, and sometimes used. I realize my trust in humanity is diminished by my history. Unfortunately, my recent experience with stepping outside hasn’t changed my mind.

So, I sit here in the space I have created for myself. The silence stretches endlessly except for the music I play to suit my mood. What I have noticed;

  • When people call these days, they want or need something from me.
  • My email is filled with requests for money or sales pitches.
  • Potential lovers are not interested in more than themselves and their instant gratification.

Where does that bring me? Despite having spent my entire adult life taking care of everyone around me, I will be the only one to take care of me as I walk the last part of my life. It is daunting; it is a painful realization. Some mornings, when I have had a rough night, when I have had nightmares or seizures, when I haven’t had enough sleep, I resent the hell out of this prospect. Some mornings, I wonder how I got here, and then I consider all the ingredients poured into me and think, well, perhaps this is my portion. After all, I don’t come free of scars, bruises, and demons I dance with; it isn’t easy to get through my walls, I don’t let many know I might have a weakness or be vulnerable.

A decade after my divorce, I find myself staring down that road and saying this wasn’t the plan. Unfortunately, things don’t always go as planned. Twice in this decade, I thought I had found that person who would stay, walk beside me, and partner with me as an equal. I was wrong; in the end, they were there for what they could get for themselves. At the end of the day, I was always wrong. Ultimately, I learned that broken trust breaks something inside of us that isn’t easily repaired.

So, don’t mind me. I am trying to reconcile what I wished for and what I thought my life would be with the truth, the reality of where I am. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect any of it. I resent it and am trying to create something different, but first, I have to learn to accept there will be no one beside me, no one to soothe me on a bad day, no one to help me walk through pain, no one to drive me in the dark, no one to hold me when I cry, no one to ensure I get through a seizure. It might take a bit of time to accept a reality I wasn’t expecting, but like everything else, I will get there; I don’t have a choice.

It’s hard when our realities change. When creating new expectations for ourselves, we must shift how we see our world and ourselves. So don’t mind me; I am just over here getting my head straight.

Shadows and Resolutions

I have not made New Year resolutions in decades. They are a form of self-flagellation in which I find little purpose and much to be afraid. What possesses any of us to sit down at the end of each year and make a list of all our ‘failures’ and then make a list of all we will do ‘better’? Really, are we demented? Or maybe we are simply defeatists at heart.

I say this, especially to women: our lists are long and weighty. Our lists are driven by social media and all the faults we find with ourselves daily in the mirror, storefronts we walk by, and catalogs that don’t carry our size. For some reason, our lists always start there, in the feckin’ mirror:

  • Our hips are too wide;
  • Our asses are too big;
  • Our stomachs are too flabby;
  • Our tits fell another inch;
  • Our thighs touch instead of gap;
  • Our arms jiggle;
  • Our necks, oh shit, our necks aren’t smooth, and neither are our faces anymore.

Our friends don’t help; they have the latest diet locked down and don’t see any harm in telling us that if we would only buy their products, maybe we could lose weight and be beautiful again. The worst thing is, we think perhaps they are right, maybe we could. Or maybe they could STFU and remind themselves they are as imperfect as we are.

Then there is that shadow in the mirror that reminds us of all our failed relationships, friendships lost, marriages ruined, lovers in the wind, jobs vanished. It is impossible not to look. Impossible not to lift the covers and ask, what could I have done to change the outcome? The shadow of unbearable bullshit stares at you, and the blame game begins, the coulda, shoulda, woulda;

  • I could have said yes, even if it meant I was unheard;
  • I could have spoken up, even if it meant a fight;
  • I could have not held everything so close;
  • I should have listened more;
  • I should have fought for balance between us;
  • I should have told someone;
  • I wouldn’t have been less if I wasn’t so afraid;
  • I wouldn’t have been afraid if I didn’t see myself as unworthy.

You see? Self-flagellation.

