Lasts and Firsts

I left Silver Spring, our house, my church and the United States on September 10th, arrived in Moscow September 11th, and Vladivostok on September 14th. Though there was a definite excitement in anticipating a new life in a new country, it wasn’t easy walking away from people and activities I loved. I made the decision to soak up my last experiences as I lived them, rather than mourning the impending loss.

Mindfulness played a huge role as I walked (or ran) through Wheaton Regional Park the last few times. I’ll miss these woods, I thought. I’ll miss the birds. Wheaton Regional Park had lots of woodpeckers, cardinals, blue jays, some goldfinches. So far all we’ve seen (and heard) in Vladivostok are pigeons, robins and magpies. 

The most dramatic last experience I had was with my choir. We flew to Bristol, England to sing a week of Evensong services at the Cathedral. Instead of hanging out with the usual suspects, I chose someone different to be with for each meal and each excursion. I didn’t get to say a formal goodbye to everyone, but our time together touring, rehearsing and leading and participating in worship made up for it.

An added benefit of the England trip was meeting up with two good friends I meet in Munich. We enjoyed a few days together walking the cliffs and beaches of North Cornwall. I love relationships that pick up right where they left off after months or years.

Detachment also played a role as I resisted carrying plastic bags with me to pick up littered recyclables every time I got out and walked. That’s your problem now, Silver Spring, I thought as I walked passed the filth. Vladivostok isn’t as littered as Silver Spring. Don’t take that the wrong way; people litter here, but there are street keepers who regularly pick it up so we don’t have to walk through and around it.

I squeezed in one more trip to Phoenix to see my parents. My last trip before moving to Russia was supposed to be back in the spring, but their circumstances had changed and I wanted to see them again. It’s hard leaving them in so much need. They have some good people around them, but they don’t have me and I don’t have them. Thank God for Skype, when it works. I think of my grandmother who, from the age of seventy or so would say, Well, you may never see me again. She lived to be a hundred and two. I’ve been worrying about and bracing myself for losing Mom and Dad since I first left for Tashkent back in 2010. They are a couple of Energizer bunnies.

Vladivostok is my first home on the coast. I’ve long dreamed of living near the ocean. We can see the bay (and splendid sunsets) from our townhouse. When Douglas first joined the Foreign Service, I wanted to live on the coast - any coast. Our first post was in Tashkent, Uzbekistan – one of only two double land-locked countries. Now I’m living my dream. It’s a port city, but there are islands and preserves in the area. I hope I’ll get out and explore and make the most of living here.

Soon after arriving in Vladivostok, Douglas and I both had a first: we ran (and walked) in our first 5K. It was the tail end of a marathon and took place on the first rainy day here. That may have kept us holed up in the hotel, but no – we got up, pinned on our numbers, walked to a nearby square where we pushed our way through the hordes onto the shuttle bus and waited under a canvas tent in the rain for an hour and a half to line up. This was the one chance (per year) we’d have to cross the famous suspension bridge on foot. It wasn’t a great day for photography from the bridge, but we snapped a few anyway. It was exhilarating to be cheered on at the finish line. We heard the Russian version of “Good job!” and “We’re proud of you!” We were even given medals!

Before. Everyone is lining up for the race.

During. Bad picture, I know. I used my i Phone and it's having problems.

 Another bad picture. We were told not to stop on the bridge, but I really wanted a picture. There are no after pictures, I thought I'd spare you. 

I was told that my Russian teacher didn't speak much English. I’ve heard of people leaning languages by watching television. How, exactly? It turns out that she speaks quite a bit, thank God, but she doesn't like to when teaching. We're compromising. I’m rallying some faith, faith in myself, my teacher and nature. We all learned our first language by immersion with no translations.

