It's cherry season! We are huge cherry fans here - crazy about the dark red Bings as well as these rosy golden Rainier cherries shown here and when they are available, I served them every night for dinner.
Back in the 1990s, I had a sweet friend named Shannon. She was quite a bit younger than me, but since she and her family lived across the street and her two boys were about the same age as my third and fourth, we all became great friends.
Shannon had her hands full with those boys. Her husband was a great guy but a Bering Sea fisherman, so he was gone for months at a time, all year round. Thankfully, Shannon's parents lived close by and gave her a huge amount of support, and her sister was also married to a crabber so she was in the exact same boat with her three little boys as Shannon with her pair. All wonderful people.
Her boys were indeed pistols. I remember each of the little Vikings escaping the house and wandering around the neighborhood in nothing more than a diaper when they were barely old enough to walk. As young warriors often do, they were always eager to climb the highest tree, throw the heaviest stone, take the biggest jump on their bikes.
I remember the day when we had some other family friends over. All the kids were out playing in the front yard while us two moms enjoyed a quiet moment in the house, when suddenly my friend looked up at me in alarm. "There's a little boy sitting in your family room," she whispered, her eyes as big as saucers.
I leaned over the kitchen counter to see one of Shannon's boys, not any older than two, sitting on the floor in my family room where he was quite used to spending time, looking through a stack of picture books on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Apparently, he'd let himself in. I left him to his business and ran outside to find Shannon calling for him, frantic with worry, and explained that her missing toddler was safe and sound, busy with some afternoon reading.
She was mortified but I was charmed. I promised to walk him home when he had finished his project.
Normally, I serve fruit for dinner in the same small white bowls, night after night after night. But a few days ago, my fourth-born surprised me by pulling out a different stack of my ample collection of fruit-sized bowls, and that set me off on a week-long spree of exploring other options.
In these days, there were quite a few full-time moms with young kids on our street. Shannon and I hung out with all of them, but she and I were the tightest. Despite the decade-long gap in our ages and experiences, we bonded over art. We recognized in each other a passion for all things visual and I loved the attention to detail that Shannon brought to every bit of her life.
Her home, her garden, her kids' party invitations, the family Christmas cards, her clothes - she gave everything she touched a special sparkle. She inspired me and apparently, I inspired her too. We were kindreds.
One day, for no reason at all, Shannon brought me over a gift. It was a decorating book full of rooms that were, in Shannon's opinion, just my style. And I was tremendously complimented by the cozy vibes. The author, greeting card designer, children's book illustrator, and decor editor behind the photos was Mary Engelbreit, an icon of the day known for her whimsical country aesthetic and most specifically, her iconic red cherries.
Mary Engelbreit was obsessed with red cherries.
I treasure that book, and still have it to this day. It makes me smile just to see it on the shelf.
These moments I spend seeking out special little touches to bring interest and variety into everyday life make me think of my friend, Shannon, and smile. She was a beautiful soul.
I'm sorry to say that Shannon's story does not have a happy ending.
The toll of long, lonely stretches of single parenting led to heavy drinking, which led to divorce, which led to a long, up-and-down journey through recovery while the boys moved away with their dad. Shannon went from her life as an almost-always solo parent to a heartbroken non-custodial mom who needed to get sober before she could spend time with her kids.
This broke my heart too.
It took a long time, but Shannon finally got sober and stayed sober, and began seeing her boys again. On a Sunday evening after one of those first few visits, she was driving home on the expressway where another driver cut her off; Shannon lost control of her car and slammed into a highway construction vehicle parked just off the shoulder. She died instantly.
I miss Shannon. I wish she still lived across the street from me. I wish she was still married and enjoying her by-now empty nest and chatting with me about home decor and ripe red cherries and all the other lovely things under the sun that we would chat about back in the day.
But like all who pass away from this earth, Shannon is never too far away from me. I feel her presence and I treasure the time we had together.
And I think of her absolutely every time I serve cherries for dinner.
“Showing gratitude is one of the simplest yet most powerful things humans can do for each other.” -Randy Pausch * * * * *
When my mother was sick with Lewy Body Dementia and desperately in need of competent and compassionate care, I reached out to a perfect stranger who stepped in, stepped up, and saved us both.
Forever, I will be grateful to Joanna and her staff for the sensitive standards of safekeeping and gentle companionship they gave to my mom during her time of great need.