Before you can write a resolution, you must look into that mirror and tell yourself what you want that is different from what you have today. Specifically, you have to own your own shit.

What do I want that is different than what I have? Honestly? I am entirely uncertain that I can affect what I want at this point in my life. I think the things I want, the things I believed would make me happy or contented in life, are no longer aligned with my personality dysfunction.

It took a lifetime to get to where I am, to this place of quirks, quiet, heartbreak, and strength. A lifetime of pain, fear, aloneness, and sometimes unremitting loneliness. It took a lifetime of giving everything I had to everyone else, only to be told it, and I was not enough. It took husbands and lovers leaving. It took parents turning their backs in my darkest hours. It took days of never hearing another human voice. It took friends forgetting me, it took siblings turning away.

All of these losses taught me the power of love.

That love was unending, that heartbreak and loss doesn’t stop you from loving those who hurt you. That love simply teaches you how much you can endure and how powerful silence can be. The other lesson is how hard even the softest heart can become if it is hurt often enough.

You see? Self-flagellation.

That mirror shows what is not within your reach. In the silence of my prayers I often ask for grace. I think, though, that I what I seek is something different than grace. It is more, that I don’t hate myself for all my mistakes, for the things I could have done differently, for the secrets I could have told and choose not to. I know that too frequently, I put myself in the way to be hurt as retribution for the wrong I believed I did. In retrospect, I didn’t deserve that, yet I did it anyway at great expense to an already savaged spirit.

So now, though I will not call it a resolution this year, I will spend some small part of the year stitching together some of my heart with stronger threads than I have used in the past. I won’t say it will make me a better person, more loving or kind. I won’t promise that this attempt to heal myself more fully will allow me to find and be loved by another person as I wish; honestly, I believe that ship sailed a decade ago. But perhaps by looking into those shadows without self-flagellation, I will find the pieces that still need healing and will be better able to live the life I have more fully.

This time of Year

Did you use to love this time of year, the entire spectacle of it? Getting ready, decorating the house, putting up the tree, preparing cookies…..you know, the whole Christmas thing.

I think there was a time when I liked Christmas, maybe not as much as others did. But I did like it. There was a time when I looked forward to going to the Texas Hill Country, where my beloved father and my heart mother hosted the family at Hearts Home. Where our Christmas traditions, both frivolous and heartfelt, were lovingly embraced? There was a time when my strangely dysfunctional and blended family came together with love, laughter, and acceptance of our quirks, and we felt blessed we were all there, together.

This was the time in our lives when we baked cookies that filled tubs and made rum balls that might have been more rum than anything else. My sons and I spent days taking orders from family for what kind of cookies we should bake that year; we always made too many, yet they were always gone by the end of the holiday weekend. Grandma always got her special order of Russian Tea Cookies in a special tin we selected each year just for her. One year, my eldest was in charge of the Rum Balls; he just kept pouring until he could work the dough; when those tins were opened several days later, you could get drunk off the fumes; they were the hit of the Christmas candies that year.

Christmas Eve was special. Homemade Eggnog so rich it made your toes curl, and the adult version had us all giggling once we got around the entire table with our gratitude toasts for the year. We never did find a dipper that worked, so there were inevitable spills. What we did do, was find a perfect plastic runner that made clean-up easier. The Gratitude Toasts were a special family tradition; every person in the family, from the youngest to the oldest, said what they were most grateful for, and all the family toasted, loudly then drank. It was inevitable that one of the men would always toast the women of the family, and much cheering would ensue; it was recognized that we were the heart, especially my beloved stepmother, who held us all together for many years.

Another special part of our Christmas Eve tradition was reading the Christmas story. It was always read by the youngest of the grandchildren, and if that child couldn’t read, Grandma read it to that child. No matter your particular persuasion, this was always a special moment for some reason. Perhaps it was simply the connection across the generations.

