Face-to-Face as Life Adjusts

 'While the pandemic has created a bubble of semi-solitude that, for some, has allowed for clarity of introspection, it has also fostered an increased dependency on technology. As we reached out to friends near and far over email, phones and Zoom, we have connected but have also reinforced our isolation. And we have become comfortable with it. Like donning a too-small sweater, we stretched its sleeves to make it seem more comfortable.'

I wrote this today in response to Diana Baur's post on Medium.com, Romance and Privacy in Overexposed Times. 

Cell phones travel with us, keeping company with the ubiquitous water bottle we never seem to be able to leave at home. They tether us to a form of human contact that has nothing at all to do with companionship. 

We 'touch base' and 'check in'. We scroll through Instagram and Facebook for snippets of someone's day, pleased that they had a good time, but not entirely happy, in comparison, with how we spent ours even though we did exactly what we wanted to do.

I have become fascinated with the psychological effects of the pandemic that has been with us for more than a year and a half. In setting out to discover the changes to my own habits, I fear that some may have become permanent and that aspects of my pre-pandemic mindset have altered in ways that will restrict my future desires much as the mandates and precautions have changed my present actions.

The desire to travel, something I consider one of the important aspects of my life, has been tamped down by virus restrictions and slow recovery around the world. I still add to my planning book for the next adventure, soak up words in books written in and about Italy and keep my meager language skills alive with dubbed documentaries and Duolingo. I am hopeful that I can return to the part of the world that holds half my soul in its hands.

My reality, right now, is very different than it was when I returned from Rome on March 1, 2020. I stepped off the plane looking forward to a return to Europe in mid-March. Then the world started tipping on its axis and what seemed a minor inconvenience became a major upheaval. It seems so long ago and where have we gone since then?

Inward.

That is a good thing but also what I fear. That time ticked away in semi-isolation will forever change my outlook and that of others. Vaccinations have eased concerns a little, but I still see the hesitation on both sides of an anticipated hug. My small weekly group of girlfriends went to extraordinary effort to see each other last winter when we gave up on Zoom and sat huddled under blankets around an outdoor fire on blistering cold nights just so we could see each other face-to-face (or partially face-to-face, as it were).

We adjusted. We stocked up on scarce things. We stopped shopping as a means of entertainment, concerned that stagnated jobs might dry up reserves altogether. Libraries were closed and online services stepped up as books were downloaded to pass the time. Stores closed. Restaurants, too. Even parks and museums. 

Since then, we have become accustomed to doing without extraneous things, and that money we feared would dissipate, actually stuck around. 

Habits altered to fit the circumstances. Many cleaned and purged, going from selling clutter on Facebook to offering it on FB Buy Nothing pages. Charitable mindsets strengthened. As I explore the aspects of my altered life, I will discover more nuances, some that I like and a few I will miss. My travel bug? Well, circumstances being what they are in my life, I am tied to home for the foreseeable future. But I will nurture it carefully so that I am ready when the next chapter begins.

The Only Constant is.....

There is a rime of frost on the deck railing. The ground is painted with it. The rising sun has begun to clear a path through the trees and it illuminates the bark of its neighbors deeper into the woods than before.

It is November and winter is close by. Our first snow was in October and it created an ethereal world of unique color. Change is in the air, at least for nature.

Thinking back over the past too-many months, we have adjusted to many changes of our own. Summers, for instance, have always had days filled with laughter and camaraderie, food grilled and shared, close conversations murmured late into the night in front of flickering bonfires. Trips to the beach, travel to foreign lands, hugging and touching and connections made without a care in the world. Our winters, with layers of snow insulating us, kept us mostly indoors as we shared tables groaning with food and cozy visits where we removed our snowy boots in the hall and reached for warming cups of tea after a generous hug. We read, make puzzles, cook sustaining meals, and think.

There has always been a natural balance to our seasons and it is missing this year. Many of us have been too much in our heads for most all of this year. Although it began optimistically, the days and freedoms quickly narrowed to one place and a reluctant sameness ruled. We did what we needed to in order to keep others safe from the virus. In the process, we discovered what we were missing most in our lives. Some things were revelations, others a deep pain to the heart. We have been separated from those who need us most, each of us having to shoulder burdens of grief and distress virtually alone. As the numbers rise, I feel weary of our careful restrictions, but plod on for the good of my family and friends.

