Breaking with Tradition

 

When I was in my twenties and thirties, I performed singing telegrams. Around the 22nd of December one year, my boss informed me that I had a job Christmas morning. Christmas morning?! I exclaimed. Yes, he huffed. I’d never had to work on Christmas except to write a thank you note or two. I didn’t want to break with tradition. I wanted to spend Christmas morning with my loved ones, not dress up for the entertainment of a bunch of strangers. But I was an impoverished twenty-something, so I couldn’t very well decline. I was to dress up as a Santa’s helper and pass out Christmas gifts to a family. The father had lost his job back in October, and had told his family to brace for no Christmas as they were used to with gifts and nice food and such. They were braced. But the man found work, and to their great surprise Christmas morning, was able to put together a normal food and gift rich Christmas. My boss met me out in front the family’s house early Christmas morning, his truck full of gift-wrapped boxes that I transferred into a huge, red sack and lugged to the door. The surprise and joy and love that I saw on their faces more than made up for the fact that I had to work on Christmas morning. This isn’t work, I thought in spite of myself.

Long after my singing telegram days, I taught piano. It was the Thursday before Thanksgiving and I was confirming with clients that there would be no lesson the following week. My morning student (7:30), Leo, looked downcast. “Why not?” He asked. “Because it’s Thanksgiving,” his father smiled. “No school!” He added. But Leo wanted his piano lesson. So Thanksgiving morning, I dragged myself out of bed and drove to Leo’s house for one piano lesson. There was a bit of a scurry in the Rose household preparing Thanksgiving dinner, but it was worth it to have such a dedicated student.

As I write this, Douglas and I have been living in an apartment on the Embassy compound in Moscow for about eight months. Advent is my favorite time of year. We’re supposed to move to Yekaterinburg, where Douglas will be working at the Consulate. When we arrive, we'll enter a two-week quarantine period relying on the goodness of strangers in the diplomatic community to bring food to our door. Sharing advent readings (The Womb of Advent by Mark Bozzuti-Jones) with my mom is helping to enrich this season. Thank you, Mom; thank you Mr. Jones for making the book available. 

I hope people can think beyond what they're used to doing this time of year to different ways of celebrating all the upcoming holidays. We say we’ll miss our traditions, but where do our traditions come from? Surely, we can make our own traditions.

Why does breaking with tradition have such a negative connotation anyway? One of my survival mechanisms during this pandemic has been breaking my normal routine once in a while. Douglas was out of town a few weeks ago. Normally, this means I goof off, eat junk and watch rubbish. Instead, I took on the project of organizing the Embassy library books. (I still ate junk.) It felt so good to see the excitement in people who were finally able to navigate through the books and find something they wanted to read. Yesterday, instead of sitting on the bicycle in the gym and reading Janet Evanovich, I went to the pool to exercise. Normally I swim two laps of each stroke, then jump around doing various water exercises I know. But yesterday, I decided to swim three laps of each stroke. Big deal, I know. It’s not exactly scaling Everest, but for me it was big. I’m very uncomfortable doing the front crawl. I panic-breathe. I don’t know why. As long as I’ve been a swimmer and even taught swimming, I can swim only one lap front crawl comfortably, then I’m exhausted and certain I’m drowning. (It’s a wonder I ever became a lifeguard.) Anyway, before I left for the gym, I lay in bed with my eyes closed picturing myself doing this (swimming three laps, not drowning). I knew I’d be tired; I knew I’d be panicky. I reminded myself of how drained I was in my first few Spinning classes, yet I learned to continue through it. When I got into the pool and began swimming, my body went into its normal panic mode on the second lap. My stomach hurt; my lungs were insistent on a free, open exchange of air and carbon dioxide. Now! I stuck it out. On the third lap, I tried something different. I focused my thoughts on breathing. You’re just exhaling in the water. I told myself. You’re just rolling and taking a breath. That’s all. You’re just exhaling in the water. You’re just rolling and taking a breath. And I swam the third lap. My point in sharing this is that it might help us to face the Christmas and the New Year holidays by spending time visualizing what can safely take place during this time. And, when the time comes, mindfully focus on the voices and music we hear and the aromas we smell rather than what may have been or what we had last year.

I don’t know what Douglas and I will do for Christmas and New Year this year. For Thanksgiving, I found some turkey at the deli counter of one of the stores I shop at. The same store also had some fresh cranberries and four sweet potatoes (I bought them all). Douglas found a lone box of Stove Top stuffing in our townhouse and brought it back with him. Voila! Thanksgiving! Douglas also brought back the makings for fudge, so we’ll have that for Christmas. We’ll have no Christmas decorations, except for an advent calendar my mother bought for me. Life in the Foreign Service has left us treeless other years (Tashkent, e.g.). New Year is big in Russia, so I'm certain we'll hear and see plenty of fireworks from our apartment.

I’ve mentioned this in another blog, but it bears repeating. Sometimes it helps me to see myself as a character in a novel. I remember reading Christmas stories as a child about how excited children were to find a peppermint stick and an orange in their stockings in the olden days. Where I grew up, oranges grew on the tree in my backyard, and peppermint sticks were given away free to children at many stores. But somehow, I could still imagine their excitement and I tried to feel it too, when I sucked on a candy cane or peeled an orange and smelled its goodness. One of the few social gatherings we can safely have today is a fire pit, as long as there are no more than ten people and we’re distanced or masked. So, when I take walks around the compound, I pick up branches that have broken off the trees so we can burn them. When my spirits are down, I imagine myself walking the old forests of Russia gathering much-needed fuel for our fire. I actually get quite excited to find a large branch that I know will burn for more than several minutes. I know it’s silly, but it’s also a very real, good feeling.

