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For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. –Kahlil Gibran My Aunt Lillie was a World War II Army nurse having served in England where she cared for injured soldiers brought there from the battles in Europe. After the war, Aunt Lillie returned to the family home to care for her mother. Lillie remained in the family home for the rest of her life, and she lived alone there in her later years. Through the eyes of childhood, the family home seemed enormous. The hall was long enough to be dark and spooky when the lights were off. There was a long front porch with a swing, a sunporch with bookcase of ancient titles, and a back porch from which all loved ones entered. The basement had a summer kitchen no longer in use. Aunt Lillie ran this household with a certain order, an order that was part nature, part Army nurse, and part practical. She repeatedly told me that she organized and maintained her home in such a way that should she ever become blind, she could continue to live in her home alone. I loved the beauty, the order, and the peace and quiet of that big, old, solid family home compared to the chaos of my small suburban house crowded with four children, two adults, a dog, and various friends who seemed to spend enough time with us to be named dependents on my parents’ tax return. It seemed like something was always lost, breaking, falling apart, wearing out, or used up in that newer, crowded, and busier household. In my memories, the paneling in the family home is always shining, the furniture scented with lemon polish, the curtains freshly laundered, everything just so and yet comfortable and reliable in its just so-ness. There is always something delicious on the kitchen counter or ready to come out of the oven. Ringing comes from a heavy black phone on Aunt Lillie’s desk, someone calling our number that began with K-I-6. The family home left me with an understanding that home can be a retreat from everything else. Especially in times of grief or uncertainty, I think of Aunt Lillie and the security and comfort of her home. I am reminded that small acts of caring for what we have ARE life and those small acts are meaningful in ways we do not acknowledge or understand. All these years later, I sometimes find extraordinary comfort in the ordinary tasks of living. When under stress I can return to center by straightening the towels on the bathroom towel bar, stirring the soup, lining up the shoes in the closet, folding the napkins, watering the plants, and making the bed. When the world seems out of control, I am the master of this universe I call home. And if I ever go blind, it will still be home.
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A homeless man made his way into my apartment building where he hid beneath a stairwell. I suspected the man’s presence because of the body odor that drifted up the stairs and met me outside my door as I left to run an errand. I set about my business tormented by the moral dilemma of the man’s presence. Management had instructed all residents to call the police when these situations occur. After completing my errand, I purchased a sandwich at the local convenience store and ran home to add fruit, cookies and a drink to the bag even though I did not know if the man would still be hiding there by the time I returned and made my way down the stairs again. As I descended the steps, the man heard me coming and began to hastily layer on the clothes he had placed across the radiator to dry. Also on the radiator were four squares of pepperoni pizza that I had seen earlier frozen to the ground next to our overflowing dumpster. The man looked up. “I am supposed to call the police, but I am giving you some food and asking you to leave,” I said. “I understand. I just came in to get dry. I was so cold and wet.” “I understand too,” I said. I wish I could do more.” “Thank you,” the man said as he held out a purse that he had rescued from the trash—a purse still in good condition. “Take this, he said.” “Save it in case you need it later,” I said. I returned to my apartment and I cried. Already on edge from the hideous state of our politics, the unraveling of the world order, and the heartless but understandable public reaction to the recent execution of an insurance executive on a street in New York City, I asked myself, “What to do? What to do to live through such a desperate situation?” How do I protect my soul in times as troubled as these when there are far too many with way too little and a notable few with far too much? History has shown that it is an untenable situation. It is a recipe for revolution. “Who will save us?” I asked myself as I looked into the twinkling Christmas lights. And the voice of a revolutionary answered: “Today I was hungry and you gave me to eat. Come to me now all who are weary, and I will give you rest.” Most days the news that greets me sets my hair on fire. What?!! is my new greeting. Let me sum up the state of the world we live in with a recent example. After years of strange and tragic mishaps aboard their airplanes and the resulting loss of hundreds of lives, Boeing, once the greatest name in aviation, admitted that maybe there were some problems in the manufacturing plant and within the corporate culture…BUT that didn’t stop them from launching two astronauts into space in a questionably-functioning spaceship for an eight-day trip. Well, guess what? HOUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM! Since NASA and Boeing couldn’t agree on the risk assessment, Boeing could not bring the astronauts back to earth aboard its Starliner. Astronauts Suni Williams and Butch Wilmore were left behind to float around in the International Space Station awaiting a celestial savior. No one seems troubled. Except me. With all of the political outrage about minor things like the energy efficiency of refrigerators and EVs, this aerospace situation does not seem to be ruffling a feather. The attitude seems to be a yawn, and a “so what?” or “Are they still out there?” Maybe I am too much of a pessimist. Maybe I am too out of touch with the miracles of technology. Who knows? Maybe an ingenious and determined Uber driver will reach those astronauts before the planned February rescue by Elon Musk’s Space-X. In any case, I remain INCREDULOUS. While the culture at Boeing that led to all of this does not surprise me, anyone who has held a job in the last 10 years could see what was happening to corporate culture and the workplace, but what sets the match to my hair is that even with knowing all of this…THE ASTRONAUTS WENT! When most other employees are refusing to come into the office or work overtime, these astronauts went into O-U-T-E-R S-P-A-C-E. And they did so WILLINGLY. It seems we live in a time when people jump into the deep end whistling, “Don’t worry; be happy.” (Except for the ones who are asked to come into the office that is.) I have actually heard people say, while they are JAYWALKING, “If I get hit by a car, I’ll just sue.” The assumption is that I can do what I want and someone else will pay. At the very least, I can get even. Forget the part about being maimed or dead. Of course, should the Starliner astronauts be lost in space forever, the tragedy will become the subject of such notoriety that it will earn itself some additional Congressional hearings to embarrass as many people as possible under the guise of weeding out those responsible. Will it be the left? The right? The woke? Or, maybe in this case, whoever was asleep at the launch pad? I grew up in a time when it wasn’t just the Boy Scouts who had the motto: “Be prepared.” We all did. We were taught to think things through. Do what is right. That went along with wear clean underwear just in case. Which leads me to wonder, what are those astronauts, who expected to be in space for 8 days, doing for clean underwear 180 days later? Maybe I was so preoccupied with the basic life and death issues that I missed the grand opening of the first Lunar Target. Perhaps Williams and Wilmore are just so happy to be free of post-election politics that they would rather be in outer space. Maybe I would too. Hopefully, Elon Musk will stay in Donald Trump’s good graces long enough to get the astronauts home because I heard the incoming president is conducting deportations of immigrants who get on his nerves. My words of wisdom to you are this: if someone offers you a once in a lifetime opportunity, think long and hard…because it just might be. I am here to warn you: if you are having trouble sleeping, do not turn on late-night television. I repeat: DO NOT TURN ON LATE-NIGHT TV. You will be transported to hell and will spend the night circling all nine rings. You will wish you had pulled your left kidney out through your navel with a fork instead of picking up the remote. The heat you generate will not be from tossing and turning. It will be the actual flames of hell. I have the burns to prove it. When we were young, our parents warned us that nothing good happens after dark. I will add an adult corollary: There is nothing good on TV after 12:30 AM. As a matter of fact, the FTC should require an automatic warning beginning at that hour: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. The anguished screams you hear will be your own.” Once you turn on late-night TV you will be tormented by commercials for identity protection services. Don’t bother changing channels. The same ads will be on every station. These infomercials will remind you how right now, at this very moment, bad guys are stealing the deed to your home and trading national secrets with foreign despots using your passport. What else? These monsters may even be stealing your butt prints as you lay on your sheets, prints they will use in some future diabolical scheme to pretend that they are you as they back out of a lead vault with a briefcase full of nuclear codes. And do not stare, because the bad guys may take an iris scan as you watch… By the time these infomercials are through with you, you will have visited all nine rings of hell, and you will be regretting your life. All of it. You will regret not accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior, having pre-marital sex, helping yourself to seconds at Thanksgiving dinner every year, squandering precious allowance money on baseball cards when you were 10, screaming at that scam caller who tried to get your Medicare number, refusing to buy a flower from the Hare Krishnas at the airport in 1965, voting for a questionable politician one too many times, and being a rude host at that professional convention back in 1990 when the hall was packed and the air conditioner broke down. No Minotaur will need to eat your flesh. You will have bitten your nails to the quick. This nighttime experience will add to your daytime hypervigilance. You will be reminded that scammers are stealing your voice by calling you on your phone and waiting for you to say “Hello,” and that your image has been stolen from your g-mail profile picture and now your head is on dozens of indecent photos that are going viral on some dangerous porn site where they are sure to ruin your future except now you don’t have one. The pervasiveness of these identity threats will haunt you and rob you of your faith in humanity and in your higher power. Will there be anything left of your identity to show at the Pearly Gates? You wonder: “What if someone already took my spot?” It’s possible. Let’s face it--Santa has already been scammed by identity thieves. We all know some very naughty people who have gotten some mighty fine presents. Now I understand why. If you unwittingly do turn on late-night television some sleepless night, I strongly suggest that you do not open your email the next morning because you can be sure another ring of fire awaits you due to the internet’s Lucifer having heard of your vulnerability by spying on your smart TV. An automatic subscription renewal notice will be waiting. It could be for some add-on to the identity theft package you purchased