These past few months, as Covid has swept the planet, I've thought of Joanna and her team caring for other people with dementia, people who can't possibly grasp the concept of a worldwide pandemic - the rest of us can barely make sense of it ourselves, people who must feel inexplicably cut off from their families and regular routines. And my heart has filled, over and again, with gratitude for dementia caregivers everywhere.
A few weeks ago, I realized that instead of just feeling gratitude, it was high time that I acted upon my feelings. So I reached out to Joanna and asked how I could help. She suggested that I write notes of appreciation to her staff, and so this project was born.
Inspired by famed children's book illustrator and collage artist, Lois Elhert, I created eight postcard-sized flower designs from watercolors. On the flip side, I added a little plaid pocket and tucked inside a note, each with the same message:
^ Morning glories,
^ daffodils,
^ Oriental poppies,
^ hyacinth,
^ delphinium,
^ more hyacinth,
^and pink and blue carnations.
Hello!
Thank you.
Thank you for caring for people with dementia.- people who have lived lives of dignity and value, people whose brains are ravaged by this terrible, invisible disease, people who can no longer care for themselves. I'm sure that they thank you, in their own sweet ways, for what you do. I trust that their families thank you too. But as a society who depends upon people like you to care for and love on our bewildered elders, we don't say thank you enough. And as Covid 19 devastates our world, making your work exponentially more difficult and also more important, it's my turn to speak up.
Thank you
* * * * *
I know.
It's just a short note accompanied by some scraps of colored paper. Nothing I can do will ever compare to the demanding work these caregivers provide, the difficult conditions they face, the ever-uphill battle of emotional, physical,and spiritual care they pull from deep in their hearts..
My gifts to them are literally just words on a page.
But simply saying thank you is the best thing I can think of to do.
To read more of the many stories I've written about my mom's long walk with dementia, go here. The posts are shown in reverse order, from the most recent to the oldest, so if you want to start at the beginning, scroll down.
"Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for kindness." -Lucius Annaeus Seneca I also brake for big red dogs, but that's a different story.
Turning left out of my first-born's apartment complex is always a challenge, an unintended game of chicken on a busy suburban street. On a recent weekend afternoon, headed home after a half-hour of socially distant chatting, I found myself as usual, hunched up over the steering wheel, whipping my head back and forth, back and forth, looking for a hole in the steady flow that would at least let me zip out into the center lane, halfway to the promised land of the far flow of traffic.
Thankfully, of all the hazards lined up with this particular traffic maneuver, dealing with pedestrians is not one of them. Sure, sidewalks edge the busy street, but they are usually empty. There's no crosswalk across the driveway to my daughter's apartment, so I typically pull right up to the first lane of traffic, which affords me the best vantage point for finding my opening.
It was thus that I found myself on this particular day, engaged in all the customary forward-leaning, head-whipping behavior when I spotted a rare pedestrian headed my way.
More specifically, he was a man out on a run.
In a glance, I observed that he was an athletic-looking guy, maybe in his thirties, cruising along at an impressive pace. He sported a pair of Air Pods and some sweet Nikes, and all together, those clues led me to assume he was probably a regular runner.
Which made me instantly sympathetic. As a regular walker, I know full well that many drivers out on the roads tend to overlook courtesy to pedestrians, and I get nearly run over several times a week.
So I put a pause on my back-and-forth traffic spotting to wait till he ran past me, and then quickly gauged the clearance around the front end of my car. I was nosed up pretty close to the onrushing cars but there was enough space for him to safely slip past me.
Barely enough. But enough.
All of these thoughts leaped through the synapses in my brain in a millisecond.
And then one more consideration crossed my mind.
The man was black.
And as I thought once again about all those inattentive drivers and near-misses that I deal with on a daily basis, it occurred to me that this man probably has to deal with worse. Much worse
Just as the man approached my car, I suddenly found myself shifting into reverse and backing up about a meter, giving him more than enough room to run straight across the driveway without having to edge around my car, and a very comfortable margin of safety from the cars rushing by.
I didn't need to move my car. I wanted to move my car.
I decided to give him an extra measure of respect and courtesy that, as the events of recent weeks have reminded us, black people are often denied.
He quickly ran past me without glancing up.
