LIMINAL SPACE

As 2025 comes to an end, I've been trying to identify what I've been feeling this year.  It's been a wonderful, challenging, exciting, sad, joyful, infuriating time.  And I feel off-kilter, off-center, just "off".  Time is moving so quickly; the world feels more complicated. My desire to slow everything down might be age-related, but also, I think the changes all around us and the disorientation that many people feel might also be the ambient stresses of life in the early 21st century, which is looking so vastly different from what most of us of a certain age could have imagined.  Where are we headed anyway?

I need to mention the American political situation here. I'll  just say that I am absolutely shocked, disappointed, and outraged that apparently I was sold a bill of goopy patriotic goods by my Boomer Generation post WWII enculturation and all that is good and right about our democracy.  It was certainly an illusion (and from a decidedly white middle/upper class privileged perspective) and not something we were/are willing to fight en mass to improve.  

 Politically we are going through a bad patch that is a constant source of shock and disgust.  It feels heavy and sad and depressing and I'm pissed I have to live through it in my older years.  I don't really have the energy for this right now.  My sign waving, calling and writing legislators, marching, going to meetings, organizing, registering voters, etc etc might be worth doing, but the results are not yet turning the tide of corruption and cruelty that is the calling card of the current administration.  

Is this a necessary descent into chaos that is needed before we make our way to truly compassionate governing?  I don't know.  But that would be a good outcome.  Maybe this is a liminal space and what we feel is normal for such a transition.  I leave it to smarter people to analyze.  I just know it has impacted me to the core and I've ended up feeling cynical and sad.  But with some small inkling that there are brighter and better days ahead.  I'd like to be alive to see it.

On a personal level, let's start with learning how to drive again.  My car, a year old now, is still smarter than I am.  I still have not watched the 40 videos on the Kia app that will teach me all the intricacies of how to use all the bells and whistles.  I get in.  I drive.  I like that it's electric and not using fossil fuels.  I like the heated seats and heated steering wheel and a ton of safety features.  I really do need to learn more about it, but oh my.  Who has that kind of time?  And how did we get here?  A transition in to the intricacies of personal transportation happened without me much noticing.

Every other tech device I own also professes to make life easier and seamless.  But there is always a glitch or problem.  My TV has recently been possessed by a demon.  My phone apps and streaming platforms frequently malfunction.  My Alexa has been updated against my wishes and wants now to be my best friend, calling me by name with a new accent.  Our home security cameras randomly cut out.  Our security system always has at least one component part not responding.  My new WiFi can be spotty.  (My MacBook laptop is my one dear, constant, and stalwart tech friend.)  Is this challenging tech world forever, or are we still transitioning into a more reliable and sophisticated tech future?  Is this a liminal space between technologies of the past and future?  (And yes, A.I. is covertly and overtly becoming commonplace and I still don't really understand it.  But it has even played a part in this blog post by defining "liminal" for me to explain it clearly to you -- see below.)

Our 80+ year old house, where we've lived for 43 years, needs nearly constant attention as it always has but now it feels more demanding.  Water in the crawlspace, leaks in the irrigation pump, water damage on the basement floor, the occasional dead mouse smell coming from who knows where. (We live on a wooded ravine and they get in, but how?  We never have figured it out.)  A few light switches suddenly control nothing even though all wiring has been updated and it used to all work. A window seal failure has created a murky fog coating instead of a clear view.  An on-demand water heater beeps at us just for its own amusement.  The gutters clog, the paint chips, the leaves fall, the gophers dig...  We more and more often hire helpers or call upon our son to lend a hand.  Also more and more often we don't want the project anymore, nor do we want to act as project managers.  

There is a transition afoot as we realize at least we can ditch the house.  I say that so cavalierly.  Our home of 43 years is so much a part of us that we feel like we are cutting off a limb when we think of leaving here.  This is where we've lived our productive adult life, raised our children, gathered so often with our sons and their wives and our grandchildren, hosted neighbors and friends, celebrated, grieved, fought, laughed, crawled over every square inch of lawn and garden multiple times, renovated, remodeled, and restored every square inch inside too.  Our privacy on this 1-1/2 acre spot on a wooded ravine in the heart of the city has given us a fabulous back-of-house view of nature with all the other windows opening up huge views of mountains, the bay, and the lights of the city.  It is a unique place we have been privileged to tend and love for these past 4 decades.  But now it's all beginning to feel like a bit much.

And then there's my body.  I've been a life long bit of a worrier about health.  One might say I have some health anxiety issues.  But I have to admit I've been mostly really healthy with no chronic issues.  Until now.  I'm still very healthy "for my age" as they say.  But this past year or so there have been changes.  

I spent a year a while back with a painful hip/supporting muscles issue, at times necessitating using a cane (!), that finally resolved with dedicated physical therapy.  

This year it's been my back, most recently after our Europe trip. I have chronic sometimes activity-restricting significant pain that is stubbornly not going away.  I'm doing all I can, including acupuncture (fodder for another blog post), but it persists. I have a call in for more physical therapy sessions.  

Also, it was discovered I have a wee bit of cardiac calcium build up in my arteries that puts me at some increased risk for a "cardiac event" -- the kind of event I'd least like to go to.  So now I'm doing a ton of tests and scans to see what all of that might mean.  

Last spring I started about a 6 month "flare" of what recently has been diagnosed as Irritable Bowel Syndrome and of course that has been super fun to deal with.  More doctor visits, more tests, lifestyle/diet changes.  (But my new Nerva hypnotherapy app is pretty cool, designed especially to address IBS issues.)  

And then just a couple of weeks ago I got a biopsy on a little tiny scaly patch stubbornly rooted on my right cheek.  Skin cancer.  Again.  I am waiting for a call to set up a MOHS surgery to go in and remove it.  (I thought MOHS was an acronym for something.  Nope.  MOHS refers to Dr. Frederik Mohs who pioneered the meticulous layer by layer surgery to remove the cancer.)  So, my body as well as my house are requiring far more time and money and energy than I really want to give.

Growing older is the ultimate and inevitable liminal space from here to, well,  .... there.

So we do what we can to be proactive and mitigate the biggest worries.  Within the next two years we plan to sell and move to the Continuing Care Retirement Community  (CCRC) we've chosen.  We don't want to be socially isolated in a big house we can't care for; don't want to burden our adult children with overseeing our lives and caregiving; don't want to end up in places we do not choose for ourselves in the event of a health catastrophe.  So we are actively cleaning and clearing our possessions and as anyone who has ever done this knows, nearly every item we hold in our hands also means we are holding memories.  It's hard.  It's disorienting.  It's overwhelming.  While at the same time it's a relief, and exciting, and we are absolutely sure this is the right decision for us.  Still...  

It means facing loss, grief, and a huge change.  We've never lived communally (except Hub in his college dorm freshman year).  The new place is in a beautiful location, surrounded by trees, tons of cool amenities, lots to do, places to go, people to meet and befriend.  (We deeply wish our friends would consider a move with us, but alas, few are interested in this option we've chosen for our latter years.)  It will be a huge adjustment, further from our family, nearly 30 miles from our current community where we've put down deep roots.  And it will be our last home, with care available to see us through this last liminal space.