I told myself that I am okay with more solitude, okay with phone calls and listening to the joys of others expressed through a handheld device instead of in person. But while I was okay with it for a while, I no longer feel that way. I am missing so much that it hurts.

A big part of this is that my brother’s 62^nd birthday was this week. He died in July. We watched his Ohio funeral on You Tube. As I went through my stash of birthday cards last week, I pulled out Jim’s, smiling at the message. He will like it. I went back through the stack twice more, looking for Jon’s. I always buy my brothers' cards at the same time.

Then I remembered. Tears have been gathering ever since.

I miss hugging something awful.  When the nurse cradled my arm against her hip as she took my blood pressure a few weeks ago, I drank in the feeling of contact. Someone laughed in another room and it felt remarkable. Sue and I, safe for each other right now, worked on a puzzle together for the first time since last winter. It felt marvelous. I am keen on noticing these small pleasures. I drink them in as I would a spectacular sunset. Solitude, something I treasure, a state where I am my most creative, I now find burdensome. I need to find a way out of all this waiting.

I do not mind the thick blanket of leaves on the ground this year as they signal another passage of time that might allow us to reach some semblance of normal soon. I scuff through them on my way to the studio, releasing their crisp autumnal fragrance. I dig out the cozy afghans, draping one over my legs as I settle into the corner of the couch to read. I cook – even better than before – winging it and writing details down when the flavors prompt us to scrape the juices off the plate with a heel of bread. I have forsaken TV in favor of soothing nature films and vlogs on You Tube. They calm my anxiety over what I cannot control and reduced the plethora of negative commentaries filtering into my brain during this contentious month. I bake bread, learn new things. I clean my home and purge out the unused and no longer necessary. I meditate, stilling my fractured mind. I accept what I cannot change (sometimes not particularly gracefully) and pay attention to the blessings that will console me when times are difficult.

It is still too early to put the birdfeeders out. Bears are roaming, foraging for their last few meals before hibernating. Once they do, winter will bring the pleasure of birds nearer to my windows. The cooling air brings with it cozy nights and snow-blown days. Whiteness offers a refreshing vista. The slate is clean for a while. I can draw what I want on it. 

I do not want this winter to have the sameness of the previous nine months, or even the sameness of last winter. With the snowfall, I will clear my own slate in order to welcome new experiences, new thankfulness.

Italian Vision

Travel affords us a unique perspective. At least it does for me. Travel keeps me in the moment, without cares and concerns to distract me from soaking in my surroundings.

I am drawn to Italy, as are so many others, by one's immersion in its history. Antiquity rubs shoulders with the modern world. Here, unlike anywhere else, present and past meld together. There is a sense of rightness to it that transcends analysis. In fact, it is best to avoid thinking too much and just savor its blend.

There is no 'before and after'. No chapters. No division. It feels as if history is one continuous flow and that you are part of it all, no matter where you came from or where you are going.

The wavy glass in the windows of Palazzo Altemps enhances the view. Old and new blend under its spell.
Rome's cobblestone streets are adaptable. Repairs are easy. Pile up a heap of cobblestones, repair or level what is underneath, put them back into place. Dig deeper and you find remnants of a previous community, one that sidles up to you and caresses your thoughts with the possibility that all flows continuously through your veins. Between the stones, reminders of a party, a gathering of revelers.

Wish you were here.

Snow in Rome

I thought it was supposed to be warm? That's what the weather predictions said for all the months leading up to the trip. That gauze shirt I brought? Didn't see much wear. My sweater, though? My constant companion.

You know how, once in a while, you are in the right place at the right time? Who knew it would snow in Rome? The last time was in February 2012, six years ago. To be there for such a rare occurrence made me smile...no, it made me grin like a fool.

Now, some may bemoan the inconveniences, but we reveled in the uniqueness of the scene. Waking to the crackling of crispy white flakes falling on the roof and several inches of snow covering the terrace was a delicious treat. How exciting!