Another first for me is living in a four-story townhouse. It’s not as huge as it may sound, it’s tall. There are two or three rooms on each floor. I told people before we moved that it would be like living in a lighthouse! The steps aren’t as steep as a lighthouse, but they are interesting. They aren’t uniform. The first step is steep, while the rest are rather shallow. It’s shocking to come plunging down the steps, fall into a rhythm, then be surprised with the extra couple-inch drop at the end. (Or, on the way up, trip on the top step because it's two inches higher than all the rest.) And they aren't square with each other. It looks a bit like the crooked house that the crooked little man built. We decided to have color put on the wall instead of living in institutional off-white for three years. I saw my first sunset here the other evening and realized that the colors I chose for my writing room and our bedroom were right out of that sunset. Brilliant!

This is the view from our balcony. I'll post a better picture when I have a better camera (and a nice sunset over that water). My i Phone camera sometimes only works in selfie mode.

So, in honor of living in this little lighthouse, I’d like to unofficially rename this blog From the Lighthouse. (I considered setting up a new blog, but don’t want to go through the fuss and bother.)

A Fast from Guilt

This Lent I've decided to give up guilt.

Stop laughing. My life is not one long Mardi Gras, one long Fat Tuesday turning me into Fat Laura. Quite the opposite.

One of the first things I've learned is that giving up guilt is a lot easier - now listen closely - when you don't do anything you shouldn't. In fact, I believe it can be a complete success. I don't know, because I'm still doing things I shouldn't.

Case in point: I really wanted a Pepsi one day last week. I'd had two doctor's appointments downtown. It was a beautiful, sunny, seventy-seven degree day and I passed a 7-11 on my walk home. I stopped in only to find the soda fountain out of order. Fie! I had to be good. I know, I could have bought a bottle, but I like my special blend of half diet and half regular in vain effort to cut some sugar out of my diet. Later I arrived at the church early to help catalog and file music. I walked to the 7-11 next door to get that Pepsi. The diet Pepsi was out; I only got a spray of vaguely caramel colored fizzy water. Now my inner voice - the one I'm supposed to be listening to and abiding by - was screaming leave! No Pepsi today! But the stubborn me was adamant. I turned to the only employee in sight who was on the register with a long line waiting. I went to the back room and called. No answer. I got in line. And waited. And waited. I tried to ignore my inner voice by stepping out of line to pour out some of the carbonated water and add a bit of regular Pepsi to sip as I waited. I was really craving it now, brothers and sisters. I stepped back into line and waited. And waited. And somewhat curbed my craving. When it was my turn, I asked the clerk if there was someone else there who could fix the Pepsi dispenser. No. I showed him my watered down drink and said I didn't want it and didn't know what to do with it. I'm a regular there. He shrugged and waved me off. I left with a half cup of watered down Pepsi. I left with my Pepsi craving somewhat satisfied, but otherwise feeling foolish and guilty, admonishing myself for not taking the load (after load, after load) of bricks that came tumbling down on me as a clear directive to do without Pepsi.

That's the kind of guilt I should have.

The kind of guilt I want to shake off is the kind that, after spending thirty minutes on the bike, says I notice you skipped work again. The kind that, after a day of practicing music, exercising, cleaning the house, saying my prayers says, did you write anything today? Why not? You'll never finish that novel. You'll never get published. That's the guilt I want a break from. Preferably a permanent break.

What or who is it in me that finds fault with thirty minutes of exercise or a day well spent minus one single element? Where do I get such high standards?

I'm in a book discussion group that is reading The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. I'm only through chapter three. I alternately get so excited reading it that I have to walk away to write and think or I find myself yelling at him, how can you say that? It does make for good thought and discussion. The first law is be impeccable with your word. My interpretation of one of his points is speak uplifting to all, including yourself. By cultivating that behavior you cause your mind to be less receptive (fertile) to negative, damaging talk like gossip. I like that idea. Then he claims that you are working against yourself every time you put blame on yourself. I understand his point in what I wrote in the paragraph above, but what if I cheated on Douglas? Wouldn't it be working against myself to not recognize my culpability in that?

The second agreement is to not take anything personally - including those inner voices that always seem to be against you. It's a good book for me to be reading and discussing with others.