Liminal space is that time in between.  Like the end of one year and the beginning of another. Or high school to college or retirement to open-ended days.  Or any time of transition, really.  It is generally not a super easy journey, to end one thing and start another.  But such is the circle of life.  Sometimes we might notice it and sometimes we enter into it purposely.  Other times it's just happening on the edge of our awareness or with no awareness at all.  But transitions are life.  Nothing is permanent.  And it's OK to feel off balance.  It's normal.  

So let's be compassionate about all the liminal spaces and the disequilibrium that attends the "time in- between" and help each other through those times.  I think it would be lovely to prop each other up when we feel we are falling into the unknown, like at the end of every year when we look into the void of the next.  I wish us all soft landings.

At least that's the view from here...©

Photo Credit of definition  -- AI response to Google search for "liminal space definition"; 

Also photo of the nature trail at the CCRC we hope to move to.

MILESTONE BIRTHDAY

Nobody much asks adults, "How old are you?" like we do kids.  I guess because holding up that many fingers to represent our age would be a challenge. People would quickly lose count of how many times all ten digits had to flash by to represent the decades.  So how old am I now, since my birthday 2 days ago?  Seventy-five!  Yes, three-quarters of a century old.  I was born when "mid-century modern" decor was just "modern".

I don't usually get too exercised about my milestone birthdays.  They have not been overly memorable since I'm not one to throw parties for myself.  I recall Hub took me to a cocktail lounge on my 21st birthday and we got engaged shortly after that (married that summer).  I recall going to a comedy club with friends on my 30th in suburban Chicago.  I don't recall my 40th or 50th or 60th or 70th with any specificity.  (That is probably just a failure of memory rather than completely uneventful birthdays.  I know the family used to get together to celebrate every year over the past decade or so, and I always enjoyed that.)  I do recall my 65th birthday when some dear friends organized a quiet, but festive dinner with a music and poetry theme.  And now here I am at 75.  

Back in my day, when parents or grandparents turned 75 there was usually a big deal made of it.  Sometimes the church hall was rented out for a big party of relatives and friends.  There were little white bread triangle sandwiches. There was a sheet cake.  For my 75th I invited myself to Son Two's house in the afternoon to visit his new baby, my almost 5 month old grandson.  Such a cutie!  So I got to see the two of them.  Then in the afternoon Son One came by with my younger granddaughter with flowers and goodies and it was a joy to see them.  In the evening Hub and I went out to Happy Hour and I got a free birthday dessert.  All in all a nice day.

But so different from those church hall celebrations I mentioned.  What I also recall about those is that the birthday gal/guy always looked, well, old.  And they probably were.  If you got to 75 you were already beating the odds in some cases or very near the end in others.   We are doing better now with advanced medical interventions and better education about health and fitness.  People tell me I don't "look" 75 and I think that's because we still hold the stereotype of what "old" looks like. 

Hub and I spent a couple days last week in the guest apartment at the older adult community we are hoping to move into in a couple of years.  It's a lovely place full of friendly, welcoming people and we feel we will fit in and be happy there and cared for for the rest of our lives regardless of our needs.  We will start out in Independent Living, but there is also an option for assisted living, memory care, and skilled nursing all on the same campus at no extra monthly fee.  We are trying to be planful and proactive.

Yet, as we walked around we felt maybe a wee bit on the younger side of the demographic, which is unusual for us at our age.  Seeing a corral of walkers at the restaurant, I ran smack up against my own bias, the one I'm always ranting about to other people. All those walkers were for "old" people.  I know better; people of any age might use a walker.  I've taught my granddaughter that ageist stereotypes are born of fear and denial.  Everyone is "old" since everyone is either older or younger than someone else.  So, even though many of the residents were older than we are now, and some used whatever aids available to keep themselves mobile and active, we know we all may be headed in that direction one day.

There is no denying, there is a gravity to turning 75.  

At 75 there is no more denial.  

At 75 I have many more issues that require doctor visits and medications and interventions.  

At 75 certain activities I used to do easily have become more burdensome or at least make me more tired more quickly.  

At 75 I am more discerning about how I spend my time and energy; I want it to be meaningful, enjoyable, and worth the effort.  

At 75 my family and friends are even more precious.  

At 75 I can let go of possessions that no longer "spark joy" and live more simply, with less "stuff".  

At 75 I can prioritize myself, do what makes me happy, challenge myself in new ways, truly settle into knowing who I am, what makes me tick, work to change those aspects of me that do not contribute to health and well-being (physically and psychologically and emotionally). 

At 75 I do not apologize for who I am or what I believe or how I live.  I am my own woman, mostly happy with the lifelong growth and development of my true self.  (I also would like to lose the proverbial 10 pounds, be a little less self-critical when I am overwhelmed, maybe not perseverate quite so much about every ache and pain meaning the end of me.)

At 75 my heart wants to burst with gratitude for my life, my husband, my children, my grandchildren, my friends; for my extended family, my life history, the joys and pains of getting here and being so blessed by it all -- the struggle, the heartache, the mistakes, the hard work, the grace and luck and determination to build something that I am proud of when all is said and done.

At 75 the horizon is so much closer, yet between this day and that final one, there is much life left to live and so much more to learn and observe, so much more resilience to cultivate.  

At 75 I'm pretty excited to take the next step and see where it all leads.

At least, that's the view from here...©

Photo Credit: https://www.macrotrends.net/global-metrics/countries/usa/united-states/life-expectancy 

(The screenshot doesn't show the ages -- life expectancy was 68.1 in 1950 and is 79.4 in 2025 in the U.S.  Lots more info at the website if you are interested.)

MINIMAL CHRISTMAS

Well, three days post Thanksgiving and my "bah humbug" is in rare form.  I need a massive dose of Hallmark Christmas to overcome my ennui.

Let's review:  Remember my posts about investigating and possibly moving to a "LifePlan Community"?  We are.  Not yet, but Hub and I have decided we will leave our too big house with two much maintenance and too much property in 1-1/2 to 2-1/2 years.  No, it's not imminent.  But it is on the not too distant horizon and we know how fast time goes by.  We are in "clean and clear" mode attacking storage areas, unused "stuff" in our spaces, and even starting to eye our furnishings and other everyday items with a gimlet eye.  What will go away (sold or donated) and what will move with us?  So far I see very little I personally want to load into the moving van. I'm excited about a clean slate/new start.  

So, just as I want to declutter, hauling out Christmas decor seems the opposite.  It's just a short-term blast of old red and green that no longer sparks much joy for me.  Hub just set up the tree -- artificial, which we've had for years and which I have not quite gotten over.  I loved our forest trees, but alas, they were a LOT of work, mostly for Hub.  I will throw some decorations at it later.  Done.

I have other items to set here and there but mostly I am keeping it to the very, very barest minimum since we will barely be here to see it and then in short order will have to lug it all back up to the attic.