While I got dressed, my daughter went out to take take photos of Trevi Fountain while it was still snowing. When we set out for the Vatican to be on-time for our tour appointment (silly us), we found the taxi stand around the corner barren, the Spanish Steps almost deserted. Only a few people were gingerly ascending, and most everyone was walking in the center of the deserted streets.

We suspected that they were mostly tourists. Any sensible Roman would still be at home, sweaters on and a hot espresso between their hands. It has a lot to do with what you are used to, I guess. Being from New England, four to six inches of snow is not an crisis. But since our boots were in the closet in Massachusetts, our toes began to feel the icy effects of the snowy streets in short order. Still, we plodded on.

The tour had been canceled, St. Peter's was closed, as was the Vatican Museum. Hundreds of visitors walked the snowy streets trying to figure out what they were going to do with their day. Most probably didn't have the luxury of an extended stay. 'Wasting' the day was not an option for them. They were moving on or going home in short order. I am glad we had the time to linger.

As we left the tour check-in point and headed back across Piazza San Pietro, laughter and singing greeted us as priests, parishioners and students flung snowballs, slipping and sliding in the wet snow. It was glorious. Nuns created a snowman complete with a real clerical collar. After months of bad news and governmental strife at home, it felt like a cleansing breath to see and hear such carefree joy.

The third attempt was the charm and we took our special Necropolis tour the next day. It offered us a different view of Rome, one that was reverent, meaningful in a different way. Deep underneath the Vatican, we explored streets of the dead with two-thousand year old 'houses' built specifically to honor members of Roman families who had passed on. Rather than feeling macabre, it felt peaceful.

As history's events flow in a tidal wave of reminiscences, so do its people. We each have our place in the river of time with recollections and stories passed down the line until we are also included in the telling.

We are born into families whose history spans the millennia and beyond. Whether we know all the details is not important. The history is there regardless. We grow, we learn, we age, and we eventually die. Some will miss us, others might have cause not to be concerned. So be it. Perhaps our contributions make us seem remarkable beyond the family and honors are bestowed. A statue marks our spot and our story is told. We provide inspiration for generations to come. Over and over, people flow in and out of life's river. They grow our society, contribute to its welfare, and if we are lucky, impart their wisdom, art, and compassion for others to build on.

Finally, we blend back into the grains of sand of the universe. We are once again part of the realm of earth and sky. We are carried on the wind and find harbor in the hearts of those who loved us. Memories hold us dear. Stories keep us alive.

When I think of the works of the great writers I have enjoyed, I know that each have given me insights that have shaped my thinking. When I see the creations of nature and man, I am inspired. When I hear music, I am soothed. The embrace of God, the hands of craftsmen, the minds of the thoughtful, and the curiosity of the explorers are the silt that runs along the bottom of the river of man. They are our foundation.

They are our salvation. Learn or weep.

Wants and Needs

I am reading a book called The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George. At first quaint, somewhat frivolous, but then its characters fill out and its messages become deeper, more meaningful.

Which means I am now writing down phrases – snippets of wisdom that provoke further contemplation.

‘Love may come and go, but the caring goes on.’ Oh, yes, it does.

‘It only takes one word to hurt a woman, a matter of seconds, one stupid, impatient blow…but winning her trust back takes years. And sometimes, there isn’t the time.’ Life feels shorter under the task or maybe, one perceives they have little left and therefore there isn’t time to figure out how to regain her trust.

‘And that is why it hurts so much. When women stop loving, men fall into a void of their own making.’ Yes, they do and it is horrible to see because it becomes obvious that they don’t comprehend, don’t acknowledge, that their new-found feelings of loss are the result of their own actions. So they do nothing.

And she can do nothing more than continue the caring. Because she wants to.

Trying to Understand

My words are stuck in my throat this morning and writing is my only solace for the welling of emotions careening in my head. I can't seem to stop writing. I feel like someone or something died and I need to make sense of it. 

I hardly slept for checking the updated election results throughout the night. Got a few hours towards morning. While my forty minute drive into work this morning looked the same, it sure didn't feel right. 

I have always felt so proud of my country and this election has uncovered things I never even contemplated about how half of our citizens may feel and think.