We have traditions because they were passed on to us. (Nothing new there, I know, but bear with me.) We either like them and continue them, or we don’t and we abandon them. But how do they become traditions? There's a different answer to that question for every tradition from Fourth of July fireworks to dying the Chicago river green for St. Patrick’s Day. It comes down to doing what we are able to do and enjoy doing on momentous occasions. While we are certainly able to gather closely these days, it’s risky. Why include such risk in a celebration of thanks or Christ’s birth or the new year or whatever? What place does the distinct potential spread of a deadly virus have in a celebration? Let’s say all participants know, acknowledge and accept the risk. Every individual still have their place in greater society and don’t have the right to pass on that risk to others. Instead of preventing the spread, they’re enabling it. It’s choosing chaos over some control. I don’t know if this virus can be controlled, but I do know that we don’t have to give it free rein as so many are willing to do. In five years, I’d rather recount the story of all the frustrating, disappointing limitations during this pandemic, then tell of throwing caution to the wind and giving into my desires only to get COVID or see Douglas contract it. I don’t want to face people’s questions, “Why did you do that? Why didn’t you just wait?” “Because I didn’t want to” doesn’t sound like a good answer. Nor does “Because it was Christmas.” (See above.) It’s called delayed gratification. Too many people (adults!) are like the children who, in the marshmallow test, eat the marshmallow right away, rather than waiting for fifteen minutes and getting two. These are probably some of the same people who shake their heads and laugh at these children for not thinking more clearly. Oh, the irony.

I’m thinking ahead to next year or the year after that when, after not having my favorite Christmas treats and decorations, I will have them once again with pent up abandon. How much better they’ll taste and look and sound after having done without. Not having decorations gives me somewhere to go when I attempt to meditate. I can picture our weinachtspyramide (Christmas pyramid) aglow and spinning, I can see the lights on the tree through the branches in the otherwise dark room, I can see the snow . . . well, if I just look out the window.

Weinachtspyramide

I’ll close with a couple more stories from my singing telegram days. I remember having to work Christmas Eve one year, again dressed as Santa’s helper. I think I was face-painting children’s cheeks while all the adults partied, which is what I wanted to be doing. When my two hours were up, I was gathering my stuff to leave and the hostess came up to me and handed me a gift, fully, beautifully gift-wrapped, paid me, tipped me and sent me on my way. The gift was a Victorian-looking music box shaped like Santa surrounded with toys. I was really into Victorian deco during that time, so I was ecstatic. I was too poor to rationalize buying such frivolous things for myself. It is still one of my favorite decorations and carried good memories.

I had to work a couple of Easter mornings, which I did not want to do. We were getting into sacrilege territory there. I remember one little girl who was so overwhelmed that she’d ‘caught’ the Easter Bunny delivering her basket, she didn’t know what to do. First, she crawled around her basket a few times singing to herself. Then she stopped, stood and looked up at me in full bunny costume. She scrunched up her face scrutinizing me, then said, “You’re not a real bunny,” and, not knowing how to properly address me, added, “Bunny!” Sweet.

I took this picture this morning. It reminds me of those rosette cookies that people make at Christmastime.

 

An Autumn Gift

Every autumn, I write a story for Douglas, my husband. There's usually an element of supernatural in them. This year, I decided to attempt a poem. I'm not a poet. I really ought to take a class. If it rhymes and is rhythmic, I get it - it's a poem. But I know that a poem doesn't have to rhyme. I love Emily Dickinson, and she doesn't often rhyme. So many poems look like prose that has been scattered about on a page. That's what I've got here. I hope you like my attempt. Happy Autumn!

Autumn comes in stunning death—a burst of beauty before dormancy;

Our world leans into darkness—the seen becomes the unseen.

Late afternoon loses its leisure and imparts urgency, dread.

The cozy buffer of leaves surrenders and exposes us to earth’s canopy, its overstory.

The bareness clicks and ticks in Morse-like rhythm, like giant women knitting.

Nocturnals chitter their restlessness; their time with the day-dwellers unnaturally increases, and when these worlds mix—it gets territorial.

But I won’t relinquish my time, though they claim it in its darkness.

Nor will they sleep through this new abundance.

Onyx ink blots twitch and pitch from branch to branch, from tree to tree, through earth’s breath to the pale moon!

—The restless displaced in nature’s spirit.

Bloodied spiders’ webs hang fat from trees, silently unthreatened, filtering the last glow of sunset.

How the poor, trapped creatures must have suffered . . .

The thought is quelched when the web takes a fearful flight, and its atonal call shreds my nerves.

The blood, not old, nor even fresh, is vibrant, pulsing.

Recalled legends of fanged moths and wicked angels manifest themselves as these ghost bats.

Still the black masks flit, more absent of light than the night,

And the ghosts, absorbing every spectral hue—

All light hidden merely in their being—

Evidence Nature enveloping Nature.

Their caves blown and mined, their trees cast into our homes,

The displaced seek out the illicit dwellings—whether of sticks or of bricks, by the feathered or fleshed—and those that dwell therein.

I, rationed by God, with two eyes, two ears can’t perceive them as they me.

My hands, fearful of these critters whose senses are keener even than my thoughts, don’t help.

Most threats lie within, nestled up against all our fears.

So, make of the Chiroptera what you will with your myths and legends

(flying rodents, their potion-rich wool; their thirst for blood)

What they are is enough.

We haven’t time to fear the shards of their calls.

The hunt is silent; only in the attack do they shriek.

I owe thanks to Rebecca Giggs of The Atlantic. I was inspired by her article Why We're Afraid of Bats (November 2020). Thank you, Ms. Giggs.

What I've Learned from this Administration

 

I promised this blog last month. I wasn't in the mood to write it because it brings me down. But hee it is as promised. Next month will be more fun. I hope.

I will never say Anyone, but . . .

I voted for Barack Obama, but I wasn’t overly concerned about John McCain winning the election. I admired John McCain even if I didn’t agree with him on everything; he was an honorable man. God rest his soul. I might upset a few readers in my next statement, but please stay with me; I have more to say that isn’t so divisive (the next paragraph, for example). Many people were so full of vitriol for Hillary Clinton, they couldn’t see past it to recognize the poisonous character of Donald Trump. I remember reading about the third-party candidates and shuddering at some of their platforms. My point is, while I wouldn’t necessarily vote for a candidate from the, say The Flat Earth Party, I need to at least look at their main platform before dismissing them.

Look at the big picture.

