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,