"Barely here?" you ask.  Yes.  We are leaving for 10 pre-Christmas days in Hawaii.  Last year I got annoyed at Christmas and the enormous difficulty we seemed to have getting family and/or friends together to do much pre-December 24th celebrating, so in a huff I declared, "Next year I'm just leaving!"  So we made reservations to head to our Kauai retreat.  

Now, of course, I am barely over my month-long September-October Europe trip and wonder why I decided to add another trip to my schedule and more stress to the usual holiday madness.  (OK, as noted, it's not that "mad".  We are mostly just here in the house alone trying not to eat too many cookies while we look for a half-way decent movie to watch.)  So, Kauai will be fun -- decked out for the holidays with the addition of palm trees and beaches and sunny skies.  Once there, I'll love it.  As always.

What has slowly evolved is how many fewer opportunities I have to see my family.  I've noticed over time they seem to have their own lives, which do not feature ME!  I don't get it, but it's true. Hahaha. There is no rift, no animosity; we all get along great.  It's just that they are in the thick of the "busy" part of life -- careers, homes, kids, friends, activities, exhaustion. I'm sad a lot that I don't see or hear from them much.  It's even true of the grand-girls as they've grown into pre-teen and teen years with their own interests and activities that put "Grandma Days" low on the priority list.  In spite of my efforts, we had not been all together in one place at the same time since August when we welcomed our new grandson to the family. That drought ended this week as we gathered on Thanksgiving at Son Two and DIL's new house with new baby. We had a great time together.  

In years past, December used to be the month of intensive family time, so even when we didn't see each other as often, I knew December would compensate.  But in recent years it seems not so much.  No group outings to the tree farm, our two December birthdays are combined if we can manage a gathering at all, shorter time together on Christmas Eve and/or Christmas Day.  No New Year festivities for sure.  

It's weird to grow older and have the time, interest, and desire for family togetherness run smack up against the exact time of life for them when there are just too many demands to make that happen.  So we take trips. We look forward to moving to an older adult community where we will find lots to do and people to hang out with.  We will still try to beware of too much cookie eating and will still complain that every Christmas movie has the same plot. We will still miss our kids. But life changes and evolves and what once was a season I found overwhelmingly busy has become a season that is far too quiet.  Decorating the house just doesn't seem that important. 

Wearing my Santa hat under a palm tree, spending a couple of nights in the guest apartment at our future new community enjoying their lobby trees and beautifully lit grounds, dropping off donations to charitable organizations and the local school for their gift-giving project, walking the local Arboretum hung with brightly colored, holiday-themed yarn pom poms (about 50 of which I made and donated), strolling the waterfront marina to see the light displays and lighted boats and the reindeer in a big pen, sipping a peppermint mocha at our fave coffee spot, having a festive mocktail at the local speakeasy...these have become Christmas.  Not at home, but in community -- where people of good cheer gather to share the season.  And I will be with my family on Christmas Day, here in our big old house for at least one more Christmas.  For that I am incredibly grateful.  🎄

At least, that's the view from here...©

Photo Credit: www.pixabay.com

  

WENT THERE, DID THAT, CRIED A BIT : EUROPE TRIP PART 5

So, let's finish this up.  Now for the itinerary, the WOW moments, the exhaustion.  LOL

In my first trip post I included a map of our itinerary stops if you want to refer back.

#1 Haarlem, Netherlands:  We arrived a few days before our tour began so we were there for 5 nights total.  It started to feel like "home".  

WOW Moment -- The quiet part:   A sidewalk cafe watching the bikes race by and locals go about their day.  Walking in a tree-lined quiet neighborhood past an elementary school where parents gathered in a large group at the gate to gather up their children into passenger carts on their bikes.  Meeting our tour group, curious to know them, knowing we will be together for three weeks....

WAIT!  STOP! 

I had a whole different idea for this final post.  I planned to go through each stop on our itinerary and describe my salient thoughts and feelings, the WOW moments -- sort of a travelogue, complete with lovely photos.  I only made it to typing out our fourth stop (Salzburg) when I ditched that idea and deleted the whole thing.  Not working.  

I realize my daily Trip Journal had all of that, and more, stated with more richness and immediacy. This blog post felt like a sterile and distant summary.  Even I was bored with it.

So here's what I will say instead:  

I came home completely exhausted.  I'd caught a bad cold, which showed up on the second day home, and lingers still.  I wrecked my back lugging my suitcase and backpack up and down hundreds of stairs, over bridges, on and off buses, trains, trams, boats, gondolas, up and down hotel stairways.  I have taken large-for-me quantities of Ibuprofen in the past 2-1/2 weeks and have sat with a heating pad on my back daily.  My sciatica and SI Joint pains are significant, as well as the return of my hip/periformis pain which I thought "cured".  Yes, I'm whining.  This trip took a physical toll and I am sad about that.  I feel old and feeble in the aftermath of it all.  But on the trip I felt strong and capable.  Delayed misery.  I came home thinking my Rick Steves tour days were over after this, our 4th tour.

Jet lag and changing hotels every two nights is no joke.  Neither are the sometimes sleepless nights and 6 a.m. alarms to get to breakfast and on the bus by 7:00 or 8:00 a.m.  Travel is not "vacation".  This isn't a leisurely pursuit.  It is the pursuit of sights and experiences and surprises and oohs and ahhs, coupled with the price to be paid for the distinct thrill and deep pleasure and satisfaction of seeing and experiencing iconic sites that for some are only dreamed of or are the stuff of TV and movies. 

 

On the plus side:  I was shocked to be moved to tears so often, in a good way.  I've written many times in this blog about the many interesting traits of "highly sensitive people" and I am among the 20% of the population blessed with those traits.  So tears, especially of the bittersweet kind, are common for me.  Still.  I didn't expect to see Michelangelo's  David in Florence and immediately start to cry.  Same with the Birth of Venus.  Same with walking into Notre Dame.  (My art history classes in college came to life.)  Same with walking into our top floor hotel room with huge windows looking out over Paris. That might have also been relief that the 6 a.m. wake ups and long busy days of the tour were over and we were on our own in Paris for three more days in a hotel room where I didn't have to step over my suitcase to get to the bathroom.  RS is known for choosing small, "charming" hotels -- emphasis on small this time.

I am proud of how I handled times of feeling unwell, of stress, anxiety, and frustration.  High sensitivity means high degrees of emotional, empathetic, and physical discomfort overload.  I felt it all and was able to let it go. 

I am deeply grateful for the many ways Hub and I supported each other through times of sadness and difficulty.  We shared the same tour-related frustrations, made allowances for each other's moods, opinions, and habits.  The everyday work and dedication we continue to put into this 53 year marriage pays off in ways large and small.  I felt we were a solid team.  

At one stop in particular, the trip brought up family of origin memories for Hub, with the old baggage still recognizable.  For me I heard the familiar 'I'm not good enough' inner voice at times for reasons that are familiar.  And we were there for each other working through it all.  Real life comes along no matter where you go.

