Downtowns

Leave a comment

I recently wrote about the movie Peeping Tom.  I mentioned a scene, particularly creepy, where a news agent sells a girl a candy bar after selling an older man pornography.  Writing about this reminded me of my own youth.  After we’d moved to Rouseville, the nearest town with shops in western Pennsylvania was Oil City.  It had a reasonable downtown then—a couple of blocks with a Woolworth’s, Thrift Drugs, a movie theater (the lamented, lost Drake), stationary stores, and the like.  By the time I was in fifth grade I’d begun to discover books.  (Ours was not a reading family, being much more of the television crowd.)  Finding books in Oil City was a bit of a challenge.  There wasn’t a bookstore.  The nearest regular bookshop was all the way over in Meadville, and Mom didn’t want to drive that far too often.

I’ve noted before that I bought used books at the Goodwill up in Seneca (where we bought clothes and household items as well).  If you stayed downtown in Oil City, though, you could find books for less than a dollar in a bin at Woolworth’s.  (I still have a few of those cheaply printed and bound “Easy Eye” editions on my shelf.)  There was, however, just a door or two down, a mysterious shop where I’d spied a rotating wire rack of paperbacks.  I was curious and although Mom never forbade us to go in, she certainly didn’t encourage it.  I was a tween ravenous for new reading material.  This shop also sold magazines and tobacco products.  Some of the magazines had their covers obscured, and although on the cusp of puberty, I was really only after books.

One time I went in to give the wire rack a whirl.  I seem to recall that the owner gave a rather wry look when a minor, myopically focused on books, wandered in.  The fare there was not what I was used to.  There was a novel about Bigfoot, I recall.  I thought maybe that would be of interest, but I didn’t buy it.  When I walked out, I had that creepy feeling that seedy places seem to leave palpably on your skin.  I guess it might’ve been the feeling of that innocent little girl wandering into a shop selling nudie pictures to buy a candy bar—probably because it was the closest shop to home.  Such downtowns, and undoubtedly, such stores still exist.  They’ve become rare.  Downtown Oil City is no longer recognizable when I go there.  Now, it seems, there’s nowhere to buy books at all.

Ordinary Heroes

Leave a comment

Mothers sacrifice to give us life.  Sacrifice lies at the heart of much of religion, so it may be that women resonate with this theme naturally.  Without mothers none of us would be here to read this right now.  Mothers are mortals, however, like most heroes.  Naturally I’m thinking of my mother today and how much like a hero she was.  Like many heroes, she was prepared to die.  Her love, however, lives on.  It’s difficult, if not impossible, to count all the ways a mother influences our lives.  Not all are gifted at it.  It’s a difficult job, and one for which there’s no “economic” benefit—you don’t get paid for supplying the world with future contributors to this human experiment.  So we pause to think of how we might show our respect today.

I try not to involve family or friends on this blog—I don’t like giving the internet everything—but the other mother in my daily life, my wife, has said it’s okay.  This week we received the news that her cancer is in remission.  This joyous news came just in time for Mother’s Day and gives us yet another reason to celebrate.  Mother’s Day keeps on taking new shades of meaning as life unfolds.  Nature both takes and gives.  Sometimes in rapid succession.  We need to appreciate all that mothers, women, contribute to our lives and society.  I’ve never been able to figure out why this is such a difficult thing to figure out.  Some men seem to think it’s not as important as things like making money and making war.  We couldn’t do anything, however, without mothers to put us here.

My thoughts are just a touch scattered today, being pulled this way and that.  Since my mother’s death last year we’ve passed Christmas, Easter, her birthday, and now Mother’s Day.  There have been plenty of occasions to stop and remember.  I know that my choices in life have been profoundly influenced by her guidance.  Her wisdom.  She always said that she wasn’t smart, but intelligence doesn’t come only from finishing high school.  Life is a teacher for all who are capable of learning.  Having come through a dysfunctional home life herself, and two difficult marriages, she managed to show how to exist in the world with grace.  And she taught the value of sacrifice through her own example.  We honor our mothers by treating women more equitably everywhere.  And guys, there are lessons to be learned here.

