Bridges 3:

We build too many walls
and not enough bridges
Isaac Newton

If you listen, as I do sometimes, to news as background, you'd think that the whole world is intent on building walls. 

The rhetoric of America's far right is terrifying: anti Semitic, anti people of color, anti-women, anti-gay, you name it.  

The women I know talk about books and music and the interests that keep us alive.  Women tend to each other and make connections.  We build bridges.  (So do countless good men who aren't focused on power and control.)

How we choose to use our time on Planet Earth defines the kinds of bridges we make--whether it's cooking and sharing food, painting, writing, planting, or quilting.  We do our best to take care of our little patches of world instead of opining about what other people should do. 

The unspoken mantra is Live and Let Live. 

When I hear Trump's maniacal dinner guest Nick Fuentes ranting his racist poison, I want to say, "Get a life, man."  But he's already found his gaudy costume, his stupid script, his nodding audience and support from the likes of Marjorie. He wants Trump to take his rightful place as president again and "then not have any more elections" ever. 

Such a contrast to the news of would-be dictators and king-makers is what happens when creative people get together. 

I was in a Zoom class today with 400 women from around the world, all ages, making beautiful handmade books. 

A woman named Angela (in her late 80s) is going back to college to get a degree in astronomy and planetary sciences!  In the chat, we all gave her kudos. Angela is not hanging out near the end of any bridges; she's starting her own new career and bookmaking as a hobby. 

In our grandmothers' day, women had quilting circles.  In the movie, How to Make An American Quilt, the older women initiate a younger woman into the community of quilters and the shared wisdom that shows up while pushing needles through fabric.

Wearing the hat of writing group leader for many years was a bridge to friendship and creative expression. I miss it.  But my path at the moment is learning about the structure and design of blank books. And making spirit boxes through Lyn's class.  

Today I went through a box of letters and cards looking for a letter from my dad.  I wanted to incorporate his handwriting in the cover of the book I'm making this week.  

Before I found it, I shuffled for hours, stopping to read words written by my family and close friends; from men I've loved, teachers' comments on my elementary school report cards, Betty's entry in my autograph book, love letters from my ex-husband in airmail envelopes, recipes Day wrote as a little girl, artsy handmade cards and envelopes from Nellie, 2004 letters from a writing group on my birthday (written when I thought they were busy writing to the prompt of the night.) 

It occurred to me that handwritten messages may be among the best and most treasured bridges between people--and we do too little of that now that we're entrenched in emails and texts. .

The background music looping in my mind as I write this is John Lennon's "Imagine" 

alternating with Leonard Cohen's "Democracy is coming--to the USA" 

and Keb Mo's "Life is Beautiful" 

and Josh Ritter's "All some kind of Dream." 

I love to imagine what could happen if millions of men and women, no geographical, national, sexual, racial boundaries, started some clubs and communities, got to know each other, asked more questions, and attended to their passions.  

Imagine all the people
Livin' life in peace
You

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will be as one  

  

Bridges 2

 

For a long time I held a grudge against a person.  I didn't see her enough to really think about it much, but when I did, I avoided her.  

She had done something I considered unforgivable.

Yesterday we were at the same Thanksgiving dinner.  Sitting at the opposite end of a long table, she said something amusing and I laughed in spite of myself.  I saw a bridge appear against a cloudy sky.  I could either cross it or burn it--and it turns out that in this case, the two actions were the same.  

I thought about something Freda said recently, "We are too old to be awkward!"

And so we talked.  I found out that her ex-husband had recently died, a man I'd liked back in the days we were all young together. I found out that her daughter had survived a very frightening illness.

We had both gone through three decades of good times and bad times.  We'd grown too old to be awkward anymore. 

Word by word, like tires thumping on a rickety old bridge, white knuckles on the steering wheel slowly relaxing, we got to the other side.  