My family wasn’t big on gift-giving when it came to adults, but we certainly knew how to have fun. The children were given gifts on Christmas Eve and Christmas Morning. We played games; we spent time with each other. We ate far too much, and we talked. The most important thing, we talked. For those who played golf, my parents hosted the Valentine Family Open and even awarded a jacket to the winner each year; it was a weird big deal and full of pageantry and hilarity.

I miss Christmas with my family. I miss my parents desperately during this time of year and the kinship they built between all of us, coming from different places and people. I miss the love that flowed through Hearts Home and my gratitude for being part of that.

I think I use to like Christmas. I don’t think I like it much anymore. I hope you are with family and friends this year. I hope you find things to be grateful for and that you tell your family and friends that you are grateful for them, for their company, and that you are with them this day and the days to come.

Death’s Texture

Loss is something we all face across the years of our life. The circle of life includes the end stage, Death, and we can do nothing to avoid it. We all face Death; it is profound and life-changing for many of us. Death forces us to examine our own lives every single time someone we know dies, whether that person is a casual acquaintance or dearly beloved. Whoever the dead is, we are touched somehow; we look inward despite ourselves.

Death has a texture. Sometimes it is smooth, even comforting. The Death of a loved one after a long illness can be velvet or a long breath released into the night. We are glad for them; they no longer feel pain, and they are no longer suffering. We feel all of this even as we mourn their loss and wonder about the hole in our spirit where they dwelled.

Sudden and unexpected Death leaves you shaken and raw from the inside out. This is the texture of burlap, scratchy and sometimes unyielding; breathing is sometimes forgotten between tears and screams to unhearing ears. Our mourning comes later, after anger and desolation.

As we get older ourselves, we expect Death. We have seen it, some of us more than others. We have buried parents, siblings, friends and even spouses. We have attended the funerals of loved ones and friends. We sent prayers and condolences and too often wondered why them and not us.

We whisper to God a brief prayer to care for those we love. Then we ask again, why them?

Death is the texture of maelstroms and frigid nights, with endless whys.

I am not afraid of Death; I lost that fear many years ago. I am outraged today at the texture and randomness of Death’s choices. I lost another friend this week, someone I have known for nearly fifty years. When I learned of his passing, I felt like silk ropes were choking me. My spirit excised from my body to watch another small piece of me fly even as I couldn’t breathe.

It is strange to run through rapid fire the emotions of sadness, pity, loss, and guilt. Yes, guilt. That peculiar sense of why am I still standing while my friends die around me. My friends who lived normal, even pedestrian lives, while I lived anything but that. Why are my friends dying?

There are no answers to these questions. Mourning includes the questions. Each of us approaches Death and life differently. Death has a particular texture, a feel that cannot be easily defined. Each death must be felt in its own time and given its place in our spirit so that we can mourn as we will, not as others expect of us. No one can tell us the ‘right’ way to mourn a friend’s or loved one’s passing, any more than they can tell us the texture of Death as we feel it.

The Rabbit Hole

“Alice: Really, now you ask me, I don’t think— Mad Hatter: Then you shouldn’t talk.”

Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland

During times of great upheaval, we look for something to balance us, anything that will provide us with ballast in what feels like a storm. It is a rare thing to find, rarer still to find that steadying hand or even that strong arm to give us a feeling that someone else is standing near, lending strength, and will not let us stumble or fall flat on our face.

Too often, what we find instead are those we once believed had our backs are the first to run, the first to hightail it for the door. Then we sit in the center of chaos, wondering how we will sort through brokenness and shattered dreams to make a new life. Too often, the first response is to lash out; we want to know why. Why did you do this? Why did you run? Why did you hurt me? Why didn’t you stay? Why aren’t you here? Oddly, the answer isn’t going to help us fix what is broken or rebuild the life we thought we wanted. The answer is often worse than not knowing.

Within all the chaos, we have meltdowns, and people want to know why; what is wrong with us. They want to offer their best advice during our weakest moments. Instead of listening to us, to what we need, they slide in with their best recommendations to cure what ails us. It really is fascinating how closely linked our pain is to our expectations and how rare it is for others to understand we have them. This is especially true for those of us who spend much of our time alone. When we venture out, it is with our very public face, one we show to keep others at arm’s length and out of our personal world.