Wachet auf

Leave a comment

I have a proposition.  Some folks in town have a big “Anti-Woke” (aka, “asleep”) flag on their house, along with various Trump paraphernalia.  Since the Republican Party has largely become reactionary and would, admittedly, still prefer to be asleep, perhaps Democrats should adopt Buddha as a symbol.  I know this would be dangerous in a nation that prides itself as being the city set on a hill, but “buddha” means “awoken one.”  I’m not a Buddhist but I have no problem with it.  The Eightfold Path makes a lot of sense to me.  In any case, a good symbol is something to be cherished.  I think of Gordon Deitrich having a Qur’an in his house, even as a gay man, in V for Vendetta.  Symbols are important.  The anti-woke seem to have forgotten Matthew 24.42 “Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.”  The Bible generally advocates wakefulness.

Photo by Mattia Faloretti on Unsplash

Trump-branded Christianity is a strange beast.  Certainly the use of a Buddha symbol would become a cudgel.  Ironically so, for a faith that promotes nonviolence.  The “foreignness” or “not-Christianness” outweighs the positive outlook it entails.  Any religion that advocates violence should reassess its principles.  Buddhism isn’t perfect—no religion is.  The basic ideas of right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration work well enough with Christianity, as Thomas Merton discovered.  For some, however, the Asian outlook (overlooking that Christianity began in Asia) is a deal-breaker.  Strange for a global religion.  Not so unusual for those who prefer to be asleep because Fox News sings them a lullaby.

One of the most stirring Christian hymns is “Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme,” based on a Bach cantata.  Perhaps better known as “Sleepers Awake,” the words take their origin from Matthew 25, the parable of the ten virgins.  If I recall correctly, the virgins ready to be woke are those who fare better in this tale.  They’re less concerned with condemning other religions and more interested in being able to wake and trim their lamps swiftly when the time comes.  As I told a friend the other day, I’m an unrepentant idealist.  I do believe that we have it within ourselves to treat all people as having inherent worth and dignity.  The real draw to having Buddha is a symbol would be the introspection.  Instead of telling other people how to live, the principles are applied at home.  Of course, a person has to want to wake up for any of this to work.

Just Ask

Leave a comment

I see a lot of headlines, and not a few books, that puzzle over something that there’s an easy way to resolve: why do evangelicals (I’m thinking here of the sort that back Trump despite his pretty obvious criminal, predatory nature) think the way they do.  The solution is to ask evangelicals who’ve come to see things a bit differently.  I’m not the only one, I can assure you.  Many professors of religion (particularly biblical studies) and not a few ministers came from that background.  If they were true believers then, they can still remember it now.  At least I do.  I was recently reading a report in which the authors expressed surprise that evangelicals tend to see racism as a problem of individual sin rather than any systemic predisposition society imposes.  To someone who grew up that way, this is perfectly obvious.

I’m not suggesting this viewpoint is right.  What I am suggesting is that there are resources available to help understand this worldview.  To do so, it must not be approached judgmentally.  (I sometimes poke a little fun at it, but I figure my couple of decades being shaped by it entitle me to a little amusement.)  I don’t condemn evangelicals for believing as they do—that’s up to them—I do wish they’d think through a few things a bit more thoroughly (such as backing Trump).  I understand why they do it, and I take their concerns seriously.  I know that many others who study religion, or write articles about it, simply don’t understand in any kind of depth the concerns evangelicals have.  It’s only when their belief system impinges on politics that anybody seems to pay attention.

Maybe this is a principle we should apply to people in general.  Pay attention to them.  Listen to them.  Care for them.  Relentless competition wears down the soul and makes us less humane.  Religions, for all their faults, generally started out as means for human beings to get along—the earliest days we simply don’t know, but there is a wisdom in this.  In any case, if we really want to know there are people to ask.  Who’ve been there.  Whose very profession is being shoved out of higher education because it doesn’t turn a profit.  Learning used to be for the sake of increasing knowledge and since that’s no longer the case we see guesswork where before it would’ve been possible to “ask an expert.”  I often wonder about this, but as a former member of a guild that’s going extinct, I simply can’t be sure.

Technologies of Hope

Leave a comment

Having an immediate family member with cancer means that you look for hope everywhere.  Those who’ve brushed up against this family of diseases hopefully know that support groups abound.  Given my schedule, I don’t get out much on workday evenings, but we recently attended a survivors’ event hosted by the Andy Derr Foundation (donations accepted).  Two prominent local oncologists spoke and their tone was hopeful—always hopeful.  What really struck me was how much cancer treatment has progressed even just in the last five years.  The “cure for cancer” does not yet exist, but many technologies of hope do.  I sat there awestruck.  There are women and men spending their lives working to treat what used to be nearly always a fatal condition.  It was inspiring.