I need to figure out how to keep perspective when leaders let us down and disappoint me. I was one of those screaming at George H.W. Bush for going back on his campaign promise to not raise taxes. He lied to us!!!! He did. He should have never told us he wouldn’t raise taxes. He didn’t know the future. Michael Dukakis chose his words more carefully, that he would look at new taxes as a last resort. While candidates certainly need to choose their words carefully, I need to listen wisely. Just as no one knows how long we’ll be dealing with this corona virus or whether or not everything will be okay, no presidential candidate knows what’s in store for them personally or for the nation when they’re campaigning. So, I need to cut them some slack when they can’t deliver what they promised – what they probably want. George H.W. Bush wound up making one of those unpopular decisions that was probably best for the nation as a whole. Not having a sliding door to another dimension, I don’t know. 

Some ties need to be severed.

I’m realizing that there are people with whom I’m close, who had a strong influence in my formative years, who are very different than I thought. These people taught me to be honest, but support Donald Trump, one of the most publicly dishonest people I’ve ever known of. I was encouraged to get a good education, yet these people want another four years of this president who dismisses the science and research into environmental issues and this pandemic because he thinks he knows better. He said he wanted to Make America Great Again, yet he didn’t think enough of us to tell the truth about this pandemic. He said he didn’t want to create panic. These people taught me to believe in God and teachings of the Bible, yet they support this president who incites violence against fellow Americans (at his campaign rallies) and won’t denounce – and even has even complimented and encouraged – hate groups (Charlottesville). I was taught not to call names by these people who support this president who calls anyone who disagrees with him insulting names and publicly makes fun of the disabled. If I were paranoid, I’d say it looks like mass mental illness or mass hypnosis. I’ve heard of people distancing themselves from family and friends during this administration. I understand that. It’s hard to carry on loving, friendly conversations when you know what lies beneath. While I don’t want politics to stand in the way of a good relationship, I see how differing morals can prevent having any good relations with people supporting this amoral behavior. It’s not politics driving some people apart, it’s moral values.

We must learn to dialogue with each other.

I've written this before, but it is something that we all need to keep practicing. I used to be an arguer; I've learned to discuss - listen and share ideas. Unfortunately too many people won't participate in an exchange of ideas that differ. Some, like myself at times, don't have enough to back up their opinions or the truths they know and they are too uncomfortable listening to anything that runs contrary to their thoughts. They must feel like they are up against something rather than exploring. That's sad. That, once again, was me in my 20's. Some people are too bent on insulting someone who sees things differently or who actually knows more than they do. While I never did this to anyone's face, I certainly walked away from exchanges thinking awful thoughts about the other person. I'm still learning to look at the issue rather than the person. Donald Trump challenges me here. I'm hard put to find any redeeming qualities about him because I've not seen him display a single one publicly.

Please comment what you have learned from this administration whether it aligns with my thoughts or goes contrary to them. 

Learning in the Time of the Pandemic

 

During this pandemic I’m asking God to help us all learn what we need to learn from it, on an individual basis and collectively. I want to share with you some things I’ve learned and a few things I feel I need to learn.

1. I can happily live with a lot less. When we were evacuated to Moscow, we had to leave almost everything behind in our townhouse in Vladivostok. Most of my clothes are there. I’m getting pretty tired of wearing the same shirts. Being worn so often, they’re starting to look old. I have to check my look in the mirror in various light to be sure they're not too threadbare. But that only brings me down temporarily – when I’m getting dressed. It has spurred me into pairing things differently just to feel like I’m wearing something different. 

I don’t have my piano; I have my recorders. I’ve made more progress on the recorder in these few months than I did the year and a half I played with the Taizé ensemble in Silver Spring. I do have access to an out-of-tune piano that is in ill repair, so when I go to it I can focus on reading and memory without any concern as to how I sound, since no one could sound good on this instrument. 

Smaller joys have taken the place of day trips, meals out and parties. Every Saturday evening, Douglas and I watch a live concert online. I prepare a special meal or dessert and sometimes even dress up, as much as I can. A friend needed an escort to a nearby mall, so, while he was shopping, I treated myself to a bottle of cologne (L'Occitane Herbae). It lifts my spirits. 

Douglas has been subscribing to a local produce delivery service. Every week we receive several pounds of greens, peppers, tomatoes, broccoli cucumbers, squash, kohlrabi, fennel and herbs. So the question isn’t, “What should we have for dinner?” The question is, “How do I prepare the kale this week?” And I hate kale. The good thing about kale, I must say, is that you burn as many calories chewing it as is contained in it. I’ve always eaten according to cravings. There is nothing in this apartment that I’m craving, except my chocolate stash.

These pictures show a typical assortment of the produce we receive each week. The couple next door also receives it. They share it with another woman because, they say, it's too much for the two of them to eat in a week. I agree.

My takeaway from this, I hope, will be finding more fulfillment in my own life in my own home as it is, rather than feeding desires to have something else, the company of someone else or another opportunity. While I hope I will continue to seek and have new experiences, I want to find more of those within myself. (People ask me how I like Moscow. I tell them I don’t know, but the Embassy grounds are nice. I’d rather be healthy than out risking that nasty virus to see sights that will still be there after this virus is – hopefully – gone.)

And I’m hoping to hold onto some of these eating practices. As Douglas and I watch our parents age, we see habits we need to instill now, before it’s too late.

