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… the more confusing technology becomes, the more comfortable I am with death. Because when I’m dead, it won’t matter that I can’t turn on the TV. –Kristin van Ogtrop Technology has gotten so far ahead of me that it is not remotely possible that I will catch up. I think the last major innovation in technology that I truly understood and still know how to use is the Post-It note. When I was young, “remote” meant that something was far away like the moon or that something was improbable like becoming a rock star. But now much of our daily lives is remote. We have remote controls, remote access, remote learning, remote health care, and remote work. Remote is here, there, and everywhere. Ironically, connectivity is making us more remote. It seems that everywhere can be accessed from a person’s living room. The couch, which once symbolized the examination of one’s interior life, is the new symbol of the remote world. I find all of this confusing in theory as well as in practice. My remote devices are covered with buttons and apps that operate who-knows-what. I press the “on” button and algorithms get busy making choices for me. Technology has gotten inside my brain, spies on my activities, tracks my location, and listens to my conversations in order to recommend videos, music, movies, and most of all—advertisements. My phone auto-corrects my text messages so that I am never really sure that the message I sent was what I intended to express. All of this adds to my self-doubt and frustration. Recently, I received an automatic text message from my doctor’s office asking, “Have you arrived yet?” What?! I was still in the shower! When I did arrive, there were new signs posted that parking was no longer free and must be paid for with an app. I had no idea what to do next. I turned to the only remote relationship I have ever trusted: prayer. But that didn’t seem to be working. I wondered if I was behind the times on that too. Is God on Facebook now? Can I still reach him if I am not on Facebook? And if I am not on Facebook, can he still like me? And what are his statistics? How many friends does he have? And is he still the influencer he used to be? It was not a helpful flow of thought for dealing with a parking crisis. Even as I feared that I might die in the parking lot trying to figure out how to pay for my space, it occurred to me that my phone may have lured me to the remotest place possible. As I circled the block chanting the F-word, I had to accept that this was not just a parking dilemma but an existential crisis: God may no longer be in charge. And so I did the most technologically advanced thing I could think to do. I screamed into my phone: “Hey, Google! Am I in hell?”
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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities Preparations for a mid-day meeting delayed my morning walk. By the time the meeting ended and I was free, rush hour had begun. As I stepped onto the shared-use path a cold wind whipped my face and stung my eyes. The whoosh of speeding cars, the squealing tires and the blaring horns were added blows to my bleeding senses. My spirit deflated like a punctured lung. I thought of turning around for home, but then I stopped, closed my eyes, and took a moment to center myself and reclaim my purpose and my enthusiasm. When I opened my eyes what I saw was a brilliant blue sky and puffy white clouds surrounded by haloes of gold from the setting sun. Crisp red and orange leaves skipped across the path in front of me, and I thought to myself, it is true: the best and the worst, they can both be present at the same time and in the same place. The daily news can be as jarring as the cold wind that whipped my face. Somedays it is easy to believe that the bad news is all the news there is, that it is indeed the worst of times in a Tale of Two Countries, but then something happens that expands my focus and restores my faith. Two such stories recently reached me. With all the worries about loss of essential benefits such as SNAP and healthcare amidst an affordable housing crisis and rising grocery costs, a friend sent me this story about a restaurant in Marion, Ohio where a few afternoons a week the restaurant offers free pasta dinners to families with the tag line, “Your children don’t need to know.” Quoting the article and Bucci’s Facebook post: Bucci’s said, “We love this community, and we’re thankful to be in a position to do something small that might make things a little easier for someone else. We can’t get through this without each other. Love you all.” A few days later, I saw another story about a man and his two young sons who live in Whitehall, Pennsylvania. They started a small food pantry on their front porch and received a nice donation from an anonymous donor. The Whitehall dad said, “Making a food pantry is no different than me inviting you over to my house for dinner. Come grab a meal. Come grab a drink. Come grab what you need. I’m happy to have you.” These stories were the medicine I needed, medicine that did not just restore my faith but invigorated it. I was reminded that God created man and placed that man in a garden. God saw that the man was lonely, and God created a companion for him. God never intended for us to face life alone even in paradise. Life was meant to be served up family style. I want to hold onto these stories whenever I am inclined to become a doubting Thomas. Just because there is a moment of darkness, I do not want to doubt that there is light ahead. I am a believer, and