Bridges #1

I've been thinking about bridges a lot lately.  It started on my recent drive to Georgia and back.  Crossing the Mississippi River is unavoidable driving to Georgia, and it's always felt like an important and joyful part of traveling to and from my former home, to and from my present home. 

On this recent trip, maybe for the first time--because I noticed it--I felt fear.  I clutched the steering wheel and didn't allow myself to look to either side, kept my eyes focused on the road ahead.  

I may have felt fear when almost ten years ago, I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge in a Mini Cooper--at night--to find a place to stay in San Francisco.  But I don't remember feeling a sense of panic as I did leaving Natchez heading west. 

That West Coast trip coincided with my 65th birthday--an age which seems incredibly young as I begin my 75th year. Maybe my sense of adventure and freedom was less jaded than it is today?  Maybe age has taken a bit of a toll on my confidence?

At any rate, my thoughts lately have not been so much about actual physical bridges but about less tangible but powerful connections between ways of thinking and seeing the world. 

I plan to spend the next couple of blog posts reflecting on some of the bridges I'm discovering. 

How to do joy Part 2

Be a ten-year-old girl.  Be on the ready to try anything.  

Get yourself a violin and join the orchestra.  Ride rodeo.  Make and sell jewelry.  Grow succulents.  Love animals.  Cook.   

Today started with a FaceTime call with Elena who made crepes for her family for breakfast.  

Nutella and strawberry and banana, ham and cheese, and spinach and cream cheese.  She'd had them in Peru this summer and decided she'd like to make them.  Will said they were the best he'd ever had.

Last night at my house where we had our early Thanksgiving dinner, she made elaborate menus for her brunch special.  She gave us each a menu and walked around taking our orders.  

Nathan--who had been entertaining and educating us on war-craft in the Middle Ages (the kid is brilliant in history!) balked at playing restaurant.  "She's almost in middle school and still pretending," he said a bit grumpily, being a nearly sixteen year old and doing what sixteen-year-old boys do. 

Elena kept on taking orders, then she followed through by making real crepes this morning.

"I pretend every day," I said--in her defense.  "I get up every morning and pretend I'm an artist."

"There you go!" she said. 

While we were on the phone, Will said, "This reminds me of your making crepes when I was a kid."

Flattered that he remembered me making crepes, I noted that Elena's crepes were served on the same plates he grew up with, my wedding dishes. 

How to do joy

  "Let’s create joy today-inside, outside, everywhere we go! Luci will lead the way! She is an excellent wayshower on how to do joy."

This email  from my friend Pam was my first message of the day, and it gave me a nudge to spread some joy.  To be honest, it was Luci who got the credit. 

She met the most adorable little boy in Jo Ann's.  Luca looked to be about a 18 months old.  "Your name is kind of like Luci's name," I said--but he didn't appear to see the resemblance, or care. 

His grandmother kept urging him to come on!  "But I yuv the puppy!" he said.  "I want to stay with the puppy."

When finally she urged him to come along and get that heart necklace he wanted, he reluctantly said, "Bye, Luci.  I yuv you.  Bye, bye, bye...."

Then he looked at me, "Why she won't say bye to me?"

I assured him that she was saying it in her dog-way.  "Dogs don't use words like big boys like you do." 

In HEB #1, Luci met countless admirers.  Almost every customer we met (and there were so many today) wanted to pet her, asked me her breed, and told me about their dogs.  Those who didn't stop to talk, smiled.  Faces brighten up at the sight of a cute little dog in an unexpected place.  The two women behind me in line said, "You are so blessed." 

Same thing in Central Market.  Her admirer in the check out line said she had recently gotten a puppy because her husband needs a new hunting dog.  "He's driving me crazy, the little monster."  I told her that when Janet found her for me she said, "Don't get a puppy!  Get a grown-ass dog!"

"That's great advice," she said.  "I wish someone had told me that." 