2. I need to know when to put my own desires aside for the good of society. I’d rather be part of the solution, rather than part of the problem. I’d rather contribute to order rather than chaos. I’m basically a rule-abider, but there are occasions that, when facing a nonsensical rule, I’ll scoff it. Example: There was a little-traveled side road in St. Paul I took occasionally. At one point, there was a stop sign for the west-bound lane. There was no cross road, just a parking lot on the north side. Traffic heading east had no stop sign. This made no sense, so I regularly blew through the sign when there was no one around. No harm done. The problem with that is inconsistency, picking and choosing which traffic signs I’ll obey and when. The other problem is my unwillingness to stop and sit for a second to honor the law. For the most part, I’m obeying pandemic rules. There has been one exception, however. When we enter the Embassy compound, we are supposed to use hand sanitizer. The problem with this, in my mind, was the waste. Have it available for those who need it, but don’t mandate it for those who might not need it at that moment. When I leave my apartment with clean hands to shop, wear gloves while shopping and wash my hands (hand sanitizers can be drying) when I get back home, I saw no reason for the sanitizer. (The doors don't need to be touched with hands when entering the compound, you can push them with your forearm.) The guards, however, would remind me to use it and not unlock the door until I did. I was actually juvenile enough that I'd pretend to use it. Okay, whatever, but the problem with that is the door I touched on my way out of the compound, fumbling my gloves off and on in the store because I couldn’t use my phone to access the translator or pull out my credit card to pay. The real problem with that is my making a bigger deal out of using the consarned sanitizer than is called for. They aren’t asking for a cell sample for genetic engineering. And, for crying out loud, Laura, you’ve got lotion. Use it. Lastly, the problem with that is my frustration with people for not wearing masks and keeping their distance in public. Glass house. Stones.

The takeaway from this will be my examining myself in other areas. What else do I wrongly rationalize? Keeping in mind what I'm capable of is what has helped me curb my judgement of others over the years. There's always room for improvement there.

3. I need to take the counsel of those who know more than I do. And I need to be forgiving and understanding as they, too, are humans who are still learning. People love to reject all pandemic limitations by citing how we were originally told that masks didn't make you safer. This reminds me of how upset my older sister (by five years) got when she saw how differently my parents treated me than they treated her. My mom said in response to her complaints, "Don't you think we learned anything from raising you?" Well said, Mom. Unfortunately, those who are in charge are proverbially damned. If they had told us from the start to wear masks, a certain group of people would have still complained about their rights. If they had not admitted their earlier mistake, they'd have been accused of keeping things from the public. Having fessed up, they are ridiculed.

Sigh. Tune in next month for what I'm learning from this administration.

If one news source tells me to do something uncomfortable and another tells me to maintain the status quo, it's easy to reject the former. I need to learn to look at it objectively. If this pandemic had happened when I was in my twenties, I'd probably be sprawled out naked and diapered, in the throes of live nightmares on a hospital bed with a tube down my throat never to sing well again. But I've matured since then. For such a long time I was so foolish and self-centered, that I always assumed others were smarter and more composed than I could ever hope to be. Then I started keeping the company of smarter people and wised up. This might sound judgmental, but, trust me, it's not. When I see mass foolishness, like refusal to wear a mask and keep distant in public, I don't understand how they can still be stuck in that juvenile place. I emerged from it, what's the problem? This is not a holier-than-thou observation. It's an if I can choke down kale, you can put on a mask observation. (I sure hope that makes as much sense to you, dear reader, as it does to me.)

4. I want to learn to be the one who sets a good example. There is power and influence in that, and influence - much more influence than in judging or chastising. Part of setting a good example is admitting our shortcomings while we tow the line. I also want to point out people who set the good example, tell them how its appreciated, build them up. 

On my mind today has been the title of a book of photographs that I bought for my grandmother when her eyesight began to fail. It's called In Spite of Everything, Yes edited by Caroline and Ralph Steiner. I like the title as much as the photographs. In spite of this pandemic, yes we can live as fully as we are able. In spite of many limitations, we have many freedoms. 

I'll leave you with some pictures I took when Douglas and I walked to Novodevichy.

The above statue of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson is on a sidewalk that runs along a road paralleling the Moscow River. It sits below the British Embassy. Very fitting.

I really wish I took better pictures. Sorry everybody. The wall of the British Embassy has dozens of verses on it alternately in Russian and English. Here's the full text of this one that I cut off:

I would to heaven that I were so much clay

As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling -

Because at least the past were pass'd away -

And the future - (but I write this reeling,

Having got exceedingly drunk to-day,

So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling)

I say - the future is a serious matter -

And so - for God's sake - hock and soda-water.

- George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788 - 1824

Novodevichy Cemetery

Douglas and I got out to take our first long walk since restrictions were lifted. We walked about three miles to the convent Novodevichy, where there is a famous cemetery. 

This is me with the convent in the background.

It was a perfect day to wander through a cemetery - cool, overcast, occasionally it drizzled. I've always loved roaming cemeteries. I think I got that from my mother, who, to my dad's disgust, always wanted to stop to walk through cemeteries to read the headstones. Aloud. When Douglas and I lived in Falls Church, there was a cemetery abutting the parking lot of our apartment that I frequently strolled through. I got good character names from those old tombstones. 

Here's Douglas standing near one of the sprawling, beautiful trees on the property.

I had to chuckle to myself  at the choice to place this reclining nude over the deceased. As for me, I just want to be cremated and sprinkled into the ocean or over the Grand Canyon. I do, however, like the optimism in this luxurious, lounging lady. 

The body of Boris Yeltsin rests under this Russian flag marker.

Nikita Khruschev lies beneath this interesting structure. Ernst Neizvestny (whose name means not well-known in Russian) was the scuptor. His artwork was not liked by Khruschev. He publicly asked why he "disfigured the faces of Soviet people" and saw his work as "degenerate." It was Mr. Khruschev's family who approached Mr. Neizvestny to sculpt the marker for his grave site. If there are any cracks in it, I suppose they could be blamed on Nikita turning over and over.

If I were to have a plot in a cemetery for my body, I'd want this adorning it. As I approached it, I thought someone had draped a cloth over the stone, but it's sculpted. Delicate and beautiful. I stood for quite a while admiring it.

I'll close with a short, spooky cemetery story for you. A true story. When Douglas and I were living in Falls Church, it was over the winder of 2010, otherwise known as Snowmaggedon. We were stuck in our apartment surrounded by thirty inches of snow. I couldn't stand being inside any longer, so I decided to try and walk through the cemetery. In the center was a small brick structure, where, I assumed, groundskeepers kept their tools and equipment. There were footprints leading to (or from, it was difficult to tell) the door to the building. They led to one of the plots and stopped. I looked around for more prints. None. I looked up in the tree near the plot half expecting to see some kid smiling at me. Empty. Hmm. I stood and tried to reason this sight. All I could come up with was that ghosts leave footprints.