One can only hope that the rhetoric of his nasty campaign was the result of the heat of his battle, but it is hard to forget his words or actions when contemplating his true nature or to imagine his plans for our country and our relations with the world.  I am still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that there are so many people in this country - who are so different from the people I know - who feel such hatred and bigotry. I am stunned. It has been quite the revelation. 

On the other hand, half our society feels strong, responsible and open to diversity of both people and thought. I'm with them. If nothing else, this has pushed me to dig deeper, be better, be stronger, and more involved.

Rambling, I know, but just trying to work things out in my head and having an awful time of it. 

Ad-Less

The assault is insidious and completely over-the-top. More stressful that one could imagine. Consumerism, media-hype, claims and counter-claims.

Why, you can't even go to a public toilet without looking at an advertisement on the stall door. Grocery cart? Yup, ads there, too, in case you need a funeral home or a bottle of wine.

I just perused my Pinterest account, one of the few places sans ads. Nope, as I cursored down, a stylish pic of fruit popsicles showed up, sponsored by Outshine and 'picked just for you'. Seriously? Shame on you, Pinterest.

I have Sirius Radio in my car to avoid ads and listen to the music I like best. I pay for it. A lot. If I want ads to disappear from my phone's Solitaire game, I'd have to pay for that, too. Even my email account has a line of ads running down the side as I try to pay attention to my incoming correspondence. I can't pee without seeing an ad, drive without staring at the back end of a heavily emblazoned vehicle touting its company's finer points. Even bumper stickers sell some kind of message.

I rebelled. I watch little TV. Frankly, that was also because I have better things to do that I have been neglecting for too long. Fun things like reading and painting and being outside soaking in what nature provides (for free). I don't miss the box. I certainly don't miss foot-tapping through commercials or fast-forwarding and still seeing them as I try to spot the next segment of the show. I got rid of magazine subscriptions. They had more ads than articles. The ones I really liked closed down because of lack of advertising. Of course, they did. I choose my news for its content, not sensationalism. There are ways to do that but it takes effort. It is worth it.

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I want to be childlike again. Outside more than in, exploration and conversation trumping entertainment via electronics. Laze in a hammock, pull a few weeds, make America beautiful and fulfilling.

Because it is beautiful, it is fulfilling. We don't have to sold a bill of goods to know that fact in our hearts. Go forth, ad-less, and enjoy.

A Penny for Your Thoughts

      "A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. …
      Else tomorrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another."      -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bits and bytes of information bombard every one of us every day. Each single seed can also be deposited in the minds of millions of other people. Everyone’s thinking is influenced by what is seen, felt, read and observed. We process most information on a subconscious level. It becomes a Dagwood sandwich, wrapped and stowed for later consumption.

In sleep, some of those random thoughts gel into dreams; recent impressions form the scenarios. If aware of it, we can even smell and feel in our dream state which always startles me when I experience it. The devil of it is that when the curtain comes up in the morning, another good dream is obliterated. Poof!

Its impression, most likely, remains in our subconscious. Hence, the reoccurring dream. All these thoughts swirl, lay claim to lockers in our storehouse of a mind. The combination is lost, found, lost again. The bits gather with other bits, form communities of thought.

There is a lot of simmering going on under the surface. And simmering is also going on in the minds of others, too. Even those we have never met may have the same thoughts we do. It explains the scientists on two different continents coming up with the same premise or similar research results. Happens all the time.

"Gee, I thought of that years ago,” a young man laments when he reads of a new discovery. “If only I had acted on it, I would be the one in the newspapers. I would be the one who made millions.”

“He stole my idea.” Ah, no. No, he didn’t. He just was more intrigued than you were about the idea batting around in his head and did something about it. A missed opportunity for one, growth and satisfaction for another.

A penny for your thoughts?

Perspective Requires Much Consideration

"The universe is transformation; our life is what our thoughts make it."  

Marcus Aurelius

    I picked up a neighbor to give him a ride part of the way to work this morning. I often do this and we mostly talk about the weather, or he does and I listen because I think each day's weather is interesting. Today he talked about a job posting and that it only paid $10 hour. He griped about it and the sad state of affairs in America and had told the interviewer that times were changing and soon it would be $15. Perhaps so, but I imagine it didn't further his cause.