Just by being her fluffy little self, Luci makes people smile--and that fuels my day for joy. It's not the normal experience of grocery shopping--to see so many faces light up like proverbial Christmas trees.  Ordinarily, people are so intent on shopping and marking items off their list, me included, that they barely make eye contact.

  

First "Spirit Box" almost done

Here she is, the Elena Spirit Box--who's spirit animal is the chicken--almost finished. Tomorrow I will make faces out of clay to affix to the other five bodies I've made. 

I'll collect a few more feathers on my chilly walk with Luci in the morning.  

Tuesday Morning

Monday began with a text that Day was in the ER with intermittent pain in her lower back.  After spending the morning with the phone attached to my ear, I finally got the good news that she's fine.  She had a CT scan and was pronounced healthy, just some kind of muscular fluke. So our Thanksgiving visit was going to happen as planned--for about ten minutes.

Then Tom tested positive for COVID--two weeks after Day's bout with it.  Day's case was hard--"the sickest I've ever been," but we're hoping Tom's will be way lighter.  So far, he's just sneezing, but he had to test before his planned flight to Berlin for work. The Texas-Virginia Thanksgiving is now iffy again at best.  We won't know until he tests on Thursday.

Everything I used to do in one or two days now takes a week, so this week has been focused on getting ready for the rare Thanksgiving visit with my kids, Day and Tom, Will and Veronica, and four grandchildren, Jackson no longer officially a child,  all in one place for a few days.  I've been moving myself to the casita so the four Learys can sleep in the house, buying groceries I never buy (Big Red and ice cream for the boys--do they even like these treats at their ages of 18 and 21, I wonder?), and planning outings and innings.  

So now we are on pause. 

I woke up at three and decided to return to Season Five of The Crown.  It's the best season of all, this year of the Queen's death, in part because it's cumulative of former seasons.  Margaret and Peter Townsend see each other after 35 years; each of her children has a marital crisis; there is a terrible fire.  Watching it, we know now when the queen will die; when Diana and Phillip will die; and that the words to the tune, "God save the Queen" are now "God save the King."

I've just pressed pause after a poignant conversation between Elizabeth and her sister Margaret.  

Margaret has just proposed they get away together and drink and talk, but her sister has too many official duties as usual. Beside the bedside of "Lillibet" is a basket with her Corgis, Brandy and Sherry; Margaret is spending the night alone with her dog, Rum.  

It's a rare scene in the years we've watched these sisters struggling with the demands of royalty and personal sacrifices.  The scene closes with their telling each other (possibly the only time in the entire series), "I love you.  I love you very much." 

The Light We Carry

As you probably know, Michelle Obama's new book, The Light We Carry, is coming out on November 15th.  

Before it started, I almost fell asleep, pressed record, but was so engaged I watched the hour-long interview with Robin Roberts on ABC, filmed in the Obama's living room.   

What a charismatic, wise and down-to-earth person she is!  

When asked where her home is, she said, "Where Barrack is.  He's my dude!"  Married thirty years, those two obviously have the secret sauce.

When asked how she gets through these crazy times, she said she's taken up knitting--and later showed a half-knitted sweater and shawl she's made.

She told a story about visiting their grown daughters, Sasha and Melania who live together in California.  They were served "weak cocktails" and handed coasters to protect their new furniture.  "Coasters??? They never were so careful about my furniture in the White House," Michelle said. 

At a dinner party, several girlfriends and her mother talk about a friendship that includes lots of exercise and talking late into the night about the things no one ever prepared them for--like menopause. When her friends visited at Camp David, they say that Michelle made it like boot camp, exercising three times a day. 

And her mama?  She's just glad "not to be living with all them anymore and to have her whole house to herself every night, no man, nobody, just me, doing what I want to do." 

Terrific interview with a touching surprise ending, the kind of interview that will have millions doing what I did, going to Amazon to pre-order the new book. 

So many friends, so little time

When we humans meet as strangers, we make quick assessments.  When we meet a potential life friend, we know it pretty fast.    