When we sit in moments of silence, it is sometimes obvious to us that what we wanted wasn’t for us. If it were, we wouldn’t have had to fight so hard to keep it. I think this is true of nearly every part of our life, from childhood to old age. Those transient things are there to teach us, and no matter how badly we wish they were ours forever, and ever, and a day; they are just lessons in life. So sometimes, we weep, wail, and rattle the bars; then, we move on to the next thing that hopefully will be better for the lessons we have learned. Yet still, we look back and wonder what we did wrong, why we weren’t good enough when we gave all we had, opened ourselves and made ourselves vulnerable to a world that terrified us.

Mad Hatter: “I know a thing or two about liking people, and in time, after much chocolate and cream cake, ‘like’ turns into ‘what was his name again?'”     

 Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland

Not Feeling It

We all have those days when we simply want to stay in bed, pull the covers up and hope that the world will pass by quickly. Everyone has those days. Most of us don’t give in; we put our feet on the floor and get on with it, whatever it is. We know better than to give in to the inclination to hide from the world, no matter how much we wish for a day without the noise. We roll out from our cocoon of safety and plaster on an acceptable look of interest, even a smile, at the appropriate times throughout the day. We hide behind our walls of social acceptability and apologize to others for our moments of snappishness while inside, we howl and wail.

Smile, you are so much prettier when you smile.

Really? Maybe I don’t want to smile. Maybe, just maybe, I don’t feel like smiling. Perhaps I have not one thing to smile about, and I don’t care if you think I am pretty or not. Maybe I stopped caring when the man I loved left without looking backward to see if I was standing or if his action had finally knocked me off my feet. Feasibly, the truth is the world has convinced me that pretty doesn’t do a damned thing for me, and your demand is just another powerplay that I no longer give a damn about.

Stop being such a bitch.

What this really means is stop speaking up for yourself; stop speaking your mind. My question is, haven’t I earned this? The people who demand I stop being a “bitch” are telling me to be quiet and accept their direction, their guidance, and ultimately their demands for compliance. Even more than the desire to shut down challenge is the desire to shut down questions. Stop being a bitch means stop questioning authority, stop questioning accepted knowledge, stop questioning social norms, and stop asking questions. Finally, it means to stop being more intelligent than those around you and refusing to dim your light to make them feel better.

Why don’t you lose weight? Maybe you’d get a man if you did.

Well, maybe I would; then again, given I don’t smile and I am a bitch probably I wouldn’t. Has anyone considered the words coming out of their mouths when they say this to a person? A billion-dollar industry is trying to convince us our imperfection is an insult to the world. Every time we pick up a magazine, we see airbrushed models with ‘perfect’ bodies and faces draped in clothing that will never be made in our size, ensuring our egos will be bruised, and we will constantly question our value. Hell, even our friends and family get in on the size 10 or go home free for all. As far as I can see, it is a barrage of mean, with little value other than making the other person feel good about themselves. How about this instead, if a man sees ME, he will like me or not for all that I am. A man who sees ME will see beyond my imperfections to my heart, spirit, intellect, and all I am and will be intrigued. All the micro-aggressions about my imperfections will disappear, and maybe they will start seeing others as human too.

You should wear make-up, color your hair, and cover your scars/tattoos.

It would be best if you minded your business. All these people with thoughts on how others should ‘look’ really do try my patience. It is no wonder I have retreated further and further into my introversion over the years. Yes, my hair is nearly all gray now. I stopped coloring it almost three years ago during COVID. I am sixty-five years old and have earned that silver for the love of all that is holy. I am not trying to fool anyone into believing I am ten years younger. As for the rest, why? That is an honest question, why should I wake in the morning to don make-up that does not make me feel better about myself, so others are comfortable with my public face? My one concession, I have tattooed eyeliner; it saves me time. As for the rest of my tattoos, why does anyone need to express an opinion? First, I love my art; second, some of my art covers scars that I found far more offensive; finally, all of my art tells the story of my life. I have tattoos to help me heal, but it is, frankly, no one’s business. Why do people believe they can judge and speak their judgment? All I can say is mind your business, walk in my shoes, spend even a week in my life and then talk to me or just shut the fuck right up.