Hub also supported me through my significant frustrations and feelings of being "left out" at times. I have made choices based on health and spiritual values to be meat and alcohol free in my diet. But the group meals were mostly meat focused. I was the only pescatarian/vegetarian, so I had fish and had two inedible vegetarian offerings (See photo of rice/bread crumbs/cheese balls w/spinach. Nope.).  And there was an alcohol focus; LOTS of wine, beer, and other liquors at every dinner and at stops in between which seemed to delight everyone.  I was the only non-alcohol drinker, so generally I had sparkling water in place of alcohol.  It was either that or juice or a carbonated soft drink at dinner.  (I'm not a child.) Not a mocktail in sight.  At other tastings and "alcohol occasions", I wasn't offered anything. Hub joined in with all the meat and alcohol offerings, but he said he saw clearly through my eyes how I was so often not included in talk of food and drink and the "party" atmosphere of after-dinner Lemoncello shots.  I tried to be a good sport and smile through it all.  I'm not sure how to do any of this differently. It's the nature of being a minority in a majority culture, and it's hard.

I noticed that the language barrier was a low level frustration.  I only speak English.  I could not read street signs, could not understand anything anyone was saying that was not in English and even then the accents were difficult to navigate.  I could overhear a conversation and still not know what anyone was talking about. I did not know what all cultural references were or how to interpret the local customs.  I realized the deficit in not learning a second language. (Or third or fourth or fifth language, as our tour guide did, moving seamlessly between them all as needed.)

I have a deeper appreciation for why those who come to the U.S., either by choice or in desperation, want to gather in enclaves of ethnic and national commonality.  I would seek out those of my language and culture in a strange land too.  I am in awe that people can assimilate as they do into a new home so different from their own.  And I was only in Europe, not exactly an unknown entity of cultural confusion.  

I noticed I felt safe there.  We all learned about and protected ourselves from the tourist scams and petty street crime.  But I never felt my physical safety was in jeopardy.  I realized how freeing that felt.

I noticed how often I was frustrated by the crowds nearly everywhere we went.  And I realized I was one of those contributing to the crowd.  We were all there to fulfill a travel goal, to have perhaps a once in a lifetime experience.  We and the locals alike, in that great sea of humanity were all the same -- with hopes, dreams, joys, challenges, families, jobs, worries, humor, hunger, and exhaustion.  We were crowds of beautiful human beings trying to live good and meaningful lives.  I did not feel an "us" and "them" divide.

While not everything made me cry, almost everything made me grateful and incredulous that I was actually there.  We saw so much, so many iconic sights/sites.  Scenes, places, people, memories pop into my mind at random times and I feel a warm and grateful appreciation for my great good fortune to have gone there and to have shared it with such a stellar group of people as our tour mates.  One never knows how a group will come together.  This one felt like a group of friends from the start and more so as we said our goodbyes.  What a gift. 

So what were my favorite WOW moments?  The majesty of the Swiss Alps and the surprise of Paris charming me when I was so prepared to dislike it, based on what I'd heard from others.    

Will I ever do another Rick Steves tour?  Well.....maybe not.  At least not after the NEXT one we have booked for next spring.  Scandanavia here we come!

At least, that's the view from here...©

CULTURE, CRIME, AND PUNISHMENT: EUROPE TRIP PART 4

Let's start with taking your life in your hands when traveling in Europe.  Even our local guide in Haarlem, Netherlands (20 miles west of Amsterdam) lamented that bicyclists have been given rather liberal legal preference when it comes to right of way laws.  On this trip, our second in less than two years to the Netherlands, what we experienced last time in Amsterdam was also the norm in much smaller Haarlem.  Bikes Rule.  The pecking order is 1) bikes, 2) cars/trucks, 3) pedestrians.  So on foot you take your chances.  

Yes, there are stop lights and walk signals.  Cars and people mostly obey them.  Not so much cyclists.  They whizz across lanes and around corners going full cruising speed and the onus is NOT on them to beware.  Sure, they are supposed to yield to motorized traffic coming from their right and are supposed to use caution at crosswalks. But...we learned the Dutch word for bike and took to warning our fellow travelers by shouting "feits! feits!" whenever bikers came barreling down on our group.

In Europe there are a LOT of bikes.  Moms pick up their kids from school ON BIKES! (And even Grandma gets a ride.) I love the idea of human powered transport and thumbing the nose at the fossil fuel industry.  But hey, give a care for the lowly walker!  

When crossing the street, even WITH the walk sign, you can get across two lanes of stopped traffic, but watch out for that bike lane (as wide as a car lane) because they DO NOT STOP, so don't assume you can safely walk across the entire street on a walk signal!  It amazes me there are not more collisions.  What you can count on, in some places, is being yelled at or flipped off if you venture into a biker's claimed territory.  (All of this also held true in Paris, but the bikers were more friendly and less confrontational.  Or maybe by the end of our trip we'd become more docile in their presence.)

Moving on to Italy, in Rome in particular, crossing the street becomes an act of living on the razor's edge of life and death.  Our tour guide actually gave us a tutorial/demonstration on crossing the street. There are stop lights and walk signals at some corners, but crosswalks with no signals were more prevalent.  So, we all followed behind him as he confidently stepped off the curb into a crosswalk where 2-4 lanes of cars zoomed by without a glance at him until he calmly kept walking, with arm casually outstretched, turning his head to make friendly eye contact, and walking at a slow and measured pace across the street as cars stopped within a foot of him/us, grudgingly giving in to either stopping or running us over, which seemed the bigger hassle for them I guess.  A few stragglers in our group tried to pick up the pace and sort of jog across the street, causing our tour guide to call out, "Don't run!  Don't run!" as if doing so turned us into prey.  It was all very dramatic, but I'm proud to say we became quite adept at stopping traffic.  Caio!

By the way, in Austria, there are ample stop lights and walk signals and NO ONE will step off that curb without the walk sign lit even if there hasn't been a vehicle in sight for the better part of a month.  I love this allegiance to an orderly society. 

So pickpockets are a thing.  I have some nostalgia for the "profession" given that I loved reading Dickens' Oliver Twist and our high school senior play was the musical, "Oliver!"  Great fun, those street urchins!  In real life 21st century big cities, pickpockets are no joke.  And they don't wear the giveaway raggy clothing.  They look like regular people; they are clever, and skilled and can spot a careless tourist with uncanny accuracy.  They must hate that automated announcements in the Rome and Paris Metro stations warn passengers about the presence of pickpockets.  Go to any crowded area where tourists gather in tight knots of people (public transportation, iconic sites such as the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre, Vatican, Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, museums, cathedrals, etc.) and you are are pretty sure to encounter a situation where you are being targeted.

What to do?  Be hyper-aware.  Be street smart.  Do not give them something to get.  Men in our tour group were advised to use a hidden money belt for extra cash, I.D., and credit cards.  Phones and wallets should never be carried in a jacket or back trouser pocket.  Women should carry their purses with a cross-shoulder strap in front with a hand over it, not slung behind flapping about at your side or on your back.  Backpacks and purses should have locking zippers and "no cut" straps.  Crazy, huh?  What's up with petty street crime in Europe?!?  Well, I Googled pickpockets in American cities and got the same information at our major tourist attractions.  But at home we are much less diligent, aren't we?  