in your middle-of-the-night-panic or one of those “free trials” and “one-time purchases” you made because you believed them when they said “free” and did not see the fine print that said what they really meant by “free” was “you will be billed forever.” No matter how desperate you feel the morning after, don’t think you can call the authorities to report this violent mind-rape. It will be deemed your own darn fault for being up in the middle of the night and inviting these strangers into your home by turning on the TV. And weren’t you already in bed? In your pajamas? Well, then, you were just asking for it. And forget a morning-after pill to calm your frazzled nerves. They have disappeared from the shelves because, after all, two wrongs don’t make a right. Unfortunately, you will not be able to leave the country because your passport has been compromised and no country wants stinking American immigrants with guns in every pocket--especially illegal ones without a passport. If your mind is already overwrought and the anguished screams you hear are your own, then late-night TV is not for you. For your own sake, ask someone who loves you: “Please! Hide the remote.” During the recent presidential campaign, Vice President Kamala Harris came clean and admitted she owns a gun, a Glock, in particular. Glock advertising promotes a firearm that is safe, reliable, and simple to use. In a spirit of solidarity, I thought I should come clean as well. I, too, have a weapon that is safe, reliable, and simple to use. I am a registered book owner. I prefer a good hardbound tome. Come into my house, and I might throw the book at you. My shelves are loaded, and I keep one in my nightstand drawer and another under the seat of my car. I am dangerously enthusiastic and known to wave a loaded book around in a crowded room. I am a card-carrying member of the NRA, National Readers Association, an informal but large group of people devoted to keeping both a diversity of ideas and the written word alive. Members are not ashamed to have their entire book-borrowing histories subpoenaed and reviewed by the authorities. We firmly believe that anyone who has never read a book should not be licensed to speak sparing us the barrage of words and the assault on our minds. We prefer thinking heads to talking heads. Members of the NRA understand that while it is the job of social media is to infect its users with outrage, the job of a good book is to inject its readers with insight. Unlike the chaos of social media, a good book calls our minds to order. We know that good books have been thoroughly reviewed and thoughtfully edited. In times of crisis, members of the NRA take to opening lines of communication and sharing book titles, beautiful poetry, and stirring essays. Our members know that on the internet, incendiary ideas are not policed—“free speech” its users demand, but some of those same free-speechers seem to want to go after our rights to carry a book. Some posting free-speechers claim social media conspiracy theories don’t harm people, books do. They worry our kids will be harmed by a book tucked away on a library shelf—if those kids ever get off Tik Tok to look for a book that is. Many of our members have seen t-shirts and vanity license plates with more inflammatory ideas than To Kill a Mockingbird. Even as we hear over and over about the declining mental health of our children, some parents and authorities fear children will get “ideas” from books, and so they seek to ban those books. NRA members believe it is naïve to think that children are not getting bad ideas every day from social media, the internet, television, and each other. We believe a teen might be safer in a private space reading a book to sort through an issue in their lives rather than having to live through it. A kid can feel less alone with a book, less self-conscious. A book provides context and perspective. NRA members believe we should be thanking librarians and turning to them to find out what’s on the minds of our children so that we can be better parents, better teachers, better adults, and better political representatives. We live in a time when fiction and truth are dangerously blurred. Too often, important decisions are made based on shared wild imaginings alone. We members of the NRA believe it is an act of bravery to open our minds and open a book before making important decisions. Interested? The NRA welcomes new members. Our motto is: “Let’s exchange ideas instead of gunfire.” There are no membership fees and no background checks. All you have to do is open a book. We are confident that opening a book will open your mind. Be brave! I am taking a break from the pall following the national election to consider something more uplifting. I have begun to notice a proliferation of storefronts, signs, and electronic billboards in my urban neighborhood. It would seem that day spas and cosmetic treatment clinics are more popular now than the fast food chain Wendy’s, and popping up faster than my age spots. When I was young I never really believed that the changes of aging would happen to me, and so I took a definite stand on face lifts—I would never get one. Since the early days of face lifts, a long menu of other cosmetic treatments have steadily appeared even as my firm youth has turned to Jell-O. No longer as committed to accepting my flaccid fate, I study the menus that promise to change my appearance, smooth out my wrinkles, reshape my features, lift my sagging skin, make me more comfortable with my appearance, and boost my self-esteem. Yes! Give me some of that Kool-Aid. The fast food list consists of Botox injections, chemical peels, hair removal, laser skin resurfacing, and non-surgical fat reduction. The ads promise to get me “in and out.” The gourmet cuisine which takes more time to prepare and involves slicing and dicing includes liposuction, breast augmentation, eyelid surgery, tummy tucks, and breast lifts. It sounds a little harsh if not downright scary. An image comes to my mind of road workers resurfacing