this is the hard work of faith: to keep believing even in the darkness, to trust in goodness even when the bad guys seem to be winning, and to act with conviction by committing ourselves to loving others with joy and enthusiasm. There is a story in the Book of Matthew about the apostles out at night on a stormy sea. They were far from shore and whipped by wind and waves. Exhausted, they looked into the darkness and they saw Jesus walking toward them on the water. Jesus said, “Take courage. Don’t be afraid.” I am thinking there are some folks in Marion, Ohio and Whitehall, Pennsylvania who have heard these same words from people they believe can walk on water. Am I in hell? Please send me the zip code so I can see if it matches mine. What can explain these torrid conditions? Looking around at the general state of “us,” I am pretty sure it’s not our smokin’ hot bodies delivering all this heat. Could be climate change or maybe the state of politics—all of that fiery outrage, or maybe burning nuclear facilities… Whatever the cause, I woke up AGAIN this morning in a sweat after a restless night from the sound of the window air conditioner turning on and off, on and off…and still falling short of comfort. Then I dragged my limp body outside to go to work. Immediately, my eyeballs began to sizzle in their sockets. I made it to my car parked in the open lot. The heat from the black asphalt penetrated the soles of my shoes. Hoping to lift my feet off the scorching pavement, I opened the car door and stood back. The temperature inside the all-black interior had surely reached the melting point. I pulled out my emergency blanket to sit on to keep from searing my flesh as I dug around inside the various compartments and came up with a couple of old cloth COVID masks to wrap around the blistering hot steering wheel just in case I ever wanted to use my hands again. Once on my way, I noticed the streets were mostly quiet…too hot even for cars. Unless it was delirium from heat exhaustion, I am pretty sure I passed the devil sprawled on a city bench selling ribs he had grilled on the scorching hot pavement. He seemed pretty pleased with himself. And he looked all too familiar. I would have turned on the radio for some pleasant distraction, but I was afraid I might drop one of the cloth masks that were making steering possible. For some reason, it seemed that keeping my jaw tense and my brow furrowed was the only force making forward progress possible. I arrived at work and pulled into my usual spot just as the AC kicked in. Inside the office, the air conditioner ran overtime, and I had to put on a sweater. The extremes in temperatures seemed to overwhelm my body’s metabolism and I was near pass-out starving by 11:00 AM. I had to stop and eat my lunch. I feared this was a misstep. By eating too early, I might not have the strength to get all the way home. Coping with this relentless heat was wearing down my resistance, and I feared I might be forced to bargain with the devil for some of his terrible street food. Somehow I made it through the busy work day. It was time to start the exhausting process all over again. I stepped out onto the pavement. The air was a wall of heat. The temperature had risen at least 20 degrees in the hours since I vacated my car. I opened the car door bracing myself for the second wave of heat that would punch me in the face. I sat for a bit with the door open hoping that somehow the outside air would push out the hotter inside air, but it was useless. I could feel that my mood and my judgment were as impaired as if I had been at the bar doing shots all day instead of working at a computer. I muttered to myself, “Jesus, take the wheel,” as I put the car in reverse. I made it home without being pulled over for impaired driving or having to stop to bargain with the devil for bad food. As I entered my parking lot, sunlight flickered through a cluster of trees illuminating a heavily shaded and empty parking spot. I slid between the white lines and sat for a few moments in the soft light of the trees’ canopy. The air conditioner began to blow cold air. My jaw and my brow relaxed. Hope returned along with my senses. I laughed out loud at the image of the haughty devil on the sidewalk. He may be pleased with himself for generating this hellish, unrelenting heat, but with the rustle of leaves, it was the sweet shade that got the last word: God is still here. Just before he died on the cross, Jesus cried out: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Forsaken. It is a word so potent that I fear to say it out loud. But on this day when I am filled with grief, I cry out, “Where are you, God?” There is no immediate answer. And so, as I do when I am troubled, I go for a walk. On my third lap around an enormous parking lot a woman steps out of the lone car parked there and asks me, “May I walk with you? My name is Rita.” Rita explains that she is waiting for her roommate to finish work on the building’s security detail. Happy for some company to interrupt my thoughts in the desolate lot, I eagerly say, “Yes!” I slow to Rita’s pace and to her conversation. The woman quickly opens up about her life and family. As we approach a beautiful courtyard, she asks, “Can we sit down?” We enter the courtyard and sit on facing benches. She tells me about her 90-year-old mother who suffers from dementia. Rita’s mother no longer remembers Rita when they are face-to-face, but she remembers a daughter named Rita and describes her daughter to this stranger that adult Rita has become. Rita laughs at the insights these conversations