And pickpocketing isn't the only tourist-targeted crime.  How about the clipboard scam?  Or the sidewalk art?  The slow count? The bracelet scam?  Or the souvenir vendors?  

The clipboard scam is usually a young woman (or two) approaching with a clipboard pretending to be deaf.  She indicates with a smile that she'd like you to sign her petition by a charity protecting the deaf.  You are a good person, she is well groomed and sincere, so you are tempted.  But, wait, is this just the distraction you've heard about that can give her partner (a pickpocket) access to your unguarded treasure?  So, you say no and walk away.  Good for you.  If you do sign, suddenly the deaf woman speaks!  She starts to explain that you have just agreed to make a donation and will badger you to do so.  Some people do.  Some don't, so she follows them and the badgering gets a bit more aggressive.  A variation on this is a young woman targeting older tourist women with, "Hey, Lady!  Do you speak English?"  She gets your attention and seems to be in some sort of trouble and needs help.  Again, not to be cynical, but this is also a way to engage and distract you for nefarious purposes.  (Both of these happened to me personally in Paris; I was not taken in either time. I am "stranger danger" suspicious by nature and also had been well schooled on the scam trade.)

In Florence, Italy it was common to see what appeared to be artists with suspiciously similar watercolor paintings of famous buildings and landscapes displaying their "art" in city squares where hordes of tourists walk to get from one side of the square to another, or stop at a cafe for a cappuccino or whatever.  It seemed weird that they'd put their art down on the cobblestones, obviously in harm's way from the footsteps of tourists.  Except that was the point.  Once an errant shoe hit even a small corner of a "painting" the "artist" was on his feet shouting that the painting was damaged and now the hapless "mark" was being told very aggressively he just bought himself a painting.  Some are chased down and bullied into forking out the euros. (I saw this myself, but the mark just kept walking and the artist gave up.) Some escape after a public shouting match.  Do not step on the paintings!

The slow count is commonly used in restaurants and cafes I guess.  We didn't encounter this since we used mostly credit cards.  But it's a scam where, after paying and waiting for your change, the waiter (or vendor) counts out the change in an agonizingly slow and halting manner hoping the mark will become impatient and distracted enough to just grab the "change" and call it good, never realizing what they grabbed is far less than what was owed.

The bracelet scam occurs when a vendor with handful of "free friendship bracelets" holds out one just for you!  He's friendly and the colorful array of bracelets are attractive, but he can slip one on your wrist before you know it and once there, he demands a "tip".  Nope.  Just keep walking.

The souvenir vendors are ubiquitous (best known for their presence in Paris at the Eiffel Tower) and can be a bit aggressive with their sales pitches, but kneeling with their wares spread on a cloth cover in front of them, it's a pretty straightforward deal.  Buy overpriced cheap replicas of the Eiffel tower if you want.  Just know these vendors are operating illegally and the police do occasional sweeps of areas where they operate.  All can look quiet and calm but a signal goes out from vendor to vendor warning them of a sweep and suddenly they pull a string on their ground cover, the whole thing starts to engulf their wares, and turns into a satchel they throw over their backs as they jump walls, hustle up or down nearby stairways, and basically run for cover from the police.

Of course big cities also have big city crimes, but at no point did I ever feel like I was in true physical danger.  As I checked the news from home (both local and national) there were stories of shootings every day.  Never did I read or hear of such a crime in the same time frame in Europe.  On a whim, when I Googled "shootings in Rome yesterday", what popped up was Rome, Georgia!  Not Rome, Italy.  

That's not to say bad guys are not around.  You may have heard about the jewel heist at the Louvre  -- a week after we were there!  I was not involved in any way except to note, after the fact, that the gallery where the jewels were kept (I didn't go there) is very very close to the Mona Lisa room which I most definitely visited.  I did not see any suspicious characters at the Louvre, except Buddy the Dog who goes on trips with us.  (I know it's weird; there is a story behind it, but that doesn't really make it that much less weird.)  

What we did see all over Paris were "echelle de meubles",  furniture ladders.  They are used in centuries old tall buildings (like in the photo) to move furniture in and out of apartments where the inside is not at all conducive to getting a sofa up the stairs, no matter how much you pivot. (Cool "Friends" episode reference, that. LOL)  So when we heard about the heist and how it was pulled off we felt very Parisian as we nodded in resigned understanding of how this apparatus could look very at home propped up against an exterior wall of the world's most famous art museum.  C'est la vie.  

At least, that's the view from here... ©

Photo Credits:   Clipboard and vendor scams I found on the internet but couldn't find anyone to attribute them to.  The art scam photo came from a Tik Tok post on a site called "Explore Florence".  The other pix were taken by Hub.  Credit where due. 

EXCUSEZ-MOI, OU SONT LES TOILETTES? : EUROPE TRIP PART 3

I might be a little too fascinated by the cultural differences and norms around restrooms.  I have not done my PhD on this topic, so what follows are merely my own subjective observations, but for now I stand by my conclusions.

Europe has better public restrooms than the U.S.  And worse private ones, at least in small "boutique" hotels that cater to tourists; worse as in miniscule.  I'm not a big woman, but in most of our hotels I kept banging my elbows against the walls and glass of the teeny tiny shower stalls.  Sink and counter space was at a premium.  There was a normal toilet and sometimes a bidet whose faucet had it's own ideas on where to shoot the spray, which had nothing at all to do with one's anatomy.  But back to the public restrooms...

You may recall (probably not) that I did a post about British Isles restrooms after our trip there several years ago.  I think I was quite effusive in my praise of the "little room" with a full door that closes and locks easily for maximum privacy (and just a little alone time for an overwhelmed introvert).  Also they are super clean, with toilet paper that doesn't try to hide inside the dispenser while you spin and spin the roll to find the free end.  (Pet peeve.  Rest assured, I will work hard to leave the next patron a tail to grab.  I'm just considerate that way.)

The motto on bus tours is "go when you can, not when you have to", so we all trooped off to the public restrooms at every 2 hour restroom stop or on-the-road meal break, generally at interstate-adjacent "truck stops" called "Autogrill" that had huge restrooms, a fancy cafeteria with really good food, an espresso bar, a small grocery market, and gift shop.  These were actually very nice and we came to appreciate our stops here once we realized how efficient they were for a long bus day.  Not necessarily picturesque or culturally relevant to where we were, but sometimes the best surprise is no surprise.  (Most also had a McDonald's attached, but that was easily avoided.  McDonalds is far, far too prevalent everywhere we went in Europe.  Sigh.)

Since our tour covered 6 countries, I got a pretty good overview of varying restroom cultures.  The Netherlands, Germany, and Austria started us off with dazzling clean accommodations, full doors, ample TP on the roll, and automated soap, water, and air dryers at the sink.  All for the low, low price of one euro.  Sometimes this payment needed to be cash, sometimes you could use your credit card.  Sometimes there was an attendant on hand to collect money or troubleshoot a stubborn card reader.  Sometimes there wasn't.  Tour mates and our guide (at first) loaned the euro to those caught short.  Yes, it's aggravating to pay.  But once inside it's also nice to feel a bit pampered by the shiny, bright, clean accommodations.  (This German restroom was my fave -- at the push of a button, the toilet seat spun slowly in a clockwise manner while being gently sprayed with water and dried with air for a ultra hygienic toileting experience!  I have video for those interested in a seat cleaning demo.)