A source of guilt for me is wasting time. I'm not employed, so my work is, for the most part, done in my own time. I have to show up for rehearsals, church and performances on time, otherwise I practice, write, cook, and maintain the house when I do. Two friends whom I love and respect don't see any use of their time as a waste. As long as they are doing what feels good, what they want to do, they don't see if as a waste. I don't think I'm capable of that. If Douglas and I run out of prepared meals, I have the responsibility to prepare another one. That's part of my job. If I haven't cleaned the house in two weeks, I need to make the time to do it. If I choose to lie around reading a book or playing a game instead, that's wasting time and it's wrong. On the other hand, if I spend four hours cleaning and pressing Douglas's shirts and I want to take a break, lie on my back and play Scrabble, fine.

I like what Mr. Ruiz says about sin. He says when you think something against yourself, it's sin. I don't know if it's that simple, but, as God has a presence in us, that's a good, broad base. Kind of like you can replace many of the rules and laws in the scriptures with the single directive to love. Instead of saddling ourselves with lists of rules, face each day more simply. Is this showing love? Is this uplifting? Am I contributing to order or chaos? There are times we need our hands held, so we have the ten commandments. Then there are times we can think more clearly on our own and live the fruits of the spirit without concerning ourselves with assigned and forbidden behaviors.

I guess what I want is a finely tuned, well functioning conscience. When I'm out of line, I want to know it. When I've done my best I want to feel good about my efforts regardless of the outcome.

There's an element of necessity in guilt. If I never felt the repercussions of wrongdoing, I'd be one step into sociopathy. I'm hoping that, in not getting caught up in constantly upping the bar and allowing for no lapses in judgement, I will go easier on others as well as myself.

I'm already experiencing a bit of freedom in warding off guilt. I don't spend time rationalizing my behavior to myself. It's mindful: What am I doing right now? Is it worthy of my time and attention? I recently wrote about change for my church newsletter. Giving up guilt involves changing perspective, attitude and thought responses. It has given me pause to dig around for other feelings when I think I'm feeling guilty. I'm not simply trying to toss aside guilt in doing this. I just want to keep it in its proper place. I've read that we tend to feel - or be aware of - very few emotions when there are actually an array of emotions. It has become popular to boil everything down to fear. Anyone who disagrees with  something is afraid of something. Simple, but thoughtless and not always accurate. Same with me and guilt, I think. It's one of my go-to emotions and I want to search to see what lies beneath it. I already notice that I'll assign guilt to myself when, in actuality, I'm disappointed in myself. Disappointment is a far cry from guilt. I know that. Now I need to live it.

Do you have any go-to emotions worth taking a second look at? I know someone whose first response to anything displeasing is anger. That was me for years until I shoved anger aside and uncovered sorrow, confusion, discomfort and, yes, some fear. Trying to deal with anger while sad didn't work. It was like treating a digestive problem with a cough drop.

So, here's to emotions! Cheers! I wonder. . . I wonder if, in uncovering, naming and dealing with our true emotions, we can start the same trend in society. Maybe we can learn what is at the root of all these mass shootings, sexual harassment and abuse, propagation of lies and many other of societies ills.

As it should be

Christmas Eve 2017

The dog had been barking for at least an hour. I had been outside at least four times− twice with a flashlight, once I even walked the alley− to find out what the *#&%^ she was barking at. Santa? Tiny reindeer? Apparently, nothing. I had been considering going to an eleven o’clock Christmas Eve service at a nearby church, but was cozy in my pajamas and didn’t feel like dressing and driving. After another half hour of Abby’s barking, I realized it was either go to the service or go outside and beat the dog. I had been looking forward to being with Abby at midnight to see if she’d talk to me, but I figured she’d be so hoarse after all this racket that I’d never understand her. So I dressed and drove to the service leaving my parents and the neighbors to suffer with her woofing.

A sign of the times: I fretted on the way that some gun bearing male would decide he’d had enough of people celebrating Christmas and enter the church to shoot himself a few worshippers. Gads.