* * * * *
Now I know this isn't justice. Me backing my car up a few feet to let a stranger run past is not going to stamp out systemic racism, eliminate police violence, or instantly solve the world's problems.
And I have no interest in being a white savior.
It was only a simple act of kindness, this giving way, and in the moment, it was the best I had to offer to the human being who crossed my path. And I'm glad I did.
Before the fence came down, I wonder if my neighbors realized that I hang white orbs in my tree for no purpose other than I like them.
After standing tall for three decades, our six foot cedar backyard fence has finally earned its rest. Earlier this week, our work crew came in and got cranking, which of course means that they first demolished the whole wobbly affair. Our fence died a brave death and surely went to Valhalla.
I'm sorry to say that I have quite a few bald patches in my yard. Gracie's piddle does not agree with the grass. Bet my neighbors didn't see that eyesore coming.
Because the fence lives on our side of the property line, that means that we are the ones responsible for arranging the work. Though they will definitely benefit from the new fence and peacefully agreed to share in its cost, my three backyard neighbors have had very little say in the whole affair. Actually, none at all.
So when the workers showed up on Monday and began sawing away and carting off the old broken-down beast, the neighbors had no choice but to grin and bare it.
Since I knew the fence crew would be working throughout the back yard, I moved all my outdoor furniture onto the relatively neutral patio space. To anyone who isn't privy to my thinking, it must look quite a disorderly jumble.
And I do mean bare it. Never have I had such unobstructed views into my neighbors' private spaces so I was not prepared for what I saw.
Let's just say there was more mess and clutter than I expected.
And at first, I got a little judgy.
Huh. Who knew these people were such slobs, right?
But with flaming cheeks, I quickly realized my mistake. I'm the one who tore down their fences; I'm the one who put their private spaces on semi-public display, without even stopping to ask if that was okay.
Who am I to shame them for what I caused them to reveal?
And yes, I do have a giant purple trellis standing out in the middle of my yard. It will go back into its corner once the fence is done, but for now, it looks ridiculous.
As I mulled over my outrageous hypocrisy, I wondered if I might have stumbled onto a metaphor.
In a matter of a week or two, our nation - our entire world - has demolished the longstanding walls of careful silence around race, and opened up new spaces for conversations about some previously guarded topics like white privilege, systemic racism, allyship, and protest.
And if we - the people asking for these conversations, demanding that the old silences be broken, tearing down these walls - criticize our brothers and sisters for how they respond to this new openness, well, then maybe that's just as judgmental as me turning up my nose at my neighbors' plastic clutter, weedy gardens, and unswept patios.
Rather than judge anyone for where they stand on matters of race, whether they are ready to tear down the system tomorrow, or still coming to terms with the idea that they're looking at the world through white-colored glasses, I respect their journey.
Because the only journey worth taking is the one that we all take together.
Together, with my brothers and sisters of all colors, I hope and pray that we can build a world where we can respect one another, forgive each other our trespasses, and live in neighborly peace
That's what I'm dreaming of.
And while I realize that in this process we all may be revealing things that aren't too pretty, I'm glad we are finally tearing down our fences.
Uh and then there's this corner. When I look at my yard from my neighbors' point of view, I guess I've got a little junk in my own trunk that I need to deal with, too. I'm glad they are giving me grace.
"If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude." -Maya Angelou
Welcome to the hardest working room in my house.
Not only does the laundry room do battle against a dozen loads of laundry a week, but this is the main thoroughfare to the garage, and the pets' dining area.
Well, I should say that my two previous dogs took all their meals here but not Gracie. She is a wild woman who must dine outside. It's not so much her table manners that cause the problem. She literally eats every bite of her food without so much as dropping a crumb because, you know, crumbs are delicious.
And though she drinks like a thirsty camel, she doesn't splash around too badly. No, the problem comes when my beautifully feathered Irish Setter lifts her head from the drinking bowl, and water streams in cascades and rivulets from her lips to her chest and on a good day, all the way down to her belly. She's earned the nickname, Niagara Falls, and it suits her well.
But wait. Back to my point.
The thing about this room is that despite the constant wear and tear, I've done very little in the way of updates or some much needed renovations.
Oh, the walls have been painted a few times. They are still my white of choice, Behr's Bleached Linen.
We've run through a few washers and driers over the years. These seemingly small Bosch units run plenty big super-sized loads even though the machines maintain sleeker profiles than the typical American brands. Love.