Once we crossed the border into Italy we were delighted to hear that restrooms were free!  Yay!  Sorta.  They were free, I think, because they saved money on toilet seats.  Suddenly we were in our stalls (some fully doored, some not) facing the porcelain bowl with no nice seat to sit upon.  I admit I'm usually stymied by this.  Do I squat?  I can to that (thanks yoga!), but it's awkward.  Or do I lower onto the cold hard rim of the bowl?  Very uncomfortable.  I did both at various times, depending upon my mood and the cleanliness of the accommodation because that was less a sure thing in Italy.  It was never terrible; in fact never as terrible and disgusting as some U.S. public restrooms, but they were not up to northern European standards for the most part (except the one that greeted me personally at the Italian version of Autogrill.)  

As I write I realize I'm forgetting the specifics of the big Swiss or French restrooms.  They must have been OK because I think we had to start paying again.  (Probably 2 euro in Switzerland because everything there was at least twice as expensive!)

Our tour guide, always helpful, also tipped us off to a work-around.  In restaurants there are restrooms for patrons of course.  But you can also often just walk up to a cafe coffee bar and order a cappuccino to enjoy while standing and chatting with the barista then saunter off to the restroom without having to pay to pee! 

But don't sit down at a table. To review: order your coffee to enjoy standing -- in a REAL cup, not a paper one, and never "to go" and you pay only for the coffee with a free restroom stop.  But, IF you decide to sit at an inside table to enjoy that coffee you will pay a bit more, which is rather like a table fee built into the price they charge for the coffee, but you still get to pee for free.  However, if you decide to go full-on  sidewalk cafe, you will pay even more for that cup of coffee because it costs them more in staff time to deliver your order outside!  So your cappuccino might cost from (I'm making these prices up for demonstration purposes) 3 euro for at the counter to 5 euro at an inside table to 10 euro outside. Crazy, huh?  But the restroom is still free.  If you can find it and fit into it and don't mind rubbing elbows with mixed genders in close proximity.

There is a type of restaurant restroom, that I recall most vividly in Italy and France, where once you've found where they hid it (generally up or down a dimly lit set of spiral stairs or maybe through a restaurant labyrinth, past the kitchen, to a closet by the back door off the alley).  You will see the letters WC on a door.  Water Closet, obviously.  (That's "restroom" in most every UK and European country I've visited).  Opening the door you find yourself in an anteroom that is almost large enough for one person, but not quite.  This is where the sink is located. Then there are two doors showing the universal outline of man or woman (she has a skirt on).  Choose the right door and enter into a very teeny cubicle with just enough room to go from standing to sitting and hope your knees don't hit the door.  Once finished there, return to the anteroom to wash your hands, where inevitably there will be another patron already at the sink and one trying to enter for their turn, so there may be any variety of men and women navigating 2 square feet of space and being treated to hurricane force gales of air from the hand dryer operating at decibels akin to a jet engine on take off.  But Hey!  No need to pay! (Except for the coffee or meal that gained you entry to this experience.)

So that's my restroom tour for this trip.  I have never visited, nor do I aspire to, a country where I am expected to straddle a hole in the floor.  So I realize my standards are ridiculously high.  That's fine with me.

At least, that's the view from here..©

P.S.  Oh! This!  We toured a castle in Germany which featured this guillotine toilet.  All of the tour women found it much more interesting than did the men.  😂 

HISTORY LESSON : EUROPE TRIP PART 2

Europe is confused about us over here in the U.S.  They welcomed us travelers with friendly and positive open arms.  And also asked gently how we are doing and whether anyone is paying attention.  

We had local guides give basically tutorials on the caution we must exercise to protect our democracy.  In the Netherlands and Germany particularly, words echoed what we heard a couple years ago on a previous visit there, that what is happening to our government and democracy is eerily similar to the rise of Nazism in pre-war Germany.  The slow erosion of the rule of law, of norms, of values; the divisions based on misinformation and lies; the fear and the apathy.  

We stood outside homes where citizens had been dragged from their beds and sent to work camps, the only trace of their lives left being a brass "brick"in the street in front of their homes with their name/address/and date of removal and death engraved in memorium.  We sat in a circle in a centuries old castle where our guide told tales of a history of violence, including a moving account of Nazi Germany.  We all heard the warning.

Their message was WAKE UP to a leader who frees his friends and jails his enemies (or anyone who questions him), a leader who targets certain groups as "other" and demonizes them, who limits the free press and free speech and threatens those who dare to defy those limits, who creates a military excuse to use force against our own citizens.  WAKE UP.  

Are we like frogs in boiling water? -- it's so crazy we can hardly believe it and want to laugh it all off as absurd, or the outrages becomes so common we stop paying attention, or it's so scary we hide and pray none of it will touch our lives, or our families lives.  

As I write this sentence I acknowledge my own fear of speaking out and being vulnerable to violence from opponents, or my own fear of putting these words on the internet and to be labeled an "enemy" by the current government. I'm no firebrand. I generally don't lead the charge.  I have strong values and convictions coupled with a conflict avoidance tendency.  Plus, I am just one little insignificant person with no real influence. But then I think about those brass bricks.  And then I think about my grandchildren and I know I can't do nothing.  I must stand up for them, even if I'd rather stay home and crochet.  In fact, I'd rather our country not be in this position at all.  But here we are.

So, today some citizens will take to the streets fully AWAKE to the danger we face.  It is predicted to be the largest mass protest in U.S. history where citizens will come out of their homes and gather in their communities, large and small, from coast to coast (and joined in support by those in other countries as well) to wave flags and signs and peacefully stand against an authoritarian slide that threatens our democracy.  The rallying cry is "No Kings" and I get that.  But it almost sounds quaint, doesn't it?  Yes, the U.S. was founded on the idea that we answer to no King, harkening back to the fight for independence from the English monarchy in the 1700s.

Yet, I suggest that in these early decades of the 21st century, we need to look around at the growth of violent right wing authoritarianism and rally around KEEP OUR DEMOCRACY -- NO DICTATORS.  So, I won't carry a sign today with funny, scary, or demeaning slogans and caricatures of a president wearing a crown.  I will simply carry my American flag -- an enduring symbol the world over for freedom, truth, and justice; for democracy.  Do we always live up to those aspirations?  No; absolutely not.  But without those ideals as our guiding light, we are far too vulnerable to those ideals being a mere memory of our possibility.  We become something else entirely.