When I got to the corner where the church was supposed to be, it was easy to spot because it was surrounded with luminarias or farolitos, depending on what you want to call them. Lovely. I sat down in the cool, quiet, candle-strewn sanctuary about one minute before a string quartet began playing. A pipe organist and a few choir voices soon joined in. I was beginning to calm down.

A child began shrieking a whistle-like shriek. The thought that I may as well have stayed home with the dog occurred to me, when the calm of the sanctuary took over and I reached for my pen and paper to write. It’s Christmas Eve. I wrote. The child is rightly excited. All is as it should be.

This church is an incense-burning church. The sanctuary is small, so as the thurifer strolled the aisles waiving the censer, the air got thick and heavy with burnt frankincense. It smelled like very strong baby powder, though I don’t recall baby powder smelling like frankincense. After a few passes, I could barely make out the altar candles through the smoke hanging in the air. Singing was a challenge. Breathing was a challenge, and I love incense. After a while, the air had cleared a bit and it was time for more incense. This was for the gospel reading which took place right next to me. The thurifer gave the holy scripture a few good swings of the censer because the Lord loves pleasing fragrances. Between that and breathing the smoky air at home where my father has lost some of his fire-building prowess, I felt like I needed to be treated for smoke inhalation. But all was as it should be.

One thing I like about the Episcopal church – at least the ones I’ve attended – is that they sing all the verses of the hymns. Sometimes this gets a bit time consuming and repetitious, but I still like it. It gives one time to look around. The man seated in front of me was wearing a Santa-red jacket that looked like it may have been velvet. I wore a pair of red pants that my choir director Chris’s wife Sunny gave me. I told him later that together we made a suit.

The homily was about a Christmas Eve the priest remembered from his New York days. He told of being in the subway where usually all you heard (in the 80’s) was boom boxes blaring hip-hop. He stepped off a car and heard the faint sounds of a violin. He walked and found a small gathering around a young man who seemed to be improvising on a violin. No music was in sight. The sound was nice and the instrument looked of a good quality. The priest soon realized that he recognized Paganini and Rachmaninov amongst other composers’ melodies threaded together with the occasional Christmas carol. This player knew what he was doing. After about twenty minutes of engaging the crowd, the young man stopped, put his violin in his case to silence. Applause seemed wrong, like it would cheapen or spoil something. He then thanked the people for listening. He thanked them. The priest had heard about a young man named Joshua who would occasionally play in the subway. It must have been Joshua Bell. I’ve met him! I wanted to shout, but didn’t. The message was all about being a light in the darkness.

During the announcements, the priest apologized for a few minor mistakes in the order of service. Their administrator hadn’t prepared the bulletin as she usually did, so the job fell to him. (He accidentally printed the final page of a hymn over the invitation to the party following the service, for example.) There was one mistake he hadn’t mentioned that caught me unawares. When we proclaimed the mystery (Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again - the only mystery I recall proclaiming) those familiar words had been replaced with we praise you, we bless you, we give thanks to you, and we pray to you, Lord out God. I wondered if the old mystery had been solved in the two weeks since I’d attended and we were on to a new one. It wasn't a mistake, just evidence that I haven't attended enough services or paid enough attention.

When I went forward for the Eucharist, something funny happened. I always hold the wafer and dip it in the wine rather than sharing a cup with everyone. At this church, the practice is the Eucharistic minister dips the wafer for you and feeds it to you. I’ve never had that done, so when she snatched the wafer from my hand as I was about to dip it I was taken aback. Hey! What the . . .? It reminded me of the time that, at my church, one of the priests was about to hand me the wafer when he pulled it back out of my fingers and said, “No!” He then turned to get another wafer. He thought I was gluten intolerant. For an instant I thought he knew something I didn’t and I’d be denied communion.