the highway with deafening heavy equipment. Ouch! Since I try to avoid unnecessary medical interventions and pain, in general, I ask myself, what got me into this flabby, furry state? Maybe if I change my behavior, I can spare myself additional lines, wrinkles, and pesky chin hairs and save a few bucks. So I study the ingredients: too much frowning, squinting, and raising my eyebrows. Even laughter is a culprit. According to the literature, all of these facial expressions have furrowed and folded my skin giving me frown lines, laugh lines, and crow’s feet. My skin is dull from cellular changes, reduced collagen, and free radicals. What to do? My jeans did fit better before my butt cheeks began to slap the backs of my knees, and my shoes did fit better before my thighs drifted downward into my socks. Perhaps enormous lips and three inch eyelashes would distract from these lower regions and boost my glamour profile. Sleep has been hard to come by this week, a week that added greatly to my sagging and dulling, furrowing and eyebrow raising. I don’t think I want to lose too much more sleep over this decision. In the end, I have to consider the times in which I am living. A furrowed brow and free radicals may be my only form of resistance. Let my dull, hairy chin sag! Someday, I will laugh again, too. Dear God, It is me. I am feeling small and shaken today. As you know, there are powerful people calling my home, and one of your finest creations, a garbage can. They are threatening its people, your people, with harm and destruction. These people call so much attention to themselves Lord that I know they must keep you very busy. Many of these people call themselves believers. When they gather, they call it church. They invoke your name as though they have exclusive rights to you. While my faith tells me that is not so, sometimes I fear these folks keep you so busy that you can no longer see me. And so I will try to stand apart today, God, not to rail against what has been given, not to tell you what the Divine Agenda should be, but to reach out and say thank you for all that I have by the tremendous blessing of being born an American. I thank you for this land mass that is my home, a home that spreads from sea to shining sea within a geographic latitude that provides beautiful weather, flowing rivers, fertile soil, plentiful wildlife, and limited barriers. I know that so much of the world is constrained by its physical environment, heat, drought, infertile land, limited natural resources…And yet, you gave all of this to me, to Americans. How lucky are we to have it all—purple mountains majesty, fruited plains, the Grand Canyon and National Parks? You have indeed shed your grace on us. I do see it, God. I really, really do. And I thank you for the wisdom, the will, and the resources that created an expansive highway system that allows us to move freely with no border patrols or agents to slow us down or stop us, that give us the ability to enjoy freedom of movement and American road trips. I believe you gave this to us so that we could connect to one another, see ourselves as neighbors, as the American family. I thank you for our international friends and allies that extend the American family and that help to keep us safe. They open their doors so that we might partake of the majesty that exists in their countries. I thank you for the waterways they share, and the air space they open to American cargo and American travelers. We don’t ever want to be isolated without that. I thank you for yellow school buses that take our children to school each day and for the social safety net that keeps American children from having to beg on the streets as so many children around the world must do to survive. I thank you for public education that nourishes the mind and has grown the American genius, the genius that gave us sanitation, vaccines, and antibiotics. My own father grieved his entire life over the death of his young father from pneumonia in the time before antibiotics. My mother and her brother suffered polio and lived with the lifelong effects because there were no vaccines. Thank you, God, for sparing me, and thank you for America's extraordinary public health services. I thank you for the National Weather Service, the ability of a person to glimpse through God’s eyes and see what’s coming, to predict storms and weather events in time to move people out of harm’s way, and for government relief programs when the storms have passed. I thank you for public libraries and universities that make books and knowledge available to everyone who is interested. I thank you for postal workers who dodge raindrops, dogs, and traffic every day to bring news from loved ones, groceries, and medical supplies right to my door. I thank you for the genius of moving pictures and the entertainment industry, the magic of Disney, public television, public radio, Big Bird, Elmo, and Mr. Rogers. And I thank you for all of the other American mothers and fathers of invention who gave us the Ferris wheel, chocolate chip cookies, dental floss, zippers, hearing aids, cardiac defibrillators, traffic lights, chemotherapy, video games, computers, air conditioning, rubber, peanuts, sweet potatoes and crop rotation, bifocals, telephones, cortisone, air travel, electric power distribution, light bulbs, and so much more. Thank you, God, for all of the people, my own grandparents included, who came to the United States from faraway places in search of a better life in this marvelous country. I know they were grateful. I hope you are proud of their effort and hard work, their tremendous contribution to America’s greatness. I know that I am. Thanksgiving Day is coming, God, but please know that I am not thankful just one day a year. I am awestruck and grateful each morning when I arise in this land of the free. Please help me to be brave. Amen. PS: And, please, God, make America grateful again. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
December 2024
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