    It got me to thinking of my recent experiences in Hungary where I was surprised that the American dollar bought so much more than the Hungarian populace could afford. They would, perhaps, be excited about $10 an hour instead of looking for more from the get-go.

    We all want to live a good life, a prosperous one. Most do their best to achieve it. Some complain endlessly and get nowhere.

    Personal perspective forms from your own particular point of view and your thoughts are, of course, its basis. Others may sway your thinking. Nasty little inroads of doubt may creep in. But just as often, fresh air may flow through your thoughts when the stars align and things are going well. Life is like swaying on a swing. Sometimes you reach the sky and sometimes your feet get muddy as you hop off.

    "Our life is what our thoughts make it." Yes, it certainly is.

I fear I have been doing a bit more reading than usual...

Passionate Serenity

Cozy and warm, restorative and peaceful

One can find peace in so many places if open to it. Sometimes, the right place falls in your lap unbidden and you take up the reins to embrace it. When they stay with you as an integral part of your being, you know you have found a piece of your soul’s place of rest.

Borgo di Vagli, high in the mountains east of Cortona in Tuscany, has a quiet serenity than soothes and uplifts. How fortunate we are that, this time, there was no room at the inn and it was recommended to us as an alternative.

Our terrace - with a 10th century castle ruins in the distance

Only two places in my life have caused me distress. The home I thought I’d grow old at in Ohio and Borgo di Vagli. After we packed the car on that last day before heading to Spoleto for lunch and Rome for the airplane home, we sat on the terrace, drinking in the view. Reluctant to leave, we relaxed into the sensations and sounds enveloping us until tears formed and hearts welled with exquisite pain.

Driving away, traversing the two km of winding dirt roads with heavy hearts filled with longing, we said arrivederci. 

Till we meet again.

Just Saying...

Six feet and counting...

It's getting mighty deep out there! We can't shovel it fast enough.

Windblown and Buried

New England has so much to offer and it never disappoints. Cold and snow plummets down from the Arctic and buries us in fluffy white snow.

The View from Inside the Mind

When one wonders about the minds of visionaries and you land on the incredible art created by Van Gogh’s supposedly disturbed mind, one can only be reminded that no two people see the world in the same way. Some only take in the surface and others see more deeply.

Van Gogh's Starry Night

Time-lapse photography while stargazing in Atacama Desert, Chile

Adhemar Duro Getty Images

Sunflower Glory

In the land of paint and pencils, there are many temptations. All the time. Everywhere.

Pastels tickled all my creative bits when I signed up for a class at our local library taught by Gregory Maichack. I am in love with the luminosity and can't wait to experiment with more flowers, clouds and the ocean. This one, started in the class is after a Georgia O'Keefe painting.

Thank goodness there are a profusion of sunflowers at the farm stands right now. These deep, bronzy red ones I put in my blue vase will be wonderful to paint.

Our Northeast summer has been glorious - a gift of clear skies, gentle breezes and warm weather. Cool nights, perfect for sleeping, are a blessing and we enjoyed them virtually every night.

Even when life throws curves, little glimmers of enchantment remind me that there is so much more to consider in the scheme of things. Thank goodness.

"Life is brief, but if you're brave, it's deep." - Elissa Schappell, author

The Rocky Path of Progress

My writing corner

Living so close to historical touch-points as I do here in New England, I find myself intrigued by the minds of people who lived here before me.  I have been reading Henry David Thoreau’s book, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, and I have a new appreciation for the portion of the Concord River which passes under the freeway close to my work in Billerica, MA. His boat journeyed along this spot in 1839 on his way upstream and I can imagine his oars dipping in the serene water, dripping with sun-glistened droplets with each upswing of the paddle, his eyes scanning the shore for signs of life to think upon. Looking either way as I head for my exit, I see uninhabited shorelines thick with trees and underbrush, a stone bridge the only manmade element in sight – much as he would have seen the river 175 years ago.

So much can change in the course of a single man’s life and a multitude of changes are wrought in a century…or two. Even as Thoreau bemoaned the dams that blocked the alewives and salmon from their spawning beds and changed the pattern of river flooding that had reached far into fertile fields each spring, he melded his observations with historical facts to better grasp the dangerous road man was taking in the name of progress. What once could be fished or grown with moderate toil now could not and village people downstream from the mill towns suffered from the loss caused by demands of the industrial revolution. Fruitful soil reverted to sand.