Quarantine Bloglette: Change

I have this recurring dream about finding coins. They're in plain sight, but no one else seems to notice them but me. It begins with me seeing one, then another, then another and on and on until I'm filling my palms and pockets with coins. I shared this dream with an acquaintance of mine (Jerry, the instrument repairman at the music store where I worked in Charlotte). I told him that I didn't know what it meant. He suggested that rather than seeing the coins as coins, I might see them as change. Very insightful. I don't dream it as often any more, there are other dreams that visit me more often, but it still comes to me from time to time.

They say this pandemic with its isolation will change us. I sure hope so.

Pre-pandemic, I was very much an eater of what I craved. Then we were evacuated to Moscow and, for fear of my life, I began to eat whatever I could get my hands on. Douglas signed us up for home delivery of locally grown produce. We've been eating things like Mizuna, Spiky and Stinging Nettle. These things are supposedly good for you. (I did, by the way, discover why Stinging Nettle is so named. Fortunately, when you cook it, it no longer stings.) We receive about five pounds of greens plus a few herbs and other vegetables like broccolini and golden beets (the only thing I actually like). It's all we can do to eat it all in a week. My body doesn't know what to think with all these greens. Now that I know I'm capable of eating like this, perhaps I'll continue it post-pandemic. (I've doubled down on the chocolate just to show my body that I'm still in some control of my faculties.)

Speaking of which, Douglas was in charge of grocery shopping a few weeks ago when my allergies were so bad. (He went once. It took him about five days to psych himself into it.) In effort to eat less chocolate, I told him not to buy me any. My chocolate stash was dwindling and he knew it. And do you know what? He didn't buy me any chocolate! A few days before he went shopping, I went to the freezer to grab an ice cream bar, but there were none. My face fell. Douglas saw this face. How can he see that face and think I actually meant it when I say to buy me no chocolate? Maybe post-pandemic, he’ll know when to ignore my admonitions.

On a more serious note, a definite change I've notice in myself is my level of patience. I had already become a much more patient person being married to Douglas. He sets a good example. He's become more patient while married to me for, um, other reasons. Not knowing when we can get back to our home in Vladivostok has left me remarkable tolerant of this day-after-day existence. When life returns to normal, or the new normal, I will either be one of the most tolerant, patient people around or I will put up with nothing. I am hoping for, even anticipating, the former, but  bracing for the latter.

Part of our Fourth of July celebration is sidewalk chalk art. I've picked some of my favorites to share with you. (It might look like this guy is smoking. He's not. He's blowing a party noise-maker.)

This, I think, is in honor of those who adopted garden plots and are growing vegetables and flowers on the compound. I might add some more pictures as the exhibition grows. I want to get this posted on time.

Ranting and Raving

I was recently accused of always being on a rampage. This accusation came to me by someone whom I'm quite close to, someone whom I talk to regularly. We have gone our separate ways ideologically over the years. (She voted for Donald Trump and is quite pleased about it; I'm disgusted and heartsick. That's just one example of our differences.) I don't like going on rampages, but I don't like what's going on in our country either. And I'd rather rant about it than stick my head in the ground and pretend that everything's fine, just fine. Because if my head is in the ground, that means my bahookie is up in the air for all to see and it's either sending a message or issuing an invitation, neither of which I want to do.

Rampage is an exaggeration of what I have done; rant is a better word. Here's a rant for you:

I'm tired of . . .

. . . people hearing the name "Keesha" over the phone, and assume they know exactly what sort of person they're talking to.

. . . customer service representatives (male or female) hearing my female voice on the phone, rejecting my legitimate request only to grant it when I put my husband on the phone.

. . . people seeing a white male and assuming privilege.

. . .  people automatically blaming graffiti, litter and such crimes on teens and children.

. . .people seeing an 'R' or 'D' behind a name on a ballot and assuming what they stand for.

. . . people saying that people with public platforms are "talking to hear themselves talk" when  they have something to say that the listener didn't know or understand.

. . . people hearing a foreign language and complaining, "They come here; they need to learn English!"

. . . people who lack the words and composure to deal with wrongs without guns (and those who support their 'right' to do so)

. . . people using the race of someone almost exclusively when someone of a color other than white has done something rude or criminal.

. . .  an occasional occurrence of someone of color not signaling, cutting into line, shorting someone change turning into an accusation of "They all-" never signal, cut into line, shortchange people.

If all I did was rant, it would serve little purpose. I do write letters to congressmen and women and I vote and I usually obey the law. (I've been known to exceed the speed limit.) We all need someone to whom we can rant on occasion. Dear readers, please share your rants with me (even if they're about me). Let me know if I can share them in a future post. I will not use your name.

To What End?

I feel so sorry for people who are so scared that they don't know what to do, other than scare others. But I don't think they want my pity. I can't speak for them, but I think they want to be able to live their lives without fear of abuse from those they're supposed to be able to depend on and turn to when they're scared.

I don't understand people who are angry - justly or otherwise - at one person or entity and take it out on another. I hold bitterness against them. But it's bitterness that festers in them and drives them to justify their atrocities. It seems like those who are judged so shallowly have learned by the example of society to judge others with a mere glance.

I'm sick with worry and anxious with excitement (an odd dichotomy to have within myself) for those who act out of ignorance, who are so intimidated by the knowledge of others that they scorn and mock it rather than learn more themselves.The sickness comes, in part, from wondering where I'd be had I not come to try to emulate a society of people who constantly seek knowledge, people who are comfortable enough to admit areas of ignorance and look to the hard work of others to fill those voids. The worry comes from seeing a society more comfortable in acting on ignorance rather than using the expertise of the learned. The excitement? That's hope. I hope they, like me, come into the company of those who can accept them as they are in anticipation of their turning toward knowledge. What a thrill it is to be both ignorant and respected among such knowledgeable people. (Their feelings for me were/are probably quite a dichotomy for them.) Remember: ignorance is innocent; chosen ignorance is dangerous.