After communion, we were each given a tall, slender lit taper to hold. There was no cardboard drip protector. I assumed they splurged for dripless candles. Nope. We held these tapers while singing Silent Night. The hot wax making its way onto my knuckles made the high note of sleep in heavenly peace quite easy. But that was fine. It reminded me of singing in the choir in St. Paul with my folder and taper in one hand and a bell in the other while processing through the dark, candlelit aisles of the church. I missed singing with the choir that night, so, hot wax and all, all was as it should be.

Now it's Christmas Day. I’m sitting and writing as my father and I listen to Christmas music. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and he hasn’t turned on the television yet. Considering that there’s a John Wayne marathon on, I’m surprised. I almost feel guilty for not reminding him, but I like the break from the TV. He’ll eventually tire of the music and turn on the westerns. Maybe that’s as it should be too.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Acupuncture

I started acupuncture treatments last week. I have temporomandibular joint (TMJ) syndrome and it has been encroaching on my ear canal (or Eustachian tube or something) for some time. My ears have felt like they are plugged up for years. In the last year or two, I've experienced tinnitus. Sometimes the tinnitus is a distant ringing, sometimes it’s a distorted high pitch that comes rhythmically like some alien being is trying to communicate something to me in Morse code. (I’ll let you know if I actually learn anything from it.)

So I went to George Washington Medical faculty to see an ear, nose and throat specialist. He told me that this is my TMJ acting up. He recommended acupuncture. Though intrigued, I put it off hoping I could concentrate on relaxing my jaw and take care of things in that way. I’ve always carried tension in my jaw and I still do. I don’t grind my teeth at night, but I play with my teeth and the insides of my cheeks and my tongue throughout the day. It's a regular carnival in there. I’m learning to not let myself do that.

The ear, nose and throat specialist asked me if I could hear my pulse in my ears. No. That was several months ago. But now I notice that, when I have earplugs in at night, I can occasionally hear the whoosh-whoosh of my pulse for four or so beats. So off to the acupuncturist I went.

What I knew about acupuncture was very little. I’d heard that the needles were very thin. True. I’d heard that you could barely feel them going in. Sometimes true. What I didn’t know was that, after inserting the needle, they give it a little nudge or pat to deepen the contact. In some areas of my body, this is no big deal. In the areas where I have issues (my hands, wrists and jaw) it hurts. It’s an odd sort of pain, though. It’s like something inside is being reluctantly awakened to go to work. (On a scale of one to ten, one being a pin touched my skin, ten being my arm caught in a meat grinder, the pain is around three.)

What I also didn’t know was that sometimes electrodes are attached to the needles and electricity is pulsed into my body. Interesting feeling that. In the sensitive (doctor’s word for painful) areas, each pulse stirs whatever has been awakened. It’s being forced to pay attention and go into action. It’s making room for the chi to pass smoothly throughout my body.

Please remember as you read this, that this is a piano teacher’s take on acupuncture. If you really want to know about it, talk to someone who knows more than I do. Your neighbor, maybe. Or the guy next to you at the gas pump.

I lay on my back motionless for thirty minutes with a dozen or so needles inserted from my toes to my head, feeling the electricity pulsing. It’s amazingly relaxing, even though it does hurt a bit. I haven’t slept, but I’ve drifted off into very pleasant places. 

Weird picture, I know. I see my grandmother in those sunken eyes.

What surprised me was how much I felt when the needles were removed. In the sensitive areas, this hurts as much as the insertion. Once, when Dr. Young was removing the needles, she lost one in my hair. That was funny. I have lots of hair; a lot can get lost in there. Another time, after Dr. Ho left me in the room drifting off to the sounds of Chinese music, one of the needles from my jaw with an electrode fell out onto my neck. I called, but no one could hear me. They were having their parking lot expanded and the workers were occasionally running loud equipment. Eventually, I heard a rustling in the hall and called again. I then heard little feet running. "I'm okay." I said, hoping to calm those feet. She was so polite, she still knocked on the door before entering the room. She replaced the needle and, giggling, boasted that I was receiving acupuncture twice that day.

Do you ever just feel comfortable with someone? That's how I feel with Dr.s Ho and Young. Once, when Dr. Ho was examining me, I couldn't take my eyes off her. Just looking at her brought ease and relaxation to me.