It is impossible that everything in life changes at once and all that is familiar disappear. There is an ebb and flow to our journey. There are touchstones that keep the thread of our experiences alive and growing. We have history, our own and that of others, to ground us and we can compartmentalize what we learn. We have evidence of prior efforts, their causes and effect.

That we repeat mistakes, or refrain from anticipating how our actions will affect others, is a product of our hurried (and harried) lives. Thoreau felt his era was no less active but his considered thoughts ran along a grand scale and he saw the effects created by the dams, for instance, built to harness water’s power for the mills. He grasped that each action has a complete and opposite reaction in a way that Newton may not have intended but that was apt for his time. Man’s forward motion will, by nature, change something that went before. If Thoreau had not traversed mountains on foot and sailed rivers under his own physical power, he might not have fully understood the effect man was having on his environment and its inhabitants. That his words are apropos today illustrates the importance of considered knowledge.

We stumble along, making plans, building pipe-dreams and skyscrapers without regard to maintaining a balance within our natural lives. Fish go extinct, plants become invasive in new environs, manmade chemicals do dire damage to ecosystems, seas rise and threaten our shores, and we lose sight of what is important in the grand scheme of things. Like Thoreau, we need to simplify and consider our impact on, not only nature, but on those around us and them on us. We need to walk along our path at a slower pace in order to fully consider our purpose in the scheme of things.

It is not enough that we strive to correct the mistakes of the past but that we not perpetuate them in our present in order to save our future.

Violation

Place Marcel Ayme, Montmartre

On the day I left for Cologne, most likely very soon after I left for the airport and my husband clicked the leash on our dog to go for a walk, someone broke into our house and stole from us. It seems to have been a brief attack, only charge cards, money and gift cards were taken. Then we noticed the missing prescription drugs. Where was my husband's wedding ring - rolled under the bed or gone for good? Rolled coins, nestled in boxes in the closet - a collection of state coins in the process of being gathered for the grandchildren - are gone. The boxes are there but they gape open in their emptiness. What else will we discover missing as we reach for something out of habit and come up empty-handed?

I suppose we are lucky. This may not be a first for us, but it is a violation felt to the core just the same. We are physically safe and I am thankful for that as we hold each other in quiet contemplation of our vulnerability. Our minds are damaged and our hearts leaden with pain at the prospect that it maybe someone we know. Is it? I don't know. I hope not. The tragedy is that it make us susceptible to the idea. The police said it often is, especially when other things which could be sold are still here. I rebel against that idea but the notion is now seeded in both our minds.

The losses are greater than a few dollars and the inconvenience of mopping up the details of someone's major shopping spree while I was out of the country. The real loss is much more personal.

Life and the Gross Domestic Product

Via www.rowdykittens.com

I just began Tammy Strobel’s book, You Can Buy Happiness (and it’s cheap), yesterday after giving up on the soft mush of Memories from Acorn Hill. I finished the first short story in which everything turned out peachy but couldn’t get more than a chapter into the other one before realizing that reading it would be more of the same and I would gain nothing from the exercise. Life is too short to eat milk-toast.

So I moved on to a non-fiction book for a change of pace. Tammy, who has a blog I check in on frequently called Rowdy Kittens, has pulled all her research and her lifestyle changes into a new book. I am only on page 40, but she has already given me lots to think about.

In her personal life, she has simplified to the nth degree. She and her husband live in a 128 sq. foot home on wheels that they built. Minimal space means minimal clothes, minimal furniture and minimal tablespoons. She loves her lifestyle and I presume her husband embraces it, too, although I am not sure of his thoughts.

Since I have been simplifying for the past two years (but not to this extent, obviously, as one peruses our home), I understand the benefit of removing clutter in both the physical environment as well as within my mind. As things become fuzzier as I grow older, I think this will be all the more important to me. There is also the time lost on maintenance and cleaning to consider. I do not like to devote more time than absolutely necessary to the chores. I want to open up my time to experiences. Hence my dilemma and subsequent epiphany.