I said above that I don't understand how people lash out at random businesses when they're outraged at the police (or whoever). But maybe I do. I started writing letters to my congressmen and women and representatives years ago. I know my vote doesn't make any difference, mathematically, so perhaps my perspective and opinions will. Not one member of congress has ever written me back. I have received several form letters (after specifically requesting that they not do that).  But no one has ever responded to any idea or question I've presented to them. The NFL players who took to their knees in peaceful protest during the national anthem only received criticism for their harmless protest. We have too many people in charge who don't know how to tend to the needs of society. They're in over their heads, and it might not be their fault. We might be overpopulated and, consequently, needy. I don't know, which is why I'm not in charge. (One of the many reasons.) Too many people - whether children at home or in school, or adults in the work force or homeless and jobless - don't get listened to when they have a need or something vital to contribute. When they go about it rationally - voting, writing letters, legally protesting - and they're ignored, they're choices are to give up or find another way.

It's not my place to speak for others. I know this. It is my place to live as compassionate a life as I'm able. I haven't always had the empathy to do this. I suspect there might be someone reading this blog who lacks the empathy needed when we see a public killing by one of our peacekeepers and the resulting rioting. The people who are scared in the riots of Minneapolis could just as easily be the same people who are objecting to some of their freedoms taken from them by a virus during this pandemic, for reasons they don't understand. They could be the same people who are, in their bitterness toward those who refuse protection against the virus, forget that they, too, lack understanding sometimes.  I'm not trying to speak for any certain group of people, I'm merely trying (clumsily, I'm afraid) to offer the perspective I've come to.

If we are able, I think it will help all of us to sort through our emotional responses. I feel angry, am I really sad? I feel scared, am I really confused? I look at the riot videos and see all this energy going into destruction, rather than an beginnings of a solution. And I believe that every one of those individuals who are burning, breaking and stealing the property of others could contribute to the solution, if those in charge would only give them the chance.

Quarantine Bloglette: Corona, Such a Pretty Word

Corona, you probably already know, means crown. Suck a lovely word for such a horrendous virus. As so many of us are sequestered and having to get creative to amuse ourselves, I wonder what sort of art will emerge from this time. I already posted a couple of watercolor pictures from one of the Foreign Service Officers here in Moscow. (See my posts "Quarantine Bloglette: Spring in Moscow" and "When Life Comes Knocking.") One of my friends has been encouraging me to make progress on my novel by requesting chapters. (My novel wasn't even divided into chapters, but it's becoming so, thanks to Olga.) Movie production is practically at a halt in the big studios. I wonder if there are an indies out there shooting the next Blair Witch Project.

I've never been a visual artist. The closest I've ever come is my interpretation of accidents - in the kitchen spilling saffron, a particularly jewel-toned bruise I get from stumbling on the stairs or my hair in its various states. Here's my Corona crown, otherwise known as Corona bedhead:

There's a braid in there that didn't survive the night. The longer my hair gets during this isolation, the better it tends to stay in a braid; this was an stunning exception. My husband, Douglas, thinks this looks pretty. I'll be sure to throw in a braid and take a long nap before we attend the next Marine Ball, that will save us some money on having my hair done.

Years ago, to amuse a friend, a took a series of bedhead pictures. I felt they were rather artistic. I don't think she ever responded. Here's one I call Bedhead with lipstick:

I think this can be a thing, don't you? Bedhead pictures during the Corona pandemic? Those who are still working can title theirs, "Bedhead at Work" or "Virtual Meeting: Audio Only."

There was a time, earlier in this blog, that people commented that they liked the pictures, that they wanted to see more pictures. At great risk of being asked to never post another picture (at least of myself) I'll give you a couple more from my bedhead gallery:

I call this one "Surf's Up in Silver Spring" circa 2017:

 And this one is "Back to Bed - forever":

It often amazes me that I ever married. Poor Douglas. I remember sleeping in my Jeep out on the Renaissance Festival grounds one year. I had the back seat folded flat, so I could stretch out. (I'm only 5'1/2" tall.) In the back, I had one of those full-length, cheap mirrors so I could see to get ready in the mornings. One early morning, I woke up, opened my eyes and was face-to-face with myself, face sandwiched between two pillows. I nearly wet my bed, er, my Jeep. Gads, what a shock. It was much worse than anything you see above, because, as  light sleeper on noisy grounds, the only way I could sleep was to drink copious amounts of wine. I met my husband at the Renaissance Festival. Again, I'm amazed I ever married.

As I said, my braids usually last the night, especially if it's freshly washed and damp. I've taken to wearing my hair in my night braid all the following day. As my standards drop, I'm tempted to wear the same braid for a week or so. I might start utterly ignoring it, think: white woman's dreadlocks.

In the meantime, this next picture shows you my Corona hair. It is freshly washed, not slept on. Circa Janis Joplin, this is just how it is these days:

 Maybe to make up for all these unflattering pictures, I'll post a nice one. First, I have to find one. That might take some time.

Quarantine Bloglette: Memorial

There are many ways we can remember the women and men who have fought for and died for our country and its ideals. Parades are good, though I suppose there won't be any this year. Parades are uplifting, some people's preferred way of being remembered. On the other end of the spectrum, are visits to graveyards, where you can talk to those who died in service or pray for those they left behind.

Memorial Day has always been more of a day off to me than any great remembrance. I have thanked men and women in uniform; I do this all year round, not just on Memorial or Veteran's Day. Memorial Day makes me uncomfortable. I don't like war. But, as I have found it in me to thank Donald Trump when I've written him letters respectfully disagreeing with his ways and policies, I have found it in me to thank those who were willing to fight in wars I don't think should have happened. Why? Because they tried. They committed themselves to something that they truly believed would better our common situation. They committed themselves and followed up on that commitment, possibly even when they themselves thought it not best.

It strikes me strongly this year, that one of the best ways we can honor our fallen veterans is to uphold the self-protective and isolation policies local governments have put in place. Why should any one of them have died only to have so many US citizens scoff at the protective measures governors have put in place? How is that honoring them? As memorials go, that is like a thumb to the nose accompanied by a Bronx cheer. A cartoon I saw read: First time in history we can save the human race by laying in front of the TV and doing nothing. Let's not screw this up! Amen, brothers and sisters, amen.

On display in the US Embassy in Moscow is a table set for one of the fallen:

Laid on it are parts of a Marine uniform.