On the way home I was musing about how much we could advance in human health care if we had the budget of the military.  A vlogger we follow, John Green, happens to be a bestselling fiction author.  He is now writing a nonfiction book on tuberculosis.  This disease, for the most part, is completely treatable.  His efforts have led to lowering the cost of supplies to treat it for cash-poor countries.  I suspect he knows the same thing.  Our government decides which priorities it will fund.  Our fear—let’s be honest about this—funnels billions and billions to military budgets.  (And you wonder why I watch horror movies?)   I’m a dreamer, I confess.  But what if, world-wide, we put our money into medical budgets?  Can you even begin to imagine where we’d be by now?

I know most medical personnel are paid quite well.  My family member’s cancer medication costs more than she makes in a year, per single dose.  The technologies of hope those doctors were describing would be phenomenally expensive.  If only as a nation we had trillions of dollars at our disposal.  If only.  None of this, of course, should overshadow the tremendous work being done by nonprofits like the Andy Derr Foundation.  Channeling hundreds of thousands of dollars into research and treatment, they are making a difference.  Those beautiful survivors there that night are proof of the lives they’re helping save.  We have the ability to do amazing things.  If we support, and love one another, we can overcome a scourge that many, many families will experience, if they haven’t already.  Good work is being done.  And the good will behind it is cause for great hope.

Why Not Love?

2 Comments

I learned a new word the other day: incel.  I’m not too proud to say that I had to look it up.  Although I’m on the internet quite a bit, I’m not really part of “internet culture.”  Incel is a shortened form of “involuntary celibate.”  It refers to an internet culture of mainly white, heterosexual males who consider themselves unable to find (generally) female companionship.  They often lash out at women, and sometimes at any sexually active person.  In general it seems to be a self-pitying, hateful crowd.  They tend towards misogyny and racism and, one suspects, conspiracy theories.  They apparently suffer what a friend of mine called “DSB” (deadly sperm buildup).  But the thing is, love would seem to be the cure.

Certainly women aren’t to blame.  Look, if I managed to find a woman willing to marry me there must be hope for the rest of my gender.  I’m no catch.  And why is it frustrated men take it out on women?   And underplay the achievements of women?  The Women’s March in January 2017 was the largest single-day protest in history.  Accurate numbers are difficult to attain, but it has always struck me that the U.S. Park service agents, with feet on the ground, estimated a million and a half in D.C. alone.  So we were told.  It’s almost as if nobody bothered to count because it was women.  Why is this still an issue?  How incelular are we?  Is it so difficult to give credit where credit is due?

I wonder if anybody foresaw that the internet would develop such subcultures.  Yes, Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash gave us a metaverse where individuals lived virtually online, but did we fully realize then that sexually frustrated guys would eventually merit their own title and that some of them would perform acts of real life violence based on their own rhetoric?  Rogue males have been part of human culture all along, but the internet has offered a place to band together and become radicalized.  I, for one, had no idea that such subcultures existed.  It took reading an academic work about female leadership to learn about them.  And it makes the world a less comfortable place knowing they’re there.  Learning love is our only hope.  There are people who sublimate their frustration to hate.  What if we tried to make the internet a place where love, with or without physical entanglements, became the dominant meme?  Even those of us who work largely in isolation can see the hope in that.

Photo by Mayur Gala on Unsplash

Adulting

Leave a comment

Young professionals that I know often say adulting sucks.  Quite a bit of the time I tend to agree with them.  The 9-2-5 makes just getting along difficult, at times.  I’m sure there’s software to ease some of the woes, but you have to learn how to use it.  And that takes time.  Time I’d rather spend writing or reading.  For example, to get a small break on state taxes, if you work from home, you need to calculate your office space and then how much it costs to exist in your house for the year.  When I remember to do so, I can look utilities and mortgage up in Quicken.  Sometimes, however, when a book in my mind is distracting me I just tot all this up on the back of an envelope.  Then I need to type it in so my accountant can see it (taxes are far too complicated for mere mortals) and, I can’t underscore this too many times: numbers are adulting.