An economics major, Tammy has the stats to back up her words. She also quotes other writers and statesmen. This statement from Robert Kennedy gave legs to my thoughts and backbone to my decision to minimize, not only my things, but my exposure to the excessive materialism and the mind-warping violence and ridicule on TV that has become so prevalent.

The first comment is Tammy’s and the second part is quoted in her book. I included the first paragraph of Kennedy’s words because it is also relevant to my point of view.

Below is a quote from Bobby Kennedy on what the Gross National Product means and more importantly what it does not mean.  He would have a made a fine economist...

 "Too much and too long, we seem to have surrendered community excellence and community values in the mere accumulation of material things. Our gross national product ... if we should judge America by that - counts air pollution and cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage. It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for those who break them. It counts the destruction of our redwoods and the loss of our natural wonder in chaotic sprawl. It counts napalm and the cost of a nuclear warhead, and armored cars for police who fight riots in our streets. It counts Whitman's rifle and Speck's knife, and the television programs which glorify violence in order to sell toys to our children. 

"Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education, or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages; the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither our wit nor our courage; neither our wisdom nor our learning; neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country; it measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile. And it tells us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans." 

Robert F. Kennedy Address, University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas, March 18, 1968

As Tammy drills down to her own place of happiness and hones her point of view, I benefit from her observations. Her words resonate with me. Food for thought and they take up minimal physical room.

So, as she delves further into the issue, she questions the wisdom of excessive growth, not only with the GDP, but also on a personal level. The more we make and the more we buy does not increase our core happiness.

Money is not the measure of our contentment and happiness, our experiences are. Things are, well, just things. A bobble-head may remind us of an excellent sport’s event but does it make us happy? Going to the event would. Buying an artificial flower arrangement to match our living room might look nice for a while but then it would just be part of the scene. Bringing in a handful of flowers from the patch we grew by the back door would enchant us every time we walked by it. Once past its prime, a new and different bundle could appear, appreciated for its own uniqueness and brevity of appearance.

It occurs to me that it is unfortunate that we raise our children during the time period of our peak acquisition. We are buying homes, furnishing them, decorating them. We buy toys, swing sets and different sized bikes in rapid succession. We renovate. We move, prompting more acquisitions. They see us buy out of boredom, replace perfectly good cars and fill closets, theirs as well as ours, with clothes. They embrace all this buying and expect something in every store they are dragged to, often becoming frustrated to tantrum level when the random object of their desire is not forthcoming. Then they see their parents buying what they want and the seed is planted. ‘When I grow up…,” becomes an internal mantra and a habit is born. Buying things will make me happy. When I don’t get them, I am angry/sad.

Now, I have no basis in fact to substantiate this next thought and I will learn more with research, but in cultures with extended families close by and where grandparents, aunts and uncles are part of day-to-day living, is the acquisitive influence diluted? For instance, I think we can assume that grandparents are in a stage of life where they pretty much have all they need. They are comfortable with their furniture, have knitted a few afghans to keep warm on chilly nights and they are down to four coffee mugs in the cabinet. Lamps may have seen better days but they see no point in replacing them. The books that line their shelves are fewer than were there in earlier years but are old friends. Pictures lining the wall are of family. Friendships, not things, give them the most pleasure. Family antics make them laugh. Crayoned drawings are taped to their refrigerator.

I think back on the years when my children were growing up. We bought a home, painted, put up wallpaper and decorated while my son was little and my daughter approaching birth. Finances were tight so we made do and did for ourselves. Visits to parks were more the norm than forays to stores. Playing outside was fun and the swing set was in the grammar school playground. We traveled to see family, hooking side trips to the seashore onto the journeys. After a number of years, we built a house in another town and moved. Things were better, our jobs providing more money to spend. Saving wasn’t on the horizon yet. We bought new furniture. While my son was in school and my daughter on half-day kindergarten, I shopped after school let out. She went along on my forays to buy fabric and placemats. I made curtains and pillows. I bought things to decorate our home –a lot of things – it was a country haven, befitting the time, complete with Shaker pegs to hold stuff on the wall when the other surfaces were full.

