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all of the selves we Have ever been

Off the Hook and On the Menu

4/29/2024

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I finally bowed to the g force and got a new phone, but no matter how beautiful or capable the phone it does not change what’s on the menu.

I had my fresh and fancy 5g phone on board the day I passed a man who had pulled his car into the center lane of a busy four lane highway.  He was on the ground next to his vehicle and appeared to be looking underneath, perhaps to identify a problem or to fix one.  “Good, Lord,” I said and began praying
out loud as it seemed probable that the man would be killed
or cause a terrible accident in this very busy high-speed,
high-access zone.


I pulled over at the first opportunity and dialed the non-emergency number of the nearest police station to see if assistance or safety could be offered to the man with the disabled vehicle.  To my surprise and consternation, I discovered that the rascals who invented the phone menu had infiltrated the police department.  A lengthy menu of dialing options was offered.  After about ten minutes, I gave up on getting help, but curious, I pressed 4 to complete my peace officer training while I waited.  When I realized the amount of time that had passed, I figured the man on the road had likely gotten on his way or was dead at the scene.  Either way, my Good Samaritan efforts were pointless, and I had had enough time to reconsider a second career in law enforcement.  I hung up just before the exam.

I now feel the need to swallow some nitroglycerin every time I hear the words:  “Please listen carefully to the following as our menu options have recently changed.”

Those words offend my moral senses.  It should be against the law to lie to the public so flagrantly and so frequently.  Do they take the dialing public for fools?  I want to call them out on this and scream into the phone, “Liars!” I know the menu has not changed.  They are just trying to prevent people from immediately dialing 0 or saying “speak to a representative” or getting any satisfaction whatsoever. 

By now, we all know there is no representative, no one is listening, no one cares, and the strategy is to discourage people and keep them from calling.  The phone number itself is a ruse. 

Here’s what the truth might sound like:

  • “Thank you for calling, but there is no one to take your call.  There never was and there never will be, but if it makes you feel better, please listen to the following options.”
  • “No one is listening, and there is no representative, so you can stop saying ‘speak to a representative’ at any time.
  • “To be reminded that there is no representative, dial 1 now.”
  • “When you can’t take it any longer, dial 9-1-1 or go to the nearest emergency room.”
  • “Please hold that thought until it doesn’t matter to you any longer.”
  • “If you are an optimist, press 2.  Otherwise, hang up and try your call again later.  Nothing will change except your faith in humanity."
  • “All operators are busy.  You can try calling again, but the operators will always be busy.  They have lives as opposed to people who try to contact customer service.”

What’s on the phone menu?  Frustration and despair seasoned by outrage.

I don’t care much for the entrées, but please may I see the whine list?

               
    

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On Intellectual Intercourse

4/25/2024

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I need some Viagra for my mind.  I can’t seem to keep up.
Desire is not enough.

The pace of change seems to be accelerating just as my mind is cruising to a stop—blocked mental arteries.  I never seem to know what’s going on or who’s who.  Worse, I can’t seem to unpack the cluttered trunk that is my mind.  Where is all that stuff I used to know?  It doesn’t bode well for any hopes of thrilling intellectual intercourse.

Often, things go downhill during the foreplay.  For example, I sit down to watch a movie that I’ve selected.  The intro plays and I say, “That character looks familiar.”

“Uh, we’ve seen this movie before,” says my film partner who is already losing interest.

This leads me to more efforts at less-than-stimulating conversation.  I say, “Remember that other movie, the one with…oh…what’s her name? The one with the blonde hair?  She was popular at the same time as that other actress with the blonde hair?” My partner feigns a headache and goes home.

That doesn’t stop me from trying on my own.  While I can’t think of the name of either formerly popular movie actress, I can picture both of them in my mind’s eye, and I can’t let it go.  I keep trying, but my thoughts circle around the debris field that is my aging mind like water swirling around in a backed up toilet bowl.  It just won’t come.  My mind continues to work on it even in my sleep.  Their names, even some of their movie titles settle thick on the on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t spit it out, and I can’t seem to concentrate on anything else.  A day later, when I am least expecting it, Reese Witherspoon and Cameron Diaz come to mind.  Triumphant and ecstatic from the pleasure of recall, I shout out their names while I am pumping gas.  

I am not alone in this.  Sometimes it happens during group intercourse.  For example, we might be sitting around the table at our monthly book club meeting discussing books or current events when someone else tries to recall a name or event.  We all dive in deep shouting out the possibilities.  We each acknowledge, “I know what you mean.”  It becomes a game of mental charades.  The conversation could just go on since we all really do know what she means, but, darn, we are on the edge of climax.  We will keep going until we find that word and then gasp and giggle in delighted relief.

These minor memory lapses seem to happen more often with each passing month--things, names, events, some so personal I really should be able to retrieve them quickly   What was that old co-worker’s name?  I worked with her for 10 years when I was in my thirties…

And then there are the ordinary everyday words. I seem to remember butter, but I can’t seem to grab a hold of cream cheese until, for some unknown reason while I am laying on the butter, my mind unexpectedly cries out the name of that other delicious spread, “Philadelphia!”

More and more, my most in-depth conversations seem to be with myself.  Am I losing it?  I don’t know, but somehow I remember to ask myself that question many times a day.  It fills up the moments it takes me to remember why I just walked into the kitchen.



