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.
Saturday, May 30, 2020
Monday, May 25, 2020
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:
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.
Saturday, May 23, 2020
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.
Friday, May 22, 2020
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.)
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:
Sunday, May 17, 2020
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.
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.
Friday, May 15, 2020
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.
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.
Thursday, May 14, 2020
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 CerÏŒn, 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. CerÏŒn, 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."
In response to my last post, I was given a link to a New Yorker article by Zack Helfand about a courier, Lenin CerÏŒn, 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. CerÏŒn, 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,
Monday, May 11, 2020
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?
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.
Saturday, May 9, 2020
Quarantine Bloglette: It's Come to This
Douglas and I are trying to make the most of our time during this isolation. We aren't binge watching anything; we're trying to use our time well.
That said, sometimes we succumb to the mind-numbing changeless atmosphere of this apartment and these Embassy grounds. A week or so ago, we spent a perfectly good Friday night playing the card games War and Flip, neither of which we had played since our childhood.
. . .
Sigh.
It's not like we've never been bored during normal times. I remember one time I was determined to learn how to play my armpit the way the boys did in elementary school. I just wasn't getting it. Douglas tried to teach me, to no avail.
It came to a head this past week. At least I hope this was the pinnacle of boredom for us in our lives together. I was taking a bath and Douglas was keeping me company. (Don't worry, this is G-rated.) I was finished with all I had to do, but wasn't ready to get out of the deep, warm water. For some reason (dare I posit: boredom?) I was thinking of how I never did figure out how to play my armpit - and I had tried both pits with both hands. I thought, maybe it's easier when you're wet. So I positioned myself and gave it a try. Nothing. Any amorous thoughts Douglas may have had were quickly being drowned. I don't know which of us suggested it, I'll say it was me to save Douglas any further embarrassment. But we wound up with Douglas's hand in my armpit trying to make music, or whatever you call it that emits from the pits when you cup your hand over them and flap your arms up and down. Still nothing.
Nothing except this blog, that it. I've been running a little dry lately on daily posts, and, keeping true to my word, "No Bunk," I won't post unless I have something to say.
I'll leave you with a couple of pictures I took on my walk today. Spring in Moscow.
That said, sometimes we succumb to the mind-numbing changeless atmosphere of this apartment and these Embassy grounds. A week or so ago, we spent a perfectly good Friday night playing the card games War and Flip, neither of which we had played since our childhood.
. . .
Sigh.
It's not like we've never been bored during normal times. I remember one time I was determined to learn how to play my armpit the way the boys did in elementary school. I just wasn't getting it. Douglas tried to teach me, to no avail.
It came to a head this past week. At least I hope this was the pinnacle of boredom for us in our lives together. I was taking a bath and Douglas was keeping me company. (Don't worry, this is G-rated.) I was finished with all I had to do, but wasn't ready to get out of the deep, warm water. For some reason (dare I posit: boredom?) I was thinking of how I never did figure out how to play my armpit - and I had tried both pits with both hands. I thought, maybe it's easier when you're wet. So I positioned myself and gave it a try. Nothing. Any amorous thoughts Douglas may have had were quickly being drowned. I don't know which of us suggested it, I'll say it was me to save Douglas any further embarrassment. But we wound up with Douglas's hand in my armpit trying to make music, or whatever you call it that emits from the pits when you cup your hand over them and flap your arms up and down. Still nothing.
Nothing except this blog, that it. I've been running a little dry lately on daily posts, and, keeping true to my word, "No Bunk," I won't post unless I have something to say.
I'll leave you with a couple of pictures I took on my walk today. Spring in Moscow.
I hope you can see the twist in the trunk of this beautiful tree.
I don't know what kind of tree this is, but it's very fragrant.
This is a beautiful plant I noticed by the green. Judging by its leaves, I think it's a type of holly.
Wednesday, May 6, 2020
Quarantine Bloglette: Our Job
I enjoy watching CBS Sunday Morning. They currently have a short segment that shows pictures of people who have died he previous week from Covid-19. What I admire about this segment is that you'll not only see well-known faces, but you'll see a picture, and, beneath the name it will say, "Jane Smith, Bus Driver." They are giving honor to all walks of life, rather than making the strong statement that only the passing of the famous is worth noting. They show scene after scene of firefighters and police forces standing outside hospitals cheering, blaring sirens and holding signs in gratitude for the healthcare staff. But they also consistently mention truckers and cashiers and other workers who are keeping us going during this tough time.