And maybe ten years ago, I hung my second-born's monochrome circle art and three wood shelves along the main wall, which definitely bumped up the style factor.
I also sprung for a bitty little mirror with a round wooden peg which I inexplicably love. My purse hangs there and every time I pick it up or drop it off, that mirror sparks a new round of joy in my heart.
See the item on the white board that says "laundry room floor"? Yeah. That's been there for years.
But otherwise, the laundry room carries on much the same as it always has. And it has become somewhat of a battered affair.
Natural birch peg railings came from Crate and Barrel back in the day. I think I may have bought them before we moved from Chicago.
Hanging baskets were a catalog purchase from the babyhood days. The larger one, which now holds my daughters' slip ons, used to house a stash of my favorite catalogs back in the day. Oh, the memories of the hours I used to spend quietly window shopping through catalogs while my babies took their afternoon naps. What an extravagant use of my precious time.
And that white board is a relic of the homeschooling era, when it was taken down off the wall and carted around the house for endless purposes, most of which had nothing to do with me. Now it mostly stays fastened to the wall, covered in lists of appointments, project notes, and the ubiquitous to-dos.
The dish to the right of the faucet is the cats' watering hole - usually there are a couple more dishes on the counter holding the dregs of one of their wet food feasts. However, Gracie makes a daily habit of jumping up and grabbing the dishes, carrying them off in her teeth to her spot on the couch where she carefully licks out every molecule of cat food. It's cute but very annoying.
I gotta be honest though - this room has been worn to a frazzle. The sink bears the scars of three decades of painting projects cleaned up here, the old Formica counter tops belong in a mid-century museum, and the floors - well, they have died an undignified death.
It's time - no, it's a decade beyond time - for me to get some work done here. The money has been set aside for a reasonable renovation and I've got a pretty good idea of what I want.
So why don't I just pull the trigger and give this room some love?
I can't say for sure.
Maybe it's these crazy, uncertain times.
Maybe I have attachment issues.
Maybe I secretly love that almond Formica.
Whatever the reason, I recently opened my eyes to find that my resistance to change has led this room to devolve to a messy, cluttered, and ugly space. I'd let the room languish. And a few weeks ago, I decided to fight back.
What do you do with wet dish towels that are waiting to join a load of laundry? My system is to hang them on the side of the washer so they can dry as they bide their time, a solution that is practical but not all that cute.
So I've dedicated myself to a new laundry room attitude. I cleaned out the cupboards so that my supplies no longer have to jostle for space. I restyled the shelves to my satisfaction. Bought a few new towels. Added a happy plant. Cleaned up the clutter on the peg racks.
And probably most importantly, I've been on top of my cleaning routine - sweeping the floor daily, staying on top of getting the clean laundry put away, wiping down the counter pretty much every time I walk by, And I'm finding, much to my surprise, that even with her obvious bumps and bruises, there's still some life in this old girl.
Someday, I will indeed get a new counter - running the entire length of the wall, fingers crossed - and a new floor that is not 80s vinyl. Maybe I'll even ditch the unsightly but incredibly functional plastic laundry baskets.
Gracie says she's not here to critique the decor - she's just hoping to steal some more cat food.
For now, I'll just keep wiping up the cat hair, acknowledging my resistance to change, and waiting for my laundry room's time to come.
Covid and
quarantine and
work from home and
fear of the future and
furloughs and
daughters very far from home and
all the usual chaos of the world
we now have the agony of more black people dying at the hands of the police. From what I can tell, the whole nation is horrified by the new waves of violence, and social media is feverish with calls to action.
And to be one hundred percent clear, I'm for that.
I"m for people paying attention to what's happening to our black brothers and sisters.
I'm for equal rights.
I'm for an end to systemic racism.
I'm for peace and brotherhood and compassion and love among all people.
But I am not for the
impatience
lack of education
guilt and shame
and negativity that I hear and see, coming from all directions.
These things make me tired. And sad.
Because there is so much we need to talk about and so little space for a real conversation.
Let me try to begin.
* * * * *
America's problem with racism is not new.
Things did not begin to go wrong
when George Floyd's neck went under that police officer's knee.
when Amy Cooper ominously threatened to call the cops on Christian Cooper
when Breonna Taylor was gunned down in her own apartment.
when Ahmaud Arbury was shot and killed by a father and son while out for a run.