Talking to God, your way or mine.

Most of us talk to something, whether it is God, the Great Spirit, our Journal or something else. I do a little of all of that. I am admittedly not very good at any of it by common standards. Indeed, I am irreverent and do not approach discussions with God the way most who profess Christianity believe I should. I have been this way most of my adult life; while I believe God exists, I am not a great believer in Christianity as it is presented today by the White Evangelical Church. I don’t think God cares if we abase ourselves to speak to him, I think he cares that we speak to him at all, that we have a relationship and come with our hearts open, even when we are afraid, or angry, or hurt. I speak to God, I also pray. These are separate things and possibly misunderstood by many. When I pray, I do so in private; I pray for those I love, I pray for those who need prayer, who need healing, who need to be lifted up. I pray for patience and grace for myself because I do not have much of these things. I greatly resent those who would tell me how to speak to God or pray; you do it your way, and I will do it mine. Thus far, God has not sent a lightning bolt to smite me for my irreverence.

Some days it is hard to put both feet on the floor and start another day. It would be so much easier if people were kinder and just minded their business.

What It Means

Do you know sometimes you can go most of your adult life focused on the wrong things, working hard toward a future that in the end will not be what you planned or expected. Never mind as you sit and contemplate where you are and what you have done, your dreams have not been fulfilled. You can break yourself, physically and emotionally for that pot of gold at the end of that proverbial rainbow and find nothing but pyrite. You can give everything worthwhile up, sacrifice to the pantheon and what you will have in the end will be rooms filled with the chaff of broken dreams. In a world that values the trappings of success above nearly all forms of decency and compassion, far too many of us have fallen victim to the sales job. Now we are learning, there are no ‘do overs,’ for our failures and regrets.

What do we do when we look at life through the prism of our values, ethics, and standards? Those pesky things that are foundational to who we are and where we come from. Do we first question these as they are not a genetic predisposition but rather cultural and familial. As we enter the wider world, we are challenged more often than not, especially if we come from a more traditional culture or family experience. Do we question ourselves, our beliefs, our parents, our faith, our very foundation as we make our way through the maze of often terrifying new experiences? Many do, while some cling to what we know in an attempt to stave off the changes we see around us. The bombardment of information, especially social norms and expectations that may be significantly different from what we know is enough to make our heads spin and our hearts stutter to a standstill.

When we are young, we are sure to at least try some new things, maybe spread our wings in a few new directions. Most of us are brave, wanting to test ourselves against the world. Many of us believe we are both infallible and indestructible. We have worldviews that do not allow for any opinion but our own and rarely allow for facts that do not align with our ‘truths.’ When we are young there is one truth that is nearly universal, we have an unearned arrogance.  

During the arc of our lives, we usually learn many things and most of us lose our arrogance along the way. We learn we are absolutely fallible, we make mistakes, we stumble, we fall down, and we are taught lesson after lesson about just how much we do not know. This is one thing that continues throughout our lives. Sometimes we need the proverbial kick in the ass, taking us down off our high horse but other times it is simply the cruelty of others who wish to see us fail. Still, you fall down, and you climb back up to your feet, learning the best lesson; you are fallible.