My son shuns excess stuff in favor of his passions. My daughter fills her home with things. I am getting the picture.

Facing up to responsibility is uncomfortable. I can see how my actions may have subconsciously influenced them. Don't get me wrong, it wasn’t all materialistic. I am glad we filled their childhood with experiences, too. They each have varied interests and a love of the seashore and appreciation for bed and breakfast inns. Visits to parks, boating on lakes and exploration in different areas has had an impact on their lives – I see it now in their choices. I am glad that I never felt the need to buy trinkets emblazoned with logos to remember every trip. I am glad I never felt the compulsion to collect figurines (oh, whoops, there is the Christmas village I put up every year during the holidays). I have had way too many books over the years (all but my favorites have now been sent out into the world for other readers to enjoy). I still need to attack my closets so I am thankful for doors that close tightly. My art supplies will never be reduced except by use.

There is balance in every life, mine and theirs included. Some tip one way or another as we each work through our stages. The groundwork is laid earlier than I thought. Was my mother’s habitual Saturday shopping day part of my foundation? Perhaps. But so was the frugality of those early years when money was tight and we made do. I count myself lucky to have had those days when my best Christmas present of all time was the Barbie clothes my mother painstakingly made for months on end and getting a bike was a really big deal. I have carried the necessity of that philosophy in my pocket my whole life. It colored many of my decisions. I also had the benefit of two grandmotherly points of view when I grew up. One was frugal and loving, the other more critical and cheap. Although at a distance and not visited more than a few times a year, they both had an impact on my development.

Perhaps if there was a Tammy earlier in my life, I would have understood my impact on others more fully and trimmed my sails. Would have saved me from going through this exercise of purging now and, I am sure, enhanced my life’s experiences in the process. Live and learn...again.

It is now obvious that it would have influenced my children’s values as well.

Now that I look back with open eyes, I see that my experiences and growth were probably like that

From www.notesfromtherock.net

of many others of that time. I don’t know if it is my time of life that is dictating my shift in course or the times which are changing because of the accessibility of different points of view via the internet. All in all, there are few things I would alter because, ultimately, they made me who I am. I would have assessed my materialism differently, though. My personal search for happiness was impeded by it and I never knew. As I watch my children make their own choices, I both applaud and lament.

I wouldn't be a mother if I didn't.

 



Through the Looking Glass

Montmartre Reflection

Ah, a new year arrives. It is a crisp, cold day and the sun shines down on the shiny coat of thick ice on the lake. A massive storm is brewing to the west, churning and drifting our way. Tomorrow, the scene may be very different but inside, warmth will fill the rooms and there is always tea to heat the body from the inside out.

These past five days have been restorative. I have picked up my clutter, rearranged my sitting room so I can fit in my paints and supplies for the winter. Curtains, a project long overdue and neglected, have been sewn for the guest room sliding door – lush thick folds of fabric to keep the chill outside where it belongs.

Mending has been done, Marlena de Blasi’s new book, Antonia and Her Daughters, a gift from a friend, is slowly savored so as not to rush through the pages and reach the end before I am ready for it. I am traveling soon so I brought the rolling suitcase down to ready it for the trip. I will leave the Christmas tree up until Saturday – a few more days of enjoyment before memorable ornaments are once again stored away.

Their brief appearance makes them special. Released from their slumber, they evoke memories of holidays filled with laughter and good food, traditions long enjoyed. These accumulated treasures represent a lifetime of Decembers. Like old friends, they are a small part of the solace of the season. The rest is spiritual comfort and reflection.

Now I am ready to embrace my passions and grow. There are only a few pledges I will make to set the character of my new year. Now, more than ever, action requires the parameters of a plan.

I surrender to the notion that I will always be a person with myriad interests. I intend to fully give each its moment of attention without gazing lustfully at the ones not chosen.
 
Embrace the path – I will take one step at a time on paths which intrigue me and trust that they will not lead me astray. This will keep me upright in more ways than one.
 
Cherish relationships – in the moment and always.

Like the eagle, I will ride the wind with grace and strength, and return to a nurturing nest of inspiration and respite.

I will continue to balance activity with quiet contemplation and appreciate the growth from both. Simplicity will hone my focus.

Let's see how that goes....