Douglas recently read an essay to me written by Mo Perry, called Are You Struggling with Feeling Inessential? She writes about the struggles of feeling like we aren't currently contributing to or necessary for society the way we were when we had our regular jobs and could get out and be obviously productive. (My words to sum up, not hers.) She mentions reading many essays about going easy on oneself, living mindfully and waiting this pandemic out. I, myself, have written that. But she has a hard time with that.
None of us are completely out of work. Our jobs, our occupations have temporarily changed. She suggests that a good deal of our work is settling into the discomfort of isolation and waiting. And this is hard work. It's not tangible like moving something from here to there, or fixing this or that. It's grappling within ourselves that we can't change the overall situation; finding what can be learned; and striving to emerge stronger, smarter. What I love about her essay is how she says that the job of those of us who are staying out of the way at home is to work with our own suffering to gain compassion and empathy for everyone else who's suffering along with us.
And it's more than that. It's recognizing the importance of that work alongside that of the (more obvious) healthcare workers, researchers and scientists. I've shared this story before, but I'll briefly share it again. When I sang at the Renaissance Festivals, I was envious of the huge crowds other acts drew, while our little madrigal group drew few - many of whom were just getting out of the sun, or taking advantage of an empty seat in which to sit and eat during our show. I got a bit miffed that so many people would just walk past us without giving us a chance. Then, one day as I walked around the grounds, I passed a harpist. She played beautifully. But I didn't stop to listen. No one else did either. But I realized then how much different the atmosphere would be - how much it would lack - if she were not sitting there under that tree playing. I would miss her, even if I didn't stop and stand and listen. That made me feel better about my role and the role of my group.
We need our own role. And we need not compare our role with that of another. Is it easier to work exhaustive hours in attempt to comfort and heal the ailing or become a compassionate, empathetic person? Which is more important? There is no answer other than they're just different. Let's settle into our roles knowing that as we evolve in them, we contribute to the evolution of society.
Douglas recently read an essay to me written by Mo Perry, called Are You Struggling with Feeling Inessential? She writes about the struggles of feeling like we aren't currently contributing to or necessary for society the way we were when we had our regular jobs and could get out and be obviously productive. (My words to sum up, not hers.) She mentions reading many essays about going easy on oneself, living mindfully and waiting this pandemic out. I, myself, have written that. But she has a hard time with that.
None of us are completely out of work. Our jobs, our occupations have temporarily changed. She suggests that a good deal of our work is settling into the discomfort of isolation and waiting. And this is hard work. It's not tangible like moving something from here to there, or fixing this or that. It's grappling within ourselves that we can't change the overall situation; finding what can be learned; and striving to emerge stronger, smarter. What I love about her essay is how she says that the job of those of us who are staying out of the way at home is to work with our own suffering to gain compassion and empathy for everyone else who's suffering along with us.
And it's more than that. It's recognizing the importance of that work alongside that of the (more obvious) healthcare workers, researchers and scientists. I've shared this story before, but I'll briefly share it again. When I sang at the Renaissance Festivals, I was envious of the huge crowds other acts drew, while our little madrigal group drew few - many of whom were just getting out of the sun, or taking advantage of an empty seat in which to sit and eat during our show. I got a bit miffed that so many people would just walk past us without giving us a chance. Then, one day as I walked around the grounds, I passed a harpist. She played beautifully. But I didn't stop to listen. No one else did either. But I realized then how much different the atmosphere would be - how much it would lack - if she were not sitting there under that tree playing. I would miss her, even if I didn't stop and stand and listen. That made me feel better about my role and the role of my group.
We need our own role. And we need not compare our role with that of another. Is it easier to work exhaustive hours in attempt to comfort and heal the ailing or become a compassionate, empathetic person? Which is more important? There is no answer other than they're just different. Let's settle into our roles knowing that as we evolve in them, we contribute to the evolution of society.