A purple heart that will never be worn by so many who earned it lies on prominent display.

And an inspiring reading. (Following the picture, I wrote it out to make it easier to read.)

The Fallen Comrade's Table

The military life is filled with much symbolism. This table provides a way to tell us that members of the profession, whom we call "brothers," are unable to be with us this evening.

It is set for one, yet there are many represented by the simple chair.

The table is draped in black, symbolizing the color of mourning, the ultimate sacrifice, a table set in honor of our fallen comrades.

The single candle reminds us of the flame of eternal life, that the memory of our fallen comrades will be with us always.

The Purple Heart medal displayed to reflect the infliction of wounds and the ebb of life in battle.

The identification tags blank, yet they could bear the names of service members of every creed and color and from every state of the Union.

The dinner setting inverted; they dine with us in spirit only.

Those who have died so that we may live, our former comrades who have earned the glory and have given to us the respect and pride that we hold so dear.

Quarantine Bloglette: Fasting

A few weeks ago, I fasted for a day. Not my favorite thing to do, but I wanted to be sure I could still do it, that I could still control myself. My body, I controlled; my mind, not so much.While in Moscow, I've spent some time talking to our Regional Psychiatrist. I often suffer from unwanted thoughts - mostly in the form of songs replaying themselves to the point that thoughts of lobotomy run rampant through my mind. She told me that, rather than trying to not think about the annoying thought, replace it with something else, and put my focus there. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but it makes sense.

I realize that what we are all going through, in this self-isolation, is like a fast. Instead of doing without food, though, we're doing without shopping, parties, going to shows, etc. By looking at this as a sort of fast, can that help us get through the rest of this pandemic?* I'm probably not the only one to look at my collection of perfume, spices, hotel sample-sized shampoos or whatever and declare, No more, until I use some of this up! I'm also likely not the only one to think, I play this game too much. I need to stop for a week or so.

People fast for different reasons. Some fast to cleanse their bodies. As we fast from the many activities we're prevented from doing, what behaviors (over-indulging, anyone?) or attitudes (entitlement?) can we cleanse ourselves of?

Some fast to focus on other things, like spiritual matters or a specific problem. Since we're so limited in what we can do, is there something we've been procrastinating that we can finally get ourselves to deal with? I'm not necessarily talking about cleaning out the garage. For me, I've been working on not repeating myself - telling the same stories over and over or repeatedly making the same point. Once, when Douglas was out of town, I made a concerted effort to not talk to myself. There's nothing wrong with talking to oneself - everyone from toddler age up does it. But I wanted to speak more mindfully, and that was the perfect opportunity to practice it. What can we practice during this time that will instill good habits?


*(I do realize that in the US some businesses are opening up, so I might be a little late with this post. I think, though, that there are still plenty of people self-quarantining.)

This is a quilt that was on display at Scottsdale's Mayo Clinic. Quilts are pretty. But if you look at just one square of a quilt, like a solid background piece, it's not very pretty. Yet, if you made a quilt without those boring background pieces, the focus images would be lost. These days of isolation may seem boring and repetitive, but they are serving a purpose. We need to let them do that, and maybe, just maybe, we can even discover the purpose. Here are a few more quilt images for you:

Quarantine Bloglette: Touch

About 15 or so years ago, I slipped on ice and broke my left ring finger. I wore a splint for a few weeks while it healed. When I took the splint off, I was amazed at what I could feel with the tip of that finger. I discovered the increased sensory abilities when I casually ran my fingers through my hair and felt individual hairs brushing across that fingertip. To the rest of my fingers, it felt like thick hair, but that finger perceived dozens of individual hairs.This heightened sensory ability lasted a few days during which I touched everything: fabric; my skin - I cold feel my pores; wood - there is such depth to it that we don't realize without a visual magnification of it; even paper has texture we don't usually perceive in its smoothness. I have occasionally imagined wrapping up another finger - or my entire hand - for a few weeks just to experience it again.

When this pandemic passes, like the plagues of ancient Egypt, and we start touching each other again, what will we feel?

Will we feel the trepidation thicken in the air when we bump into someone on the metro? Will we feel the anxiety that was wrung in the hands of new acquaintances? Will we feel after-shocks of the tremors of weeping in the shoulders we rub? Will we feel the residue of salty tears that ran down the cheeks we kiss?

I hope so. (Except, maybe, the trepidation.)

How long will that last? How long will we remember what we shared during these long months? How long will the empathy we are developing survive life's return to ease?

I do hope we feel relief in those hugs, excitement in all the hands and a firmness that didn't exist before in those shoulders, for we will all be new people to one degree or another.

I love the fairy tale aspect of this painting. Look up the title of the painting, Ivan Tsarevich Riding the Gray Wolf for a better image of the painting and the inspiring story of the Firebird. The Firebird, by the way, is one of the few ballets I've seen since living in Russia.  

Quarantine Bloglette: Suzy Sunshine versus Doom and Gloom

I read the agony columns daily (specifically Carolyn Hax). A few weeks ago, in Carolyn Hax's on-line discussion, people wrote in that friends and acquaintances wanted them to be either more optimistic or keep their perennial cheer to themselves during the pandemic.

I think it's important to know that whether you're one of those who sees the good amidst all the suffering or can't see any relief from today's misery, you're feeling what you need to feel right now.

I think it's important for those who always want to see the good in something to not get in the way of those who see things for what they are right now. People are dying by the thousands, we should feel some anxiety and fear and sorrow and somewhat defeated. Likewise, lovers of happy endings shouldn't pretend to know that "everything is going to be alright." We don't know that.

On the other hand, if you are overwhelmed with the inconvenience of isolation, fearful of contracting the coronavirus, worried about money, lonely or see no end to this misery, try not to bring down those who need to see only the good deeds people are doing during this time.

We're in a crisis, and people are doing wonderful things. We need both outlooks because they're both truthful, and neither should be dismissive of the other. I'm hoping that one of the outcomes of this pandemic is that we will realize the importance of the role of the individual in society and not try to make others conform their role to our's.