The older we get, the more selective we get because as Kate said last week, "We've only got about this much time left"--showing how much with her fingers measuring about half an inch. 

In the big picture of the universe, that's certainly true, even if we still have a decade or two or three left.   

But dogs don't know all that.  They don't look for signs of political allegiance (bumper stickers, etc). They don't care about age, infirmity, color, beauty, or breed.  

When Luci sees a dog she leaps toward the stranger.  They sniff each other and wag their tails.  They kiss each other's tongues--a potential playmate, oh boy oh boy!  

Luci and Francesca met at the car wash.  Francesca is a wooly Shih-tzu.  I let Luci off her leash in the lobby and she was euphoric.  The attendant gave them treats.  

It was Best Friend Land until Francesca came over and let me pet her.  Then Luci leaped to my feet as if it was emergency.  She cuddled up against my leg possessively.  This is Luci-speak for "That's my person!" 

Aging is an extraordinary process where you become the person you always should have been. – David Bowie

When COVID came, a few members of the last writing group to meet in person decided to send occasional prompts and write email responses.  Yesterday, Jan sent this quotation by David Bowie. Here's my response.

Linda, 1950

This little girl is a former version of me, with her saddle shoes and clean white socks, her hair pulled back in a barrette, wearing a light colored cotton dress.  Her mother made the dress.  I know this because she made every dress from baby to bride.  

The sofa behind her (looks like a day bed with pillows) was also upholstered by her mother, a greenish fabric, possibly a remnant she could have afforded on a clearance table?  A satin-shade lamp (Green Stamps?) and a framed picture of Linda Gayle sit the end table along with a figurine of an animal

The background: white Venetian blinds and a temporarily abandoned doll.  

Her mother has spread newspaper to protect the carpet, but the little girl seems engrossed in painting her right hand with a paint brush in her left hand. To her right, she has painted two blobs, possibly circles? 

I love this picture because it portrays me as the person I have become in my seventies. I’m oblivious to everything else, I’m melding with the brush, the paint, the quiet moment. I love the silence of my solitude except for the photographer who's made it possible.  

I didn't study art in college because it never occurred to me. I'm not a professional in these endeavors.  In college I was married to a "serious" artist--and art was his domain in our house. 

My only art lesson in first grade was discouraging.  When I painted the mimeographed courthouse with a purple crayon in dark thick happy strokes, the teacher held it up to show the class what NOT to do:  My color was wrong (the courthouse was red), my pressure wasn’t “ladylike,”  (way too much pressure for a girl) and I hadn’t stayed inside the lines of her courthouse lines.  "The lines are there for a reason, Linda." 

To hell with art! I decided. It was too hard to get all that right in one picture. 

I turned my attention to words—which I  love for their color, tones, and textures. But after teaching writing for  decades, I am now painting on my hands again. As I type this, I have glue on my fingers and a dab of red paint on my right hand. 

The pretty doll I loved is out of reach, not the focal point at the moment-- like other aspects of past selves that aren't calling for my attention as they once did. 

In this stage in my life, few things absorb my interest like playing with papers and colors.  The seeds of This Me are evident in That Me.  

Edward's rusty brown truck was in my driveway for two days.  His pokey pace can be unnerving if you're in a hurry, but he cleaned both the house and casita well enough for anybody's white glove inspection. He's been painting and handy-manning for me for ten years.  Jan, however, is not willing to put up with his talkativeness, frequent smoke breaks, and taking all day to do a job that could have been done in half the time.  I get it.  Some days I say, "Never again," but at the end of the day, I'm happy with his work and trying to keep the house shiny until my family from Virginia arrives next Friday. 

"Don't worry," he said.  "I'll come, no charge, and do touch ups before they arrive." 

The minute he left, Jan texted me: I just poured myself a glass of wine and was wondering if you could use a little alcohol given two days of Edward and all the election hoopla fear mongering.