Then she told me that I had big feet. I already knew that. And that my body had inflammation. I misunderstood her. I thought she said my body had information. I thought that was good. But, as she talked, I realized it wasn't and I figured out what she'd actually said. Consequently, she wants me to limit my diet. I'm not happy. Apparently I must now eat like a Minnesotan - no seasoning except salt. I'm not sure this is possible. 

I looked up TMJ on line and, in order to stay relaxed, I'm not supposed to sing. I'd rather live with stopped up ears than quit singing.

I sure hope this acupuncture works. I'd love the excuse to visit these ladies a couple of times a week.

From the Maine Woods

For the last week and a half, Douglas and I have been on vacation. We decided to try not to curse, hoping that we’d curse less when we return home. Instead of quitting suddenly – rarely successful – I decided that we could curse as much as we wanted as long as we curse like barnyard animals. There’s been quite a bit of squawking and grunting in the car, along the trails and in the cabin. But I’ll tell you, you can’t stay upset for long when you grunt in disgust, squawk in frustration or crow in anger.

Douglas and I are in the Belgrade Lakes region of Maine staying in a cabin on Long Lake. We’ve sat around the cabin reading and playing games on the grey, rainy days. We’ve lit candles and stared out the windows from the main floor and the loft.  There are loons on the lake that call out. The sun sets slowly so we get quite a show of shade and color. And there are books. I brought along a book to read, but there is a certain allure of other people’s books that I can’t resist. On the fairer days, we’ve been canoeing and hiking.

The view from our cabin window.

We took a four-day meandering road trip to get here from Silver Spring. We stopped at Robert Frost’s home, which is now a museum with hiking trails around it which we walked. We hiked to Dingman and Silver Thread Falls while in Pennsylvania and Ripley Falls  (on the Appalacian Trail) while passing through New Hampshire.

Douglas and I in front of Ripley Falls

We were warned about the ticks. We took precautions. We wore sleeves, pants, sprayed ourselves with diethyl-meta-toluamide (deet), and we wore hats because we were told that the ticks drop from the trees. Drop from the trees? What the snort?

So we walked and walked. Douglas usually led the way down the narrow trails, braving the cobwebs and spelunking gnats (always intent on entering his ears and nostrils) and thereby clearing the way for me. Later, that night when I was about to step into the shower, I instead ran out to Douglas. I was pointing to a tick that had penetrated deet, jeans and more deet. It had embedded itself waaaay too near the swimsuit region. After he realized I wasn’t being amorous, he jumped to help me and successfully removed it. Thank God for tweezers.

Fast forward a few days and we’re hiking in the Belgrade area. Same precautions. A thorough check afterwards produced no stowaways, but I had to take a sleeping tablet to fall asleep that night – I kept feeling things.

Next day, I walked into town on the road. Douglas met up with me later. We were sitting outside a bakery and he was enjoying a slice of pie when I, playing with my hair, felt something. I again pointed, and yes it was another tick. Baaaaaahhh! I happen to have the tweezers in my purse and he pulled the trespasser out – it was not embedded. After that, we started discussing the possibility of my wearing a tick collar. Gee, I thought, I hope they still make the pink ones with the rhinestones. Then we have fun imagining him buying one for me.

“How large is your dog, sir?”  

“It’s not for my dog, it’s for my wife.”

We considered that I could wear it as a headband. I’m seriously considering this. In the meantime, we'll just have to go home and play gorilla while he works his way through my thick head of hair looking for interlopers. 

The cabin we're staying in.

The authoress relaxing  by a covered bridge near The Robert Frost House . . .

. . . and her handsome husband.