There's a safari park in Vladivostok. We were told a story about this grey heron. It's mate was injured, and taken into the park for rehabilitation. Knowing she was there, he refused to leave her when it came time to migrate.

Quarantine Bloglette: Motives

I've been continuing to watch the series of Harvard lectures on Justice by Michael Sandel. The most recent was on motives. (If you really want to understand what I'm about to attempt to explain, please listen to his lecture or read something from someone who knows this better than I do.) Emmanuel Kant posits that if someone does something moral for the wrong reasons, their motivation makes the act immoral.

In response to my last post, I was given a link to a New Yorker article by Zack Helfand about a courier, Lenin Cerόn, in New York City. The lengths this man goes to to protect his customers is rather extraordinary. He truly cares for the people he serves and realizes that he is greatly responsible for their well-being, since he could so easily spread the coronavirus with his touch. Some of the people he delivers food to are immunocompromised and would be in danger to leave their apartment. After every shift, he stands in a bucket of soapy water waiting inside his door, takes off everything and puts it in the bucket. He showers, disinfects everything he's come in contact with, then showers again the next day pre-shift. He puts thought into where he touches the bag of food he delivers: Not the handle, since that's where the customer will likely touch it.  He uses every opportunity to sanitize his hands. He goes to these lengths even for this low-paying job with its "skimpy tips.". His take-home one day: $70.71. Maybe that was just the tips, I'm not sure. He spent $50 of that on a box of gloves - from a dollar store.

While I don't quite disagree with anything I wrote in my last post, I see the heroism in this man's thoughts, motivations and actions. I see that heroism sometimes lies more deeply than the outward act. Just like we can't always see the disability of someone who needs that  parking spot for the disabled, we don't always see the altruism that is the base of even the most mundane acts. (Nor, I'll throw in just for fun, can we always see the selfishness at the base of great acts of servitude.)

It would be a shame if someone who became an oncologist for the money were to be more honored than someone like Mr. Cerόn, who goes to the selfless extremes he does for the safety of his clients. It wouldn't be wrong to honor the oncologist, it would be wrong to think that a courier doesn't deserve as much honor for something underlying. 

Or, maybe, just maybe, his outward actions deserve it on their own merit. Hmm. Now I'm really thinking.

I occasionally take risks in exposing myself in these posts. I'm going to do that now. I have tended to think, and sometimes still struggle with thinking, that people take jobs like hotel maids, porta-potty cleaners (what we affectionately referred to at the Renaissance Festival as privy-suckers) and trash collectors because they lack the education to or are incapable of doing anything else. Shame on me. What if some of those workers see a need that few are willing to fill, so they step up (or down, as it were) and get their hands dirty and do it themselves? I will say that my intention in my last post was to give unique honor to the health-care workers and researchers, not degrade the other workers. But I now see how that could come off as judgmental. The next time I hear someone calling a shop clerk a hero, instead of disagreeing, I'll nod and say, "They just might be."

I chose this painting to accompany this post, because it's simple lines and sparse color makes it pleasing. It reflects how actions don't have to be elaborate to reflect our inner character and beauty,

Quarantine Bloglette: But are they Heroes?

I've been asking for comments in my blogs. Few people offer them. That's okay. Perhaps you have made the same vow to yourself that I made to you when I decided to post regularly: If I don't have anything to say, I'll not post. Maybe you don't know how to post a comment. Scroll down to the bottom of the post. Look for where it says "No Comments" (or, in a rare case "1 Comment"), click and you should see a small screen where you can write in a comment.

I want to say a little about  how I feel about all the people in the world who are working so long and hard against this virus. I want to express my admiration for those who are working tirelessly and selflessly for those afflicted with the COVID-19. I'm in awe of them all. What they possess within themselves goes beyond dedication. Anyone who is willing to go face-to-face with this virus or someone afflicted with the COVID-19 is heroic in my mind. The granddaughter of a former neighbor of mine came down with COVID-19 after nursing victims of it. She's been waiting to recover enough to go back to work with them. That amazes me. I don't know if I'd have it in me or not. We're blessed to have people like that living among us.

That said, I bristle when I hear people calling cashiers and truckers and other such essential workers heroes. They are taking chances, that's true. They're brave to work in such close proximity to the public so that we can have food and other necessary supplies. They're dedicated. Maybe some, like those who are preparing food for health care workers, are even selfless. But heroes and heroines? I'm not sure that's the right word for them.

I mentioned the comment section at the beginning of this post to hopefully avoid people writing me and telling me that I'm not appreciative of the work these people are doing. I am. I looked up 'hero' and saw this definition in the Oxford Dictionary: A person who is admired for their courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities. The Free Dictionary defined hero as "A person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who ha risked or sacrificed his or her life."

In my mind, to call someone who delivers something, or passes goods or change over a counter or through a window to another person who might be carrying the virus the same thing we're calling those who are inches from the afflicted and the active virus lessens the honor. To call a cashier working during a dangerous time in our society a hero the same as we call our soldiers who are fighting our enemies; a police officer who approaches a gunman to talk them down; or a fire fighter who rushes into a burning building to save someone, in my opinion, degrades the word. The health care workers and researchers are in a risk category far above a cashier. It takes away from the definition of hero to call so many people doing so many different things heroes. Everyone out there working in the public is risking their life. That fits the Oxford definition of hero, but to me a heroine is someone who saves someone or a situation from a terrible fate.

I'm not saying we shouldn't be grateful and admire them. I'm saying that there are so many more words that more accurately describe them. Our society tends to favor certain words for a period of time and overuse them. Remember when 'inappropriate' became so popular? A child hitting another child would be told "That's inappropriate." Inappropriate!? It's cruel, wrong and abusive, not inappropriate. Can we agree that those who are out there working in industries that we need are brave? Helpful? Dedicated?  Industrious? Loving? Caring? Important? Vital? As you see, there are many good adjectives to pick from - adjectives that don't lessen the work or value of these good citizens. Can we please leave the word hero to those who truly are heroes?

This is a monochrome wall of memories of war heroes in Vladivostok. It was washed a few days ago in honor of Victory Day, a day celebrating the end of WWII and victory over the Nazis.