I happily took her up on her offer.  I walked over and we sat on our porch and watched the pooches play in the dark yard, then she offered to walk Luci for me and the three of them headed out, flashlight in Jan's hand, for a walk around the block. 

I woke up the next morning to "no red wave."  Beto and Stacy didn't make it, but the overall results are not as bad as we'd feared. Maybe a lot of people are tired of the Trump game? And many didn't want their freedom curtailed?  Time will tell.  But for now, I'm going to focus on the fact that we didn't get a nationwide shellacking! 

Today was a lovely day--a belated birthday lunch with Freda and Joy and Bonnie!  Cappy's had shrimp and grits and everyone was in a good mood, even the one who's facing hip surgery in a few days.  There's a light at the end of the tunnel of hip pain, and we're all celebrating that in advance.  We were laughing so hard at her napkin antics that a man came over and said, "I see where I should be sitting!  Laughter is the best medicine." 

Saturday in San Antonio

Luci and I started this Saturday walking familiar streets on an art walk, seeing what local artists are making-- jewelry, pens, scarves, pottery, and paintings.  

Luci likes making, too--making friends with people and dogs. She wanted to romp with every dog she met.  She soaked up the attention of humans who gave her treats. 

I wore my Beto earrings in a neighborhood filled with Beto signs.  Even the postman called out, "Love your earrings!" 

After that, I spray painted a shelf and five little Altoid boxes for backing my spirit dolls.  I chose some faces and embellishments and laid everything out on the table for tomorrow morning's assembly.   

My day always shifts when my feet stop wanting to do foot things, and I sat on the porch and read chapters in a novel.  

So then it gets dark and I look for a movie.  Tonight's choices were two documentaries by Alexandra Pelosi (Nancy Pelosi's daughter): one about Ted Haggard's falling from church grace when it was discovered that he was having sex with men and buying drugs; the other about Pelosi's 2006 road trip getting to know Ted Haggard (before his fall) and other evangelicals in mega-churches.  

If you want to see how America ever got a Trump, these films are worth seeing.   The huge coalition of evangelicals shun science ("no evolution!"); consider themselves "pro life," believe in procreating to build up their tribe. They like Confederate flags, Christian billboards, and huge crosses.  And they don't want anyone messing with their guns.  

 .  

Every Brilliant Thing: on HBO

I absolutely loved this film of a play!

The narrator plays the part of a man whose mother suffered from depression.  At the age of 7, when his mother first attempted suicide, he began making a list of "Every Brilliant Thing" worth living for.  Number #1 was "ice cream." 

That's all I'll say--except to say that it is unique and laugh-out-loud funny in places (in spite of the seemingly morbid topic); it is poignant and touching; audience members are drafted to read lines and play various parts throughout the performance.

A Giant Squid Dances for Three Hours at Helotes Elementary Pawfest

Last Friday night, unconnected to anything, invited by no one, Elena (after donning her inflatable squid costume) danced for three hours.  I have tried several times, with no success, to post the video clips her dad sent me because it is impossible to watch without smiling. 

Other kids and parents milled around, some looking, some not paying any attention at all. But she kept dancing, oblivious to everything but the music and the dance.  I was reminded of one of Day's favorite adages, "Dance like nobody's looking."

She was, as Joseph Campbell wrote, "following her bliss."  Ignoring critics.  Being in the flow.  Not caring what anyone thought of her.  

So what comes close to that for me and you?  What do we do that allows us to lose track of time, ignore the news, and be fully present in the flow in what we're making or dancing or planting?

For me, it's taking an art classes and trying out new techniques.  

https://www.handmadebookclub.com

I love the Handmade Book Club.  I don't need more blank books, but Ali Manning (the mama of the group) and lots of guest teachers incorporate so many techniques that it becomes more than just making books.  I've learned so much about watercolors and markers, lettering, binding, and beautiful papers that can be used for pages and covers.  I've learned that all machine-made paper has a grain to it, just as fabric does.  And I continue to be amazed at the creativity members bring to the table.