No, I'm sorry but these racially-motivated outrages go back through the centuries, all the way to the very beginning of America. The first black slaves came to the colonies in 1619. That's a year before the Mayflower pulled in.
Those of us who were around for the Civil Rights Era of the 1950s and 60s can testify to the ongoing narrative of racial injustice and police brutality. In those days, black people were killed not just by police but at the hands of angry white citizens: consider the 1955 case of a 14 year old black boy named Emmett Till who was accused of wolf-whistling at a white woman in a Mississippi grocery store who was found dead, disfigured, and dumped in the bottom of the Tallahatchie River. In 1964, three civil rights workers in Mississippi sent to register black voters ended up dead and their bodies dumped in a partially completed dam. While looking for them, authorities turned up a number of anonymous bodies, victims of past lynchings and murders. Apparently, the KKK was involved.
We were also outraged by police attacking otherwise peaceful protest movements, like Martin Luther King Jr's 1965 Selma to Montgomery march. Police attacked the unarmed protesters with billy clubs and tear gas; one of the organizers, Amelia Boynton, was beaten unconscious and the event was tagged Bloody Sunday.
I'm not sharing these stories to give you nightmares but to make an important point.
Racism may be new on some people's radar, especially Gen Xers, Millennials, and Gen Zers who were not around for the highly charged Civil Rights Era, but it's important to keep a realistic perspective:
Racism has been a fact of American life since the beginning. The racist events of 2020 are horrific in their own right, but must be considered in the context of the past decades and centuries; the latest in a long, miserable line of dominoes to fall.
Though the current reality is unacceptable and we still have much work to do, it's important to respect the hard work and sacrifices that many black and white Americans have made in the past to advance the cause of racial equality. We are fortunate to stand on their shoulders.
* * * * *
I'm entirely supportive of our new national conversation on racism. I think it's vital to moving forward, and I love that folks from all corners of life are speaking up. But as listeners, we have a responsibility to test those words, to hold the speakers accountable to history and common sense, to think about rather than simply feel our response.
Case in point.
I love Trevor Noah. I didn't follow him during his stand-up days, but since he took over at The Daily Show, I often watch his videos. I enjoy his smooth manner and sly sense of humor, and respect his intellect and point of view.
Ditto for his recent piece, a passionate and eloquent commentary about our current situation. He says a lot of beautiful, thoughtful, interesting things and I love his heart. But when Noah mentioned that people in power pushed back against Martin Luther King Jr. telling him that his was the "wrong way" to protest, I was shocked. I'd never heard that idea before.
So I looked into some facts.
Other than a few nut jobs at the FBI, a minority of die-hard racists, and black leaders like Malcolm X who preferred a more violent form of protest, MLK was widely respected and much loved in his day as a nonviolent protester and a man of integrity. He won the Nobel Peace Prize, for heaven's sake, as well as the Presidential Medal of Freedom and Congressional Medal of Honor. A holiday to his honor was established in 1971, three years after his death, and enacted as a federal holiday in 1986. Hundreds of streets have been renamed in his honor; here in my own state, the county that includes the city of Seattle was renamed for him; and his memorial on the National Mall in Washington DC was dedicated in 2011.
That's a lot of love for a black Southern preacher. I found no evidence that MLK was ever disparaged or told that his way was the "wrong way" to protest. Sorry, Noah, you got that one wrong.
And my point here is not to shame Noah but simply to say, we must all take responsibility for paying attention to the facts and not just the emotional volume of our commentary.
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. I take responsibility for my own education and hope that you do too.
* * * * *
As a kid, I often spent a long time trying to fall asleep at night. Thanks to what I now know as Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome, it was quite normal to me to toss and turn for an hour or so after my mom tucked me in, which left me lots of time to ponder the nature of the universe and other such mysteries. It was probably in third grade, when we first got to use actual social studies textbooks with photos of kids from all around the world, sitting in their Polynesian huts or Mongolian yurts or tiny Eastern European apartments, that I began to reflect on my place in the world.
One could debate the merits of my conclusions, but this is where my seven-year-old late-night thought train took me: I am a white American girl, living in the best state in the country. (Detroit was booming in those days.) My parents went to college and someday I will too. We have a nice house, nice clothes, a cool car ('67 Barracuda) and plenty of food. I am smart, strong and healthy. I have literally the best of everything in life and I couldn't be any luckier.