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Step Outside

4/19/2024

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A strong southern breeze blew the blossoms off a row of young flowering trees. For a moment the petals swirled on the air like snowflakes and then lightly touched the ground.  Scooting across the parking lot they came to rest along a curb forming a narrow stream of pink and white velvet. This little tributary of wonder was so breathtaking that I was compelled to stop and kneel on its asphalt shore. Gently, I scooped the petals into my hands. I felt their delicate softness as I brought my cupped hands to my nose.  Breathing in their subtle fragrance, I satisfied a thirst I didn’t know I had. 

Ah!  How the earth nourishes us in unexpected ways.

On April 8th we here in central Ohio were in the path of the solar eclipse.  For months the anticipation built.  Schools closed for the day, people traveled hundreds of miles to get the best view.  Even hospital workers left their duty stations and flowed out into parking lots to get a glimpse of this miraculous once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

As I sat poised at my window feeling the stillness and the darkness slowly permeate the peak of day, the voice of Kermit the Frog came to mind: What’s so amazing that keeps us stargazing?  What do we think we might see?

Maybe we are all wannabe believers, if not in miracles, then in magic.  Mother Nature provides us with so much enchantment, and she does so while staying one step ahead of the scientists, perhaps to bedevil the calculations and the hypotheses, to continue to engage us, mesmerize us, and humble us.

Moses once challenged God:  “Show us your glory!”  Old and weary, fearing an uprising from his followers, uncertain of the future or where they were going, Moses went into the mountains to have a word with God. Moses did not say, “Show us the money.”  He said, “Show us your glory.” Surely, Moses was at a time in his life when he needed some encouragement, but I wonder if God was disappointed by the request.  Every day glory surrounded the Israelites.  The sea parted.  Manna appeared on the ground for breakfast, quail wandered into the campground for dinner.  Were the Israelites a bit like us? Too tired?  Too preoccupied? Too self-focused?  Too fearful?  Fatigue and fear have a way of blinding us and dulling our senses.

Perhaps for Earth Day 2024 our prayer should not be “show us your glory,” but help us to see it.  Remove the blinding glare of narcissism and outrage, the pains of fear and discouragement, and help us to marvel at all the wonders that are free and available to us all.  Help us to remember that we, too, are part of nature, another marvel of creation.  Help us to experience the things we can believe in, even if fleeting.  Remind us of wonder and possibility, of goodness, of things that are pure and without pretense.  Help us to see the unseeable.  Even though the solar eclipse has passed, help us to remember that the view is thick with majesty if we seek it just as earnestly.

On Earth Day 2024, let us crack open the mundane everydayness of our lives, and stop watching bad news on our phones and TVs.   Let’s get outside.  No matter how discouraged we may be with the world, with life, nature can still surprise and delight us.  The Earth is waiting.  There is a living ecosystem beneath the sidewalk, butterflies are emerging from the bushes, buds are bursting with flower and fragrance, stars are streaking across the night sky, birds are singing…There is so much to believe in.

Monday, April 22, is Earth Day.  Meet me beneath the sky that we share, in the light and the warmth of the bright sun that spends itself for all of us. 

See you outside!



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It Keeps Me Hangin' On

4/4/2024

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Two Christmases ago my neighbor, an avid indoor gardener, gave me a small Christmas cactus.  Last Christmas, she gave me a poinsettia. Both plants continue to flourish and to bloom much to the consternation of my friend who has a green thumb but no long-term success with either Christmas plant.

Feeling a little guilty about my wild and undeserved horticultural achievement, I gave all the credit to a large southwest-facing window in my living room, but yesterday, as I was dancing around my kitchen while blanching vegetables for the freezer, it occurred to me that the explanation for such thriving plant life might have nothing to do with a green thumb or afternoon sunlight.  I think the secret sauce just might be Motown.

Motown has provided the soundtrack to my entire life.  Founded in 1959, just three years after my birth, the music of Motown became outrageously popular in the 1960s.  My father loved radio, and one was always playing in our home making it easy to follow the sounds of the hit parade.  For my First Communion I received a Philco transistor radio of my own.  While DJs kept me up to date on the latest releases, I could not, at will, tune into Motown or my favorite Motown invention, The Supremes.  Then, a couple of years later, in a bit of Christmas magic, I received that “innovation in portable listening,” an 8-track cassette player, along with a cassette of The Supremes’ greatest hits.  I was beside myself with joy.

Looking back, to call that cassette player “portable” was something of a stretch.  It was a bulky metal box on a shoulder strap that was bigger and heavier than a mom-purse, but I DID NOT CARE.  I would have carried Diana Ross around on my 10-year-old shoulders for the love of Motown and My Girls--The Supremes.

Throughout my growing up years, The Supremes remained a constant on the pop charts and on the radio.  They remain a constant in my home to this day.  I play their music whenever I have chores to do.  I slide around in my socks like Tom Cruise in Risky Business while adding in the smooth moves of Diana, Flo, and Mary. The Motown sound never fails to lift my spirits and fill me with energy, and apparently, it does the same for my Christmas plants, perhaps in honor of that long ago Christmas when I strapped on that portable 8-track cassette player and swore a lifetime of devotion to My Girls.

If my heart ever stops, play me some Motown.  If that doesn’t revive me you will know that there is nothing you can do, so stop! in the name of love, ‘cause I’m probably already stuck like glue to My Girls.  We’ll be dancing on the other side.

In the meantime, my prescription to keep those house plants hangin’ on:  open the blinds to a southwest-facing window, water them once a week, give the pots a quarter turn each morning, add some dirt now and then, and every day give them some baby love.  And plenty of Motown.
 
  

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    Lilli-ann Buffin
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