provide about how her mother feels about the daughter she remembers. Rita speaks of her love for her mother and about leaving home as a young bride. She speaks about missing her mother and then begins to tell me something: “After I left, I heard that my mother set the table…” but Rita cannot go on. Her eyes well up with tears, and she turns her face away from mine. Rita covers her quivering lips with her hand, and then she does it…she apologizes for her sadness, for becoming emotional. I lean in and wait. Rita collects herself and turns back to face me. I see that she is embarrassed and fears resuming the conversation. I say, “It is clear that your mother missed you too.” This acknowledgment and acceptance remove the emotional chokehold on Rita’s throat, and the conversation continues. Rita has lived away from her mother’s home for a lifetime. In the intervening years, Rita has become a mother, a grandmother, and a great grandmother, and yet she is moved to tears by this memory of being loved, being missed, being longed for, and feeling responsible for that longing, and now, she feels the way her mother once did as her mother’s dementia leaves Rita feeling forsaken. We live in a time when people are feeling overwhelmed by events and some are dying of loneliness, and yet the expression of sadness seems to be the only form of speech that is not acceptable. Nothing is more threatening than to hear that someone is sad or scared or empty. We sense that sadness is dangerous, that we might have to act, and so sadness festers in silence. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Jesus’ last words before he died--a stunning demonstration of his bravery and his humanity. I asked, “Where are you, God?” He answered, “May I walk with you?” And now my question is this: With 8.2 billion people in the world, need any of us feel forsaken? Walk with someone today. Sometimes lovely things do come in small packages—a nugget of gold, a sparkling diamond. They form quietly deep inside the earth out of sight and under pressure, but when they emerge, they dazzle our eyes with their rarity and everlasting splendor. In nature, small things like honey bees, butterflies and hummingbirds busy themselves with making the world more beautiful and more magical. I have a petite and dear friend whose rare, beautiful and lasting good nature were formed out of my sight long before I met her. She grew up under the pressure of a mother’s deterioration from multiple sclerosis and a father’s sometimes bizarre behavior due to an unnamed illness. She grew up a caregiver with her dreams of becoming an engineer denied. She became a nurse instead and cared for people inside and outside her home for most of her life. In the irony and tragedy of life, at the peak of her career, my friend was diagnosed with Huntington’s Disease, a neurodegenerative illness that causes involuntary movements leading to problems with speech, mobility, and independence, the same disease that accounted for her father’s strange behaviors. When the news of this terrible inheritance came, she called me and said, “I really need a friend right now.” Already a close colleague, I eagerly signed on for the lifetime friendship membership program. We spent a few years regularly meeting up for movies and lunches out, then COVID came along and we had to restrict our activities for her safety. By the time the epidemic passed, her condition was such that our outings were no longer possible. Now, we email throughout the week. Sometimes she texts me photos of her grandchildren. She stays engaged with others through social media, listens to hours of audio books, and watches DVDs that I send to her—a way to keep taking her to the movies. She has a matter-of-fact acceptance of the bombs life throws, and yet, as a nurse, she was always aware of the patients’ fears, coming birthdays, anniversaries, and last wishes. We did some amazing things for our patients because of her insights, insights that came from her own life experiences. Once, when we were called to the death of a patient in a long-term care facility, she and I stepped out into the hallway to allow the family to gather around the bedside. Inside the room, the family members talked and laughed about what the deceased was probably already busy doing in heaven. My friend looked at me and quietly said, “My mother is probably running.” Her unforgettable words gripped my heart. I wondered, did she think of her mother every time she saw a patient? Her own sorrows informed her practice as a nurse and shaped her gentle, accepting, good nature, her quiet competence, and her desire to see her patients’ wishes granted. Like a nugget of gold or a sparkling diamond, Susan is a rare and beautiful creation formed from a life under pressure. Like a hummingbird, Susan is petite in stature and delicate in features. She works very hard to stay in one place now, but regardless of circumstances, she always seems to know how to pull the simple, sweet nectar from life. I wish to be more like her. You are my hero, Susan. This one is for you!  