The next thing we learn as we step foot into the world? We are absolutely destructible and mortal. Sometimes we learn this through the loss of a beloved parent, or a friend. Other times it is someone within our immediate circle who is faced with catastrophic illness or injury shaking the foundation of our belief in our own indestructibility. Then there is that time we learn this terrible lesson by a close brush with our fragility, this lesson remains with us for the remainder of our years, we either become risk-averse or alternatively we become what is now known as adrenalin junkies. It is an important lesson to learn, our mortality put in perspective, our place in the world filtered down into more realistic terms, more digestible bites. Over time, there will be more masterclasses to embrace, more blows to our confidence and we will in most cases survive them to tell the stories to the next generation.

So, thinking about all of this, what does it really mean? We magically hit the world firing on all cylinders somewhere between 18 and 25 years old. We leave our parents’ protective nest and rush out to do grand things in a world waiting for us to announce our entrance, only to find there is no fanfare and no one really cares. We begin as dilettantes, so certain of ourselves and our personal greatness, so self-assured. Nothing can stop us; nothing can stand in our way. We pronounce, at every opportunity and with absolute certainty, our opinions as fact. We have no need for wisdom from those who have lived longer and done more. We are full of fight and ready for our march to the corner office, or wherever our ambitions are focused. We are insulted by the very suggestion that we might not be ready, or all the Gods forbid we may not know all we need to know.

We weep and rail at the unfairness of it all. The waiting and the hard work of it all, yet while we are doing that which we thought was so unfair and unnecessary something happens. We grow up, we learn, we mature, and we begin to see the reason and logic of it all. That arc between fresh into the world and “been there and done that” is long and in many cases hard. For too many of us, it is filled with heartbreak, failures, and regrets. Along the way, we learn, and we grow; we also try to pass on the wisdom we gathered and the things we know don’t change from generation to generation. No matter where you come from, no matter who you are, no matter your cultural or familial beginnings, some things are truly foundational, even universal.

  • Treat people the way you want to be treated, kindness and compassion never grow old.
  • Ethics and honesty in business and your personal life will always be the best strategy.
  • Put people before things, before money, before your work.
  • Never forget to tell people you love them; they won’t be there forever, and you may not get another opportunity.
  • If you have the chance to lift up another person, do it.

So simple, yet so many of us have a difficult time getting there. In today’s world of greed, myopic selfishness, curated ignorance, and the ongoing attempt to undermine core values as ‘weak’. We tout our faith, religion, and the Sunday-Go-To-Church faithful are quick to beat the drum of their godliness and goodness. Meanwhile, they are busily tearing out the heart of future generations, their children are becoming monstrous, and communities are disintegrating into viciousness, celebrating ignorance over learning, and meanness over compassion.

So, what do we do? We focus on what we can do to make it better and hope time will make a difference. Some of us, well some of us weep at the time we lost being arrogant shits when we still had the time and energy to truly make a difference in the world.

The Downfall and the Fourth Estate

The stunningly stupid have formed into a sustained mob to destroy all of the pillars of our nation, including the fourth estate, the Press. I will admit, there are days I find much of our current media to be less than ethical, less than unbiased, in fact, at times extraordinarily biased. I frequently hope there would be some sign of solidarity, common sense, and reverence for what a free press means to a free society. I look for it, for just a glimmer, but these days, there is rarely even a flicker of it in the eyes of either elected officials or the common man.

Looking at the problem pragmatically is the only way to get to the root cause. The polarization and demonization of the Press have been in the works for decades. Since the days of Reagan and the rise of Cable radio and television, the US public has been inundated with partisan stations that make no bones about their affiliations. Many point to the elimination of the Fairness Doctrine in 1987 by the FCC; however, the Doctrine only regulated terrestrial stations, not cable. One distinction between these, viewers had to pay for cable, whereas terrestrial stations were free. It should be noted, in 1987, the Democratic-controlled House and Senate passed the Fairness in Broadcasting Act, which would have enshrined the Fairness Doctrine in law and covered cable as well as terrestrial television and radio. Ronald Regan vetoed the Bill.