At least, that's the view from here...©

MAYBE EUROPE BROKE ME? : EUROPE TRIP PART 1

I'm back from a month-long trip to Europe.  I've returned with memories, experiences, insights, and more photographs taken by Hub than anyone will ever want to see.  Notre Dame from every angle, the Alps up close from every view point, Florence spread out  in all directions from the top of the Duomo -- you get the idea.  He and I will occasionally look back at the photos and recall our time there.  But mostly they will live in our computer taking up bytes of memory that my human brain won't remember.

I've also came home with a cold.  Runny nose, some congestion.  General "blah-ness".  Nothing terrible, but enough to feel slightly "off".  We weren't the only ones.  About a third of our tour-mates were coughing and blowing their noses at some time over the 3 weeks we were together.   Hub and I donned ours masks hoping to avoid any catching the crud.  Always on crowded public transportation, in crowded museums, in airports and on airplanes we wore our masks.  We were in the vast, vast minority among the general population of anywhere we visited to do this.  I guess that whole mask thing is over and spreading any variety of viruses (not exclusive to Covid) is A-OK now.  Hmmm.  Who knows where we picked up the bug in the masses of humanity we encountered?  But at the end of the trip Hub succumbed to a couple of cold-symptom days.  I didn't fall to it until I was actually home.  It is frustrating and disappointing, but I guess to be expected.

I also came home with back spasms, which really annoys me.  The tour we did, Rick Steves 21 Days Best of Europe (see map -- started in Haarlem and went south and looped back north with numbers indicating nights spent in each place before ending in Paris; we added extra days at the beginning and end on our own), requires that participants carry their own luggage to and from the bus to hotel, transportation, etc.  They urge us to "pack light", and I really did try.  But 21 days across Europe from the frosty Swiss Alps to the beaches of Italy's CinqueTerra require some dramatic changes of clothing and footwear, along with other travel necessities.  

My suitcase wasn't unmanageable for me, nor was the additional daypack I wore on my back (along with my purse), but together they were heavy and over the course of a month, the weight, the awkwardness, the lifting and toting up and down many, many, many flights of stairs and over long stretches of cobblestone streets apparently took a toll.  I don't know why it didn't hit me until I got home.  It should have been a constant thing, but I pretty much persevered and prided myself on what a strong and capable traveler I was.  

But last night, our second day home, I woke up at 2:00 a.m. (Jet lagged!  Hey!  It's time to be up!) and could barely move.  This has lasted all day and even as I type right now at 10:30 p.m., I can feel the dull ache breaking through my Tylenol and Ibuprofen cocktail.  Hub gave me a great massage this afternoon and took care of all the home chores today, insisting I rest.  And, thankfully, I got some relief from the heating pad.  But still, each movement sends a dull ache or a sharp pain shooting across my lower back. I hope this spasm of protest dissipates soon.

All of this, of course, gives me pause about doing this again.  Maybe my Rick Steves tour days are over?  His trips are very physically demanding.  Maybe lugging suitcases is a thing of my past.  Maybe being packed like sardines inside the Sistine Chapel or Notre Dame or the entire city of Venice is not a great idea in the age of deadly viruses. Maybe familiar frustrations of tour travel (I have a list) are starting to outweigh the substantial logistical benefits (also have a list) of a tour.  I don't know.  Food for thought.  

It's also possible my jet lag and disorientation are playing into my malaise.  We left in mid-September when it still felt like summer, and returned in mid October when suddenly it was cold and the leaves had turned and it's dark at 6:30 p.m.  And there is the crazy reality that in spite of the incredible hassles and discomfort of air travel, it's weirdly possible, and head-spinning, to wake up in Paris and go to bed at home thousands of miles and an ocean and continent away in less than 24 hours.

 But here I am.  Grateful for so much about the trip.  Not eager to go anywhere else for awhile. 

At least that's the view from here...© 

P.S.  Stay tuned:  Happier trip details to come!  

GRANDMA AGAIN!

 YIPPEE!  I now have THREE grandchildren! Which seems impossible since I'm so ... young!  LOL  Isn't three or more grandkids something really old people go on and on about?  Well, here I am.  

Son Two and his wife welcomed a beautiful little boy into the world on August 1st, their first child.  He was in no hurry.  On July 30, 8 days past his due date, the med team decided to induce, so my son and DIL went to the hospital that evening.  The process commenced.  I won't go into all the details.  I wasn't there and in the re-telling they admitted that time sort of expanded and contracted in weird ways through the next 27 hours until he was finally born at 1:19 a.m. on August 1.  He weighed in at exactly 8 pounds,  20 inches long, healthy and strong.  Whew!  

We got to see him mid-morning the day of his birth and holding him was surreal.  It has literally been 10-1/2 years since I held a newborn (my granddaughter) and I was a Nervous Nelly.  I've always prided myself on being pretty comfortable with babies, but I've lost a step in confidence, I guess.  But the joy of looking into his beautiful little face and examining his fingers and toes and ears and nose -- the miracle of this new life of possibility is not dimmed.  I weep with happiness, relief, and anticipation of getting to know him -- what he will like, what will make him happy (or angry), hearing his laugh, watching him grow and learn and be part of our family.  

When we had a Family Dinner with everyone together for the first time it was such a moment to see the joy on every face, the tears of thankfulness in every eye, as we took turns holding him and caring for him and hearing "new parents" stories again.  My oldest granddaughter will be 16 in two weeks; her sister is 10-1/2.  We are starting over with a big gap in between and I already know this time it will be different.

Son One and family live 10 minutes from us.  When the girls were little we saw them often.  In fact Hub and I did childcare for our younger granddaughter from 3 months to nearly 3 years old.  There were weekly family dinners and lots of sleepovers and many times of babysitting.  We still go to sports and school events often.  We chauffeur them to camps and take day trips and and do outings on a whim.

Son Two and his new family live 30 miles away along a heavily trafficked route that slows down what would generally be not too bad a drive, so popping in on each other is not so common.  My plan is to somehow see them weekly but they are very busy with jobs, a new home, a ton of friends, a social life that is non-stop (although the new little guy might put a crimp in that eventually).   They already have childcare lined up for when they go back to work.  School and sports events down the line will not be so easy to pop in on and most visits will have to be planned in advance.  We can adjust.  It will just be different and I am grateful, at least, that we all live in the same area instead of in a different state with visits being only a few times a year, which was the case for my parents and my kids.  I get it now why my mom cried when I told her we were moving 2000 miles away from them.  I can't imagine...

I also realize Hub and I are in a different place in life too.  We are working toward probably selling our big home in a couple of years and moving to a retirement community.  Unlike our granddaughters who consider this their second home, this new little guy will not even remember it.  But he will have other memories of Grandma/Grandpa time in a cool place with a restaurant where he can order anything he wants, explore a nature trail in the woods, visit the workshop where grandpa will make him toys, and he can go swimming in a huge swimming pool.  There will also be a zillion "grandparents" doting over him. LOL

Life changes.  This time around will be different.  But what doesn't change is the overwhelming joy of seeing our family expand and the bittersweet recognition that I won't be around to see the end of my grandkids' stories. But if my love for them can inform any part of who they become, my life purpose will be fulfilled.  Because that is what I am learning in my "Wise Woman Years" -- it's all about the love.