And with that thought came the flip side of the coin. Virtually every other child in the world had, in one way or another, less than me. I felt not guilt or shame because I knew I had done nothing to earn all those wonderful things. I was simply born into them. And the kids who had less than me had done nothing to deserve their fate either. That's just the world into which they were were born.
But I knew, from that moment forward, that my purpose in life was to share my advantages with those who had less. I had no idea what that would look like, but I just knew that in this uneven distribution of advantage, my life's work would be to try to even the score.
While I am not asking for a medal, I'd say that I've kept true to that purpose. With my life, I've tried to embrace differences, to give to those who have less, and to love whoever God puts in my path, blacks, whites, and every color in between.
So imagine my surprise to learn recently that as a white person, I am blind to my own white privilege. I'm told that white people like me are so inherently racist that we can't even see our own racism, and as an old, washed up, morally corrupted Boomer, that's especially true. You know how those Karens are.
Well, I don't think that's a fair conclusion. And I don't think it's true. But I have learned that the more I try to defend myself, to explain myself, the more people pinch their lips together and firmly shake their head, "no." Apparently, the more I say I'm not a racist, the more true it is that I am one.
It's frustrating to be judged by a stereotype, to be unheard, to have people discount my own experience without really understanding who I am.
* * * * *
So if you've been on Instagram lately, you've seen that it's crammed full of posts explaining to white people how to improve our allyship and become anti-racist.
Donate money to black causes
Follow black influencers
Frequent and promote black businesses
Vote for anti-racist candidates
Watch programs and read books about white privilege and racism
Watch programs and read books about black culture
Support black protest movements
Post appropriate memes.
Speak out against racism.
And so on.
I think all those actions are wonderful. And I think that when we do those things, we will help to mend together the broken places that still need repairing between blacks and whites.
But I also think that it's important to be kind. To be gracious. To recognize the guilt and shame we heap upon each other with these lists of responsibilities.
To do any one of those things is a true act of love.
To judge yourself for not doing enough of them is too much.
And I hope the white Americans who want so badly to help their black brothers and sisters will be kind to themselves and to each other, and realize that every single step we take together - no matter how small - leads us that much closer to the promised land.
* * * * *
I am still tired.
But I know I'm not the only one.
The weight of these issues,
of our cares for the black babies tucked into their cribs fast asleep, who haven't learned yet about the world they've been born into,
of our fears for the next black man or woman who stands on the wrong side of a police officer's gun (or knee),
of our agony for the mother whose black teenage son is out on the sidewalks after dark, not realizing the danger he's in,
they hang heavy around our necks.
Certainly they hang heaviest around the necks of our black brothers and sisters, but they cause pain and heartache to white people too.
I will never know exactly how it feels to be black.
And no black person will ever know exactly how it feels to be white.
But I don't think that's our goal.
Our goal is not to come to perfect understanding.
Our goal is to build a place where we can live
in peace and justice,
in kindness and respect,
in true brotherhood.
Our goal is to overcome the evil that has torn us apart.
Deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome some day.
These past few days, I've been riding the George Floyd/Black Lives Matter wave on social media.
Acknowledging our black brothers' and sisters' reality.
Advocating for love and compassion.
Actively speaking my truth.
Encouraging others to speak theirs.
As a part of that well-intended surge of positive energy, this morning, I posted the image shown above - "Silence is not an option." - with my own caption:
Say what's on your mind. Say what's on your heart. Speak your truth. Quote beautiful quotes. Repost, retweet, repeat. Because now is an important time for our great national conversation on race, brotherhood, and peace among the people to move forward and we need to hear each voice. We need to hear your voice. So please. Speak up.
I didn't think it was a bad post. Reading it back even now, I can see my good intentions and positive vibes.
But in my very next scroll, I came across another post, headed up by the now-familiar solid black square and these words, posted by Jen Gotch, an Instagram influencer, business leader, and passionate advocate and author on mental health, especially her own life-long struggles with depression and bi-polar disorder.