What is surprising to me, how easily those who may have started out wanting to be journalists fell into the trap of being spokespersons for one side or the other. Every day they sit in front of a camera and blather on with opinions and half-truths, feeding their audience what they want to hear and further polarizing the nation. I am reminded how far we have fallen as I listened to the names of the dead of 9/11 being read by their survivors. I am considering the difference of the nation in the days following that horrific day in 2001 and today; they are numerous and seemingly insurmountable at times.

On September 11,2001, President George Bush (R) was in Florida reading with second graders when Flight 11 hit the North Tower at 8:46am; four minutes later, his Chief of Staff Andy Carr informed him of what he then believed was a tragic accident. At 9:03am, Flight 175 crashed into the South Tower. Andy Carr advises the President that America is under attack within two minutes. At 9:30am, the President gives the first of many addresses to the nation in which he says, “terrorism against our nation will not stand.”

Yet, it does stand. In fact, it flourishes, driven on by media mistruth, misdirection, and outright lies.

The story of 9/11 is important because what American’s did after was come together. We came together behind the President, who gained his office under less than ‘perfect’ circumstances. We came together to mourn. We came together across racial, faith, and political lines. Imperfectly at times, our President had to remind us of our humanity, had to personally visit a Mosque and say these too are Americans. But the fact is, we came together as Americans.

Now twenty years later, look where we are, look at what we have become. As a nation, we are incapable of fighting a pandemic. We would rather see our neighbors die than take a vaccine. We would rather put our children at risk than follow science and wear a mask. We allow, even celebrate, a media that has so polarized us that we continue to tune in rabidly despite knowing they tell half-truths and outright lies.

Those we elect to high office tell blatant lies about the election, the pandemic, and everything in between on ‘News’ shows watched by millions. Yet, both the public and the media refuse to call them out. We listen as the media on one side of the aisle call police officers, who were beaten and abused during an insurrection, actors, and liars. We laugh; we repeat the lie despite the pictures of that day. On both sides of the aisle, the media continue to give hours of air and print time to the loser of the election, rather than call him what he is and his lies what they are.

Instead of sober coverage of world and national events, we watch as every media outlet beats their own drum to stir their base further into fury. Is it any wonder we are a nation divided? Whether it is the Big Election Lie, Covid-19, Vaccines, or the end of the war in Afghanistan, there is a common thread. The media is spinning at top speed 24 hours a day to keep their audience in a constant state of rage and ignorance. Whether Left or Right, whether only a slight lean or extreme, they all have one thing in common, the news is not what is on the menu. It is the spin and how to keep the entire nation uniformed, enraged, and polarized.

Worse still, we fall for it. As a people, we draw further apart and become angrier, our fury spilling over onto family, friends, and strangers. We give no quarter, creating an entirely new cultural phenomenon to account for our need to enforce the new wokeness. On both sides of the aisle, the media works hand-in-hand with those who, without facts, demand the destruction of others based only on their hurt feelings. Someone didn’t move fast enough, someone didn’t ‘recognize’, someone didn’t do or say something. Or frankly, someone is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong opinion. It is no longer enough to mind your business and stay out of the way; your opinion must mesh perfectly. You must agree or be labeled, and the labels are many and terrible. You must abjure family, friends, lovers, and others simply for their failure to be in the right group, play on the right team, or by all that is holy, you must be … pick your poison.

The old news room

The protected Free Press is right there dragging themselves and everyone else into the mud, covering themselves in the glory of self-destruction and a nation with them. The truth is, no Right is absolute; it always comes with responsibilities. Yet, it seems in this case, the Press is unfettered and predominately left to its own devices. Enemy of the State? So it was named by the last President with few exceptions, and even those came under the glare of his ire when they failed to tow the absolute line. This takes me back to my original statement, the stunningly stupid have formed a sustained mob to destroy all of the pillars of our nation, including what was once a free press.

I am stupefied that we have fallen so low and wonder what it will take or who will rise up with intelligence, dignity and sense to begin the hard work of setting us back to a place where the fourth estate is a trusted source of information and even opinions come from a place of intellect rather than partisan vulgarity.