At least, that's the view from here...©

Photo Credit:  www.pixabay.com

JOYFUL WARRIOR

I just wrote a 150 word "article" for our local Indivisible newsletter.   I can hardly say hello in 150 words as my friends, and also readers here, can attest.  But I had a word limit, so I did it.  It was basically a brief (minuscule) summary of how I'm feeling and also about a book I am reading called, "The Lightmaker's Manifesto: How to Work for Change Without Losing Your Joy" by Karen Walrond.  

I'm in the throes of the affliction known as activist burn-out.

Like many (most?) women, I have very personal reasons for a very visceral mind/body response to men who bully, lie, gaslight, and defend their arrogance as well as their sexual acting out, assault, and predation.  I have this reaction because I'm NORMAL!  So 10 years of non-stop bullying, bragging, leering, and defensive gaslighting by the person who is this country's current president (and his supporters and sycophants) is a lot for a Highly Sensitive Person/Empath to deal with on a daily basis.  I might also mention the rampant cruelty and chaos of his ever-changing, ill-informed, and punitive policies and the total corruption of one party in our government -- things I never thought could happen in our democracy.  Naively I thought good people would stop the bad ones.  Nope.  They are not stopping them.  Millions voted for them and are cheering them on.  

So what's a lifelong activist to do?  Act, of course.  Resist. Push back. Rally. March. Make phone calls.  Send emails.  Go to meetings.  Attend webinars.  Organize.  There is a huge and persistent resistance to this Administration and we are, across the whole country in towns large and small, in rural areas, in Red States and Blue States, coming together to protest this authoritarian state debacle.  But the fact remains that the "bad guys" are in power.  The person who is president is doing as he pleases as his party lets him get by with the most egregious acts of cruelty and corruption -- his favorite combo.

So many good and effective organizations are calling for us to step up.  My inbox and texts are full of good people calling upon good people to "do something".  I want to.  I really do.  And in fact I am active in the doing of things. I read commentators, follow the news; I show up at rallies, marches, meetings; I call my legislators frequently; I post on social media about events I hope others will join with me.  I've joined organizations, helped organize meetings and events, and I work for and donate to candidates who support my values -- in policy and humanity.  

And yet, every morning I open my email to find dozens of emails that are 'political' -- news flashes, updates, essays, newsletters, calls to action, and solicitations for donations.  I've reluctantly "unfollowed" even candidates, commentators, and organizations I admire because it's just too much right now.  I feel inundated, and in that flood of content I feel overwhelmed, like I'm drowning.  I can't possibly do enough.  I can't change anything in a meaningful way.  I feel hopeless.  And there it is -- the very definition of burn-out.

And that's exactly what the authoritarians want to hear.  Their objective is to wear us down, wear us out, and get us to stop fighting back.  That's why when one of us steps back, another needs to step up. We have to give each other space to breathe and recover and get back to it.  We can do that when we know others are there to step in for a bit.  AND maybe we can prevent the worst cases of burn-out if we can find a way to be activist that is more creative and better suited to our unique skills, interests, and passions.  Maybe it can be a joyful experience!

I have only started reading the aforementioned book, but it is giving me hope and motivation.  Pushing back, resisting, fighting, etc conjures a type of war.  It's necessary to protest, but can we make the job easier by embracing our gentle Inner Warrior rather than arming her for battle?

The author of the book is asking me to consider:  What are my passions and gifts?  How can I bring the joy I feel in pursuing those into my activist life?

I realize I am happy when I am with like-minded people working toward a common goal.  Well, that's why I love a rally and a march, at least the ones I've participated in locally, with crowds of smiling people having a good time and supporting and encouraging each other while we hold up our signs of protest.

I realize I am happy when I can support people doing the hard work of organizing.  That's why I love sending "atta-girl" texts and emails and cards and giving hugs and little gifts to the people I admire who are doing the everyday heavy lifting it takes to plan a meeting or an event and pull it off.  They are on the front lines and deserve to be recognized.

I realize I am happy when my creative skills can be employed to support friends and strangers alike to recognize the hard work they are doing and take a moment of reflection.  For example I make small felted hearts to give away as part of the 1000 Hearts Project. These little pocket hearts are meant to be squeezed when one feels the need for support, comfort, or encouragement for any reason.  I have a bowl of them ready at the registration table at our Indivisible events.  

I realize I am happy when I can write -- that little newsletter piece or this blog post -- about my own experiences so that others might be able to relate and find solace in knowing they are not alone with their own thoughts and feelings.

I realize I am happy when I can bring awareness of self-care to those who are starting to feel the effects of non-stop activism.  I used my yoga teacher training to create a Yoga for Activists practice that incorporates mindful breath and meditation with movements that help build strength and flexibility for holding up those signs and making those long marches!

I realize I am happy when I am being a role model for my granddaughters in taking action in the wider world on behalf of those who are less privileged, taking action to defend our democracy, taking action to make a better place for them and those who come after them.

My very favorite moment happened several weeks ago when my granddaughters were staying with us and I had to get them into the car to go somewhere.  The backseat was full of my stuff -- caps, sweatshirts, shoes, a big protest sign, my yoga bag....  I said, "Oh, hold it a minute.  Let me get my protest sign and yoga bag out of the way."  My oldest granddaughter (15) chuckled and commented, "That's so YOU, Grandma!"

I laughed so hard. I hugged her and we laughed together.  I couldn't have been paid a higher complement. That joyful moment will remain with me as I take a little step back, recover, and join the fray again, using my skills, passions, and talents to sustain, rather than drain me. 

I realize that I am happy when I can laugh and find joy in activism.  The weariness fades and I have the confidence to know it all counts and it all helps (even the little things), even when I start to doubt it.  Onward!

At least that's the view from here...©

Photo Credit: Warrior Image from www.pixabay.com

MISSING MY MOM

 I lost my mom 17 years ago.  This is a hard time for me every year, from July 5th when she had a stroke to July 10 when she died. 

As I become more like her in some ways, and still very different in others, I miss her more.  I wish we could have been contemporaries as older women, to share stories of life, relationships, grandkids; to talk about TV shows and books and what yarn projects we are working on; to reminisce about old times.  And to laugh - like the time we tried to cram a huge springy slab of foam rubber (for a chair repair) into the back of my very small car and cracked up, calling each other Ethel and Lucy, as the farce unfolded.

There were times we didn't relate at all, but I think that was mostly due to my teen and young adult growing pains and her confusion, exasperation, and likely sadness that her sweet little girl was giving her fits.  

I'm glad she moved to be near me after my dad died.  We had a few good years then, with our Thursday morning breakfast and shopping dates, and family times together, even though I was in the "busy" kid- raising, working-outside-the-home time of life. She knew only a few other people here.  I bet she was lonely in spite of my attempts to be attentive.  And then dementia stole her from me.  

I wish we could be here together now.  But the lesson is that we don't get any do-overs, nor do we have a Time Machine.  She didn't get to wait for me, nor did I get to grow old with her.  That's not how it works.  And I miss her. 

At least that's the view from here...©

Love you, Mom. ❤️