Constructive Procrastination

Procrastination gets a bad rap. I, myself, can be quite productive while procrastinating. Take this morning, for instance. I am supposed to be out buying my husband Christmas gifts. I know just what I want to get him. I have measurements. I know where I’m going to get them. The problem is I can’t seem to shed my soft, cozy pajamas. So, for the last hour and a half, instead of readying myself to shop, I’ve done the dishes, fifteen push-ups, tidied up the common areas, folded and put away clothes, sheets and towels that I dumped on the futon to get out of the way, taken out some recycling, read a morning devotional, turned on Skype in case my mom wants to talk and now I’m writing. All this follows a very healthy breakfast. I’m feeling quite pleased with myself. Except that I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

I’ve written this before: my nails never look better than when I’m deeply engaged in writing. I notice every uneven nail, hang nail, dry spot and desperate need for polish (to cover them up) when I’m supposed to be writing. I never want to do what needs to be done. When I have writing that needs to be done, I am able to summon the energy I need to exercise. When my thighs start chafing from lack of exercise, I find that it’s an opportune time to make those dreaded follow-up phone calls. When it’s time to make a dentist appointment, the yard gets mowed or the house vacuumed so it’s too noisy to use the phone. When the floors look like someone left a dry ice machine running all night, there are so many dust floaties, I get a hankering for real healthy food for dinner that night, so I go grocery shopping. When it’s time to make dinner, I wash my hands and suddenly realize how filthy the bathroom looks, so I clean it knowing that I couldn’t possibly handle food after doing that. When the bathroom really is filthy, I press my husband’s shirts so, if he notices the vulgar state of the bathrooms, at least he has his choice of any shirt to wear to work in the coming days. Distraction or penance?

It all comes down to distraction, doesn’t it? Intended distraction. Purposeful distraction.

Christmas time is not the time to procrastinate. I’ve learned this fifty or so times. Before Thanksgiving, I wrapped all the gifts my husband and I bought over the year for various friends and family members. Since then, they have sat looking festive in our dressing room. They’re getting dusty. Some are in gift bags, so I assume the gifts are also getting dusty since I didn’t have enough tissue paper to jam in to protect them and didn’t (and still don’t) feel like going out and buying some. They’ll likely be late again. Why is this? I fear our friends and relations picture us scurrying around the week before Christmas buying whatever to send to them when this is not true. We’re thinking of them all year round picking up this and that to set aside. I can, with all good intentions, sit and hand write a letter – hand write – to stick in a Christmas card, walk away leaving it folded neatly in an envelope that remains unaddressed and unstamped for so long that by the time I feel like addressing it, it’s old news and Valentine’s Day.

Those times I actually settle in to do what needs to be done aren’t much better. Douglas is planning on taking off the week before Christmas. My plan is to have the house clean and tidy so that we can decorate and enjoy it without having to dust and vacuum and such. I know that I’ll leave a pile in every room, a pile of things I don’t know what to do with. I know I’ll mop, but not bother to get the corners since that would take me two more minutes. I’ll dust, but leave the cobwebs in the rafters since swooshing them out would mean pulling out the long-handled duster thingy that I will have already used on the paintings and put away. I’ll wash all the dishes except the tea-leaf strainer that Douglas uses and I don’t know what to do with. I just don’t understand it. I don’t like it, so I don’t wash it. I’ll wash the interior of the windows, but not the exterior because it’s cold and I’d have to wrestle the step ladder around the house. Too much work for December. I’m supposed to be jolly. Who cares if the neighbors can see our tree?

I’ll make candy and cookies and bread. I miss sugar cookies so I’m planning on making some this year. I don’t like rolling out the dough, though – it always sticks to something – so I’ll pound small bits with my fists, pinch the edges with my fingers, throw on some colored sugar and call it done. They’ll taste good. I want to make a trifle like I had at my friend Josie’s house. The trouble is, I’ll want the brownie trifle and Douglas will want the berry trifle. To please both of us, I’ll make both – almost. I’ll lay out the mousses, the fresh whipped cream, berries and brownie bits alongside a couple of empty bowls and we can each layer out own trifle. (I’m pretty sure the brownie bits won’t survive long enough to form a proper layer in a trifle dish anyway.) I always seem to be a crank or two short of churning the cream into butter, a pouch shy of leavening to bring the dough to its fullness, a topstitch shy of finishing off a collar or one good pounding short of making the nail head flush. It’s like I’m trying to play contract bridge with an incomplete deck of cards. Wait. Few cards short of a deck. That’s not what I mean to say. (Gotta work on my metaphors. Or similes. Whatever these are supposed to be.)