This is Peasant Girl Knitting a Stocking by Filipp Malyavin, 1895 (I probably apologize too much for the low quality of my photographs. If I'd known I'd be posting these, I'd have done a better job. Non-reflective glass in the galleries would help.)
Sunday, May 3, 2020
Quarantine Bloglette: Spring n Moscow
I'm living through one of the upsides to spending this pandemic in Moscow, instead of our home in Vlaidvostok. I get to see spring emerge here. Well, I get to see spring emerge within the compound.
Friday, I delivered a May Basket with chocolate, flowers and hand cream to my neighbor.
Saturday, Douglas and I sat outside and drank Mint Juleps with our neighbor in honor of Derby Day.
I saw the first tulip in full bloom - salmon/orange with streaks of yellow. Lovely
Yesterday, we had the first spring thunderstorm, encouraging all the other bulbs to bloom.
I gave each of those their own paragraph not to make this post look longer, but to give them each their space. Each of those was such an event unto itself for me: the preparation of and anticipation of delivering the May basket; sitting outside having a rare conversation with more than one person while sipping a yummy drink with many fond memories attached; the tulip doesn't need me to make it look good any more than any of nature does.
I'll share the mint julep memories, then leave you with some artwork.
Mint julep memory #1: Douglas and I were in New Orleans. He attending a conference, and I was alternately reading Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice and wandering the city doing things like singing What a Wonderful World to Louis Armstrong's statue. He scheduled a couple extra days to sight-see and we toured a couple of plantations. As we walked to the entrance to Oak Alley Plantation (Oak Alley Plantation), we were met in the parking lot by another couple who gave us tickets to attend a concert that afternoon on the lawn. The New Orleans Symphony played in the shade of the oaks. They served mint juleps in very large stadium cups. What a joy.
The second happened at the Renaissance Festival in Minnesota. We had a themed potluck one Friday evening before the start of a big weekend. I don't remember the theme, but I brought mind juleps. I didn't exactly follow a recipe, I just mixed a bottle of bourbon with a bottle of creme de menthe, added ice, shook and sat it out for all to enjoy. One of the royal guards really enjoyed it that evening. He didn't enjoy it so much the next day. He kept saying, "Mint juleps are a sssssipping drink."
Friday, I delivered a May Basket with chocolate, flowers and hand cream to my neighbor.
Saturday, Douglas and I sat outside and drank Mint Juleps with our neighbor in honor of Derby Day.
I saw the first tulip in full bloom - salmon/orange with streaks of yellow. Lovely
Yesterday, we had the first spring thunderstorm, encouraging all the other bulbs to bloom.
I gave each of those their own paragraph not to make this post look longer, but to give them each their space. Each of those was such an event unto itself for me: the preparation of and anticipation of delivering the May basket; sitting outside having a rare conversation with more than one person while sipping a yummy drink with many fond memories attached; the tulip doesn't need me to make it look good any more than any of nature does.
I'll share the mint julep memories, then leave you with some artwork.
Mint julep memory #1: Douglas and I were in New Orleans. He attending a conference, and I was alternately reading Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice and wandering the city doing things like singing What a Wonderful World to Louis Armstrong's statue. He scheduled a couple extra days to sight-see and we toured a couple of plantations. As we walked to the entrance to Oak Alley Plantation (Oak Alley Plantation), we were met in the parking lot by another couple who gave us tickets to attend a concert that afternoon on the lawn. The New Orleans Symphony played in the shade of the oaks. They served mint juleps in very large stadium cups. What a joy.
The second happened at the Renaissance Festival in Minnesota. We had a themed potluck one Friday evening before the start of a big weekend. I don't remember the theme, but I brought mind juleps. I didn't exactly follow a recipe, I just mixed a bottle of bourbon with a bottle of creme de menthe, added ice, shook and sat it out for all to enjoy. One of the royal guards really enjoyed it that evening. He didn't enjoy it so much the next day. He kept saying, "Mint juleps are a sssssipping drink."
Here are a couple of paintings I saw displayed in a window on the compound. They were painted by one of the Embassy staff in honor of Easter. The reflection of the glass made it difficult to get a really good picture. (That and the fact that all I have to make photographs is my phone.) I did the best I could.
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