Fall is my favorite time of the year. I take to the walking path with a renewed energy after the weariness imposed by the summer’s heat. A trail of tiny yellow and orange leaves lines the path offering a brand of magical candy corn that adds sweetness to every step. The trees rustle their leaves in unison providing me with my own Rocky theme song. Everyone I pass seems friendlier. The trade-off to the splendor of fall is early sunsets and shorter days. Daylight saving time ends at 2 AM on Sunday, November 3rd. For one night, we will “fall back,” and gain an extra hour of sleep. I recall a time in my life when that extra hour of darkness and sleep felt delicious. However, I am now at an age where my own days are growing shorter in number. I wonder if sleeping them away in darkness is the best use of what is left. Throughout my working life there were many people interested my retirement savings. I was bombarded with information about IRAs, 401(k)s, and qualified retirement accounts. There were constant reminders to save along with the contradictory warnings that no matter how much I saved, it might not be enough to get me through a long retirement. But no one spoke to me about my daylight savings. No one asked me if I was putting back enough to get me through any future darkness. Youth is all about the present. There is still so much future, so much hope. There will be time, we think. In our young minds, the future is always bright, and sometimes money and daylight get away from us. Too soon, it is the future, and the vault is low on funds. Busy and optimistic with early dreams of retirement, I never considered that my daylight situation could become precarious. I am wishing I had been a better daylight saver for when the sun goes down, the lights are dim and it is hard to see clearly or at all. The world feels unstable right now. We are ill at ease in our own country. There is so much political turbulence and distrust that it no longer even feels like home. We are blinded by the eerie darkness of so much uncertainty and deliberate misinformation. We are counting down the days to the election, trying to prepare ourselves for an aftermath we cannot quite imagine. Like many, I am fearful of what is to come not just for me but for all of us. I don’t know if I have enough daylight saved. If my daylight savings account runs low, I will have to rely on my social security alone. I will have to hope that good neighbors are watching, the bus driver stops, and the kids call home. And so I ask this of you: be someone’s social security. Share the light you have saved. Make hospitality common again. Let us dazzle the darkness with the light that comes from within.  With minds full and all keyed up about the state of the world and the coming presidential election, my friends and I compare notes about our studied efforts to find peace of mind. It quickly becomes apparent that we are not very good at it. The strategies all look and sound so easy on YouTube and yet there is something in each of us that resists. I sit for meditation, and Om… my mind thinks about what I am going to do next or maybe eat next. I save my mantras for driving in urban traffic where the anarchists are equipped with wheels and probably have guns under their seats. I silently chant to the speeding driver behind me who is also on his phone: “Please don’t hit me. Please don’t hit me.” Or beg the traffic lights: “Please stay green, stay green…” I call a friend to see if she is doing any better. “How was your meditation class last night?” “I don’t know, I tuned in and fell asleep.” This is a woman who has mastered napping. She could fall asleep during child birth, but it’s not a strategy that will help us in rush hour traffic or save us from the detention camps to which all Democratic voters will be sent should the election go a certain way. I check in with another friend who is taking an eight-week Tai Chi class. I find no wisdom here. She is miserable and now dreads the dawn of each new morning. Being the super-responsible sort, she pushes herself to be tuned in by 8 AM and to attend every class even though it is virtual. Old fears of being denied graduation due to poor attendance haunt her. For this woman who is accustomed to getting things done, the slow motion is pure torture. She is reminded of having been a cheerleader in her youth: “This is like doing all of the cheers in slow motion.” She finds her peace of mind when the program ends: “Thank God that’s over,” she says. I make a mental note that God does answer prayers, and I wonder where mine are on His to-do list for I am pretty faithful about prayer which is mostly me begging and pleading along with giving God a list of people and things that need fixed, like He doesn’t already know… My friends and I are no better at mindfulness practices than we are at sky diving, but we are better practiced. There is a healing that comes through our failures. They become rich fodder for conversations that provide us with plenty of laughter. We give voices to what troubles us and release it in howls and giggles. Sometimes we laugh until we can no longer speak which is probably the answer to someone else’s prayers. Drained of our stress, we carry on—at least until the next news bulletin and the next YouTube video. Perhaps our true natures are revealed in the self-preservation methods we choose: rest and disconnect, ask questions and seek answers, beg and plead even, get things done and cheer on others. Laugh until we feel better. Let’s face it--we need to look after ourselves. We need to get out the rubbish we ingest before it festers inside us leading us to the very behaviors we despise. So, back to begging and pleading… My prayer today is that there are enough of us who are keyed up about the state of the world and not just badly practicing mindfulness but also trying to live the definition of mindful: watchful, aware, careful, attentive, sensible, and thoughtful. I say let’s make that a ballot requirement. Om… |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
January 2026
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