Now what?

Note: Please, no matter who you voted for, read this. I promise my regular readers (all nine or so of you) that I’m not turning into a political blogger. This is just what’s on my mind.

Gads. He won. Sort of. Whatever just happened, Donald Trump is now the president-elect of the United States. Gads.

Now what?

I have some ideas.

He made it pretty clear that if he didn’t win, he wouldn’t accept the outcome of the election. We need to be better than that, even though the outcome is wrong with Hillary Clinton having won more of the popular vote. Even though we are being taught that doing the wrong thing can get you what you want – and you’ll even find people to support you – we need to continue to do what is right. We must accept it for now and work for change so that majority actually rules. The easiest way to work for change is to write letters. The best letter will offer an employable solution.

I believe it’s okay to protest the election results peacefully, orderly and legally. But we need to know what we’re protesting and we need to know what we want as a result of the protest. If the tallies in Wisconsin (and any other state they decide to recount) are accurate, the actual outcome cannot be protested. I’m not going to actively protest, but if I did it would be to protest the electoral college system that overrides the will of the majority of the people. I would protest the attitude that anyone voting third party is a spoiler or wasting their vote. If we’d had more third party voters over the decades, we’d have had more viable choices than Hillary Clinton of unsecured e-mails, potential conflicts of interest and some lies, Donald Trump perpetuator of lies, bigotry, sexism, violence, self-promotion and myriad conflicts of inerest, Gary Johnson who didn’t even know what Alleppo was, Jill Stein who I knew very little about because she wasn’t promoted by the media and I was too lazy to look her up and read about her and a few others who I mentioned in another blog. I don’t believe it’s okay to block traffic or hurt or insult people in protest.

I wonder if the popularity of reality shows had any influence on the campaigns and the election. (Full disclosure: I don’t watch them. I’ve only heard talk of them, seen snippets of them and read a little about them.) By mixing reality with show, can the line between reality and fantasy be blurred in our minds? What should have outraged most everyone – the calls for violence from Donald Trump – pumped energy into many of his supporters. What should have been met with disgust – his opinions and treatment of women, people with disabilities and his lumping together of Muslims and Mexicans – was laughed at or shrugged off as unimportant or, worse, shared. What should have left him utterly rejected – the many, various lies he told over and over again – fell on ignorant or uncaring ears. What should have brought laughter from the audience – ‘We’ll build the wall and they’ll pay for it’ – was met with childish enthusiasm.

We need to follow Hillary Clinton’s admonition to keep an open mind. I will never open my mind to belittling people with disabilities, calling prisoners of war losers or cajoling a huge crowd of supporters to violence, but I will open my mind to the possibility that he may surprise us. I don’t know the future; it may happen.

As best we are able, we need to set an example of what we want. I can’t set an example of fairness in the electoral system, but I can talk it up with others and encourage them to write their congressmen and women to affect change. I can hold letter-writing parties, even provide envelopes, addresses and stamps and invite people with whom I agree and with whom I disagree to write letters to congress so our voices are clearly heard. I can continue to pick up recyclable litter whenever I walk to the park or store. I can ask my neighbors if anyone needs a ride to the polls. I can be sure to live my life wisely so I don’t waste taxpayer money. I can keep writing to provide good stories that spread character-building ideas. I can stay informed with fact-checking sites so I don’t perpetuate lies about Donald Trump like so many did about Barack Obama.

Ask yourself what you can do. So often we think we need to do something physical, something immediately obvious, when what is needed is inner work – on attitude, for example. Attitude is like love or prayer. It’s not as blatant as volunteering or donating, but it is a thick, deep, wide-reaching root for our deeds.