If you are interested:

Three times a year, Ali and her team lead a five day challenge for $10.  Absolutely the most bang for bucks out there in the paper crafting world!  Membership is open to new members at the end of the five day challenge--for $25 a month, an incredible bargain with an extensive library of tutorials, virtual retreats, and a Facebook group for members to post what they make.

A few days later, membership is closed until the next challenge.

The next five day challenge starts right after Thanksgiving, November 28th:  Copic stitched binding. 

Nellie and I are also taking one of Lyn Belisle's online classes on making spirit boxes--which I've previously mentioned. Her classes, in person or online, are always wonderful!

https://lyn-belisle-studio.teachable.com

Whenever I don't get my eight hours of sleep, it's not because I have insomnia.  It's because I have stepped into the rabbit hole of dancing like nobody's looking.  Because nobody is....

The Day of the Dead

Among the many Texans who celebrate  Dios de los muertos with altars, flowers, photos, and memorabilia, my friend Pam makes it an art form.  

Tonight she invited a few friends to dinner and asked us to bring pictures and stories of friends and family members who are no longer with us.  I made a pound cake--my daddy's favorite--and goulash. He'd have been 100 this year. Here's a man I could talk about for hours, but suffice it to say, every time I tell a story about this dearly loved man, it's as if I bring him back for those who didn't get to know him. 

On a table and a piano, Pam had arranged photos so festively you'd have thought it was a party of living people who might show up--her parents and grandparents, her sister and her sister's husband, a former colleague from her teaching days, her son Tommy and her former husband, many friends, even her daughter's beloved dog. I loved hearing her tell stories about these people, all but one of whom I'd never actually met. 

In a bowl on her coffee table, there were more pictures, poems, handwritten notes, an award ceremony honoring her friend Ruth shortly before her hundredth birthday. Another friend--fit and healthy "who did everything right"--died in his forties. 

Day of the Dead is a lovely tradition.  In a way, all the people do show up! What they loved and brought to the world shows up.  Their quirks and habits show up.  For an hour or more, the living and the dead have a party, celebrating who they were (and still are) to us. 

I came home and searched for pictures of others I love who are no longer living: my grandparents, my Uncle David, my dog Tony (and a few other sweet dogs),  Brooke and Meredith (daughters of two of my best friends), Julianne Moore ("not that Julianne Moore" she always said) Mary Frances Weathersby, my yoga teacher and dear friend, Gary Lane, poet and teacher and piano-player who entertained residents of nursing homes with the music of their youth, Lea Glisson, the oldest and one of the funniest and liveliest members of my writing groups, and Jan's wonderful husband Gene, my next-door neighbor. 

As the song goes, "The road goes on forever and the party never ends...." 

Lloyd Harris, my daddy
Teaching Will to play guitar, early 1990s

May 2001
Our last visit
I wore this watch to Pam's party tonight....

Parking Lot Rage

Knowing I'd be driving through the rural areas of Southern red states on my recent trip to Georgia, I removed my Beto bumper sticker.  I was afraid small town Trumpers might run me off the road, or worse. 

At the same time, I cringed at silencing my point of view out of fear. So yesterday, I put up a new yard sign and replaced the bumper sticker. 

Today, waiting in a drive-through line right here in San Antonio, I noticed a car coming toward me as if to tell me something.  Maybe I had a flat tire?  She stopped inches from my car and began yelling atrocious and vicious lies about "Cocaine Beto El Paso Bastard," then she drove away shooting me the bird.  

Before today, I have had mostly complimentary comments from strangers.  One man offered to load up my groceries for me because he "loves Beto, too!"  A young woman with a baby in a stroller said, "Love your bumper sticker!" 

For the next week, I will wear the Beto earrings Pam gave me.  I won't take down my yard sign.  And I won't remove my bumper sticker.  But today, I was glad that the stranger who needed to spew her rage didn't have a gun!