I imagine for many it is clear that I wholeheartedly do not feel equipped in any way to navigate what is happening. Normally, when I feel overwhelmed and confused, I retreat. I think, I read, I listen and I hope to learn. I hope to gain certainty, so that I can participate with confidence and conviction. So that I can participate without inadvertently hurting others with my words or my ignorance. So I took some time over the past few days to do just that and quickly realized that the learning I would need to accomplish to get to a comfort level that would make me feel prepared to participate in any way would take more than a weekend, more than a month, it would take the rest of my life and even then it wouldn’t be enough. I was also prioritizing my need to not feel publicly shamed or embarrassed if I got any of it wrong. What I think now is that the act of retreating to gain a comfort level on a subject such as this is in and of itself a symptom of my privilege. I am so sorry if my absence on this issue hurt you or caused you to wonder for even a split second whether or not I cared. In an effort to get it right, I feel that got it wrong. So I am working to become a better ally and friend and I am prepared to participate with the best intentions no matter my level of discomfort. When I get it wrong again, because I know I inadvertently will (I might have even done so here), I will do so knowing that I got it wrong trying, which I realize now is more important than not trying at all.
I read the whole caption in once big gulp, and then I quickly flipped through the comments.
In the blink of an eye, my mindset shifted.
Here's a woman who puts herself out into public space, who painstakingly details her daily pain and anguish - as well as her road maps for recovery - for others to learn from, who advocates for the hurting and broken people of this world every day of her life.
But when she candidly reveals that she needs a bit of time to process the overwhelming trauma that all of us have felt in these last few days of police brutality, public protests, and racial tension, when she apologizes for taking that time to listen, to learn - to think, for goodness sake - probably half of her commenters chided her for her privilege, her lack of sensitivity to her black readers' reality, her apparent decision to waste her platform by not immediately taking a more articulate stand.
What in the name of love are we doing to one another?
With my brain engulfed in flames of passion, I fired off a comment of my own:
Jen, anyone who knows you knows your heart of compassion, of thoughtfulness, of love. Take the time you need to work through this issue in your own head and heart, and when you're ready to weigh in, I look forward to hearing what you have to say,.
In the meantime, look, I get it, people. In this time of great passion and desire to deepen connection with and show much-deserved respect to our black brothers and sisters, we want immediate action. Some of us are ready to jump in to that conversation fast, and feel a deep frustration with those who need to take more time to listen, to learn, to consider what to say. I get how to some, that may feel like betrayal. Like cowardice. Like racism. But I ask that you also consider this: more than ever we must recognize and take responsibility for the power of our words and use them carefully. And if we decide to judge and shame those who want more time to listen and learn before they speak, well, then we may have just missed the point of this moment altogether.
And while my sudden burst of tiny typing mostly burned off the original rush of frustration, I'm still a bit upset with myself.
These days - on top of countless other days just like them, stretching back over the entirety of my life and then centuries back through the history of our nation and the human race - are painful and difficult for everyone. Of course, the victims of this abuse and torment are our black brothers and sisters, and their anguish comes first. But the rest of us are witnesses to their terror, and our ever-expanding awareness of systemic racism and the social evils that these episodes reveal cause real pain and grief for all decent human beings. Grief takes time. Just because someone isn't ready to speak out today doesn't mean they will remain silent forever. And in any case, it's not my job, nor is it anyone else's job, to push someone to speak before they are ready. Looking at it with fresh eyes, my morning post now strikes me as rude and disrespectful. I'm sorry for using my need for urgency to put pressure and implicit judgment on others.
So please, people, let me encourage all of us as I remind myself:
Let's remember what this moment and this movement are all about.
Let's offer our compassion and support to our black brothers and sisters.
Let's respect their journey and recognize their pain.
Let's remember that until all are free, none of us are free.
Let's give to all people the space to listen, to learn, to grow.
Let's give each and every one of us unending streams of mercy and grace.
Let's love one another right now.
* * * * *
Get Together by the Youngbloods
Composed by Chet Power
Love is but a song we sing
Fear's the way we die
You can make the mountains ring
Or make the angels cry
Though the bird is on the wing
And you may not know why
Come on, people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another right now.
Some may come and some may go
He will surely pass
When the one that left us here
Returns for us at last
We are but a moment's sunlight
Fading in the grass
Come on, people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another right now.
If you hear the song I sing
You will understand - listen
You hold the key to love and frear
All in your trembling hand
Just one key unlocks them both
It's there at your command.
Come on, people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another right now.