Photo by Tyler Easton on Unsplash

I’m an idea person.  The 9-2-5 (numbers!) that keeps you in front of a computer all week long means that things pile up.  Weekends seem too short to spend on numbers.  But you’ve got to balance that checkbook.  And even tot up the number of hours you give to “the man” each day.  What could be more adult than accounting?  Don’t get me wrong—at times numbers can be interesting.  Numbers, at their best, are philosophical.  One squared is one.  When you square any number greater than one, it increases.  One doesn’t.  And you can’t divide by zero and get zero for an answer, as handy as that’d be from time to time.  These abstract concepts come in useful but adulting involves serious numbers.  Numbers that imply liquidity.  Cash flow.  

Time is made up of numbers too.  If a social event comes up on a weekend, there goes your grocery and cleaning time.  And writing a book takes a tremendous amount of time.  It’s a second job on top of the other one you work 9-2-5.  All of this makes me think of those TIAA-CREF ads that showed prominent professors and captions that said “Because some people don’t have time to think of money.”  Or something similar.  That’s what I’m talking about.  Adulting is all about money.  And money must be taxed.  And you have to keep track of where it all goes.  I’m sure Quicken could help me with this, if I had time to learn it.  (We pay for it after all.)  But I’m kind of busy writing this book…

Learning to Write

Leave a comment

It’s a reciprocal relationship.  Ideally a symbiosis.  The publisher has a reach, and know-how, that an author lacks.  An author provides content the publisher needs.  Yet publishing is a business in a capitalistic world and has to (unless subsidized) turn a profit.  As an author who works in publishing I’m skewered on the horns of this dilemma.  It’s heartbreaking to see the lengths some authors go to only to find out their book is priced the same as a week’s worth of groceries.  Or three tanks full of gas.  Who buys a $100 book?  Libraries.  Well, some libraries.  Occasionally a publisher will run sales, if you order direct, but by then interest in your book (which may be timely) has passed on.  You become just another name on the shelf in the Library of Congress.

I’m looking for a publisher for my sixth book.  This has to be someone who understands that even $45 is beyond the reach of most intelligent readers.  “What the market will bear” feels like the death sentence to the years of your life you’ve put into writing the thing.  A friend once asked me, “Why do you do it?”  For authors the real question is “How can you not do it?”  The need for the validation through publication runs very deeply in some people.  More deeply than our national love for Taylor Swift.  It has to do with meaning.  Purpose.  A sense of what we’re put on earth to do.  

Image credit: Codex Manesse, public domain via Wikimedia Commons

The standard “wisdom,” and practice, is to publish in hardcover, priced for the library market, and if it sells well at $100, perhaps offer a paperback.  Hopefully priced lower than $45, but don’t hold your breath.  “What the market will bear,” should be your mantra.  It’s a wonder that civilized people ever got educated.  I grew up on cheap books from Goodwill, which is all I could afford.  College, on borrowed money, taught me the price of reading seriously.  It was a lesson I never forgot.  I’d begun my faltering steps to writing books while in high school.  I started writing short stories even earlier than that.  It has been a life of writing.  Even series books, I’ve come to see, are too easily exploited in this way.  My shortest book is priced at $40.  At least I know that I’ve written some collectors’ items.  Take heart, my fellow writers trying to emerge from academe.  There are other ways of being in the world.  And some of them may even be symbiotic.

What Would Ostara Say?

Leave a comment

Easter is an uneven holiday.  In Britain it leads to days off work.  In the US, which prides itself on being religious, it’s business as usual.  Nobody closes for any days surrounding the holiest day of the Christian year.  That irony has always struck me about this season.  Of course, going to college there were breaks in the spring, and at a Christian school, special observances for sacred times.  In seminary it goes without saying.  In my case, working on a doctorate in the UK (an activity with few true breaks), we experienced the British sense of holidays surrounding Easter.  At Nashotah House you simply couldn’t miss it.  In fact, the Triduum was a contest of endurance with late night services and hours and hours in chapel.  Once I was forced into secular life, the shift was blinding.

Capitalism rolls right over Easter without even slowing down.  Who brakes for a Sunday holiday?  I am a believer in significant days.  I write about holiday horror, and holidays in general, because I’m certain of their importance.  The relentless pursuit of gain that is the American way is wearying.  Most everyone I know who isn’t retired is just plain tired.  Tired all the time.  We’re given few pauses and fed many worries.  So much so that resurrection from the dead can feel like something scary indeed.  Will work in the afterlife be as unrelenting as it is in this one?  All of this becomes especially evident to me on years like this one where Easter creeps up on me.  Not a fixed day in the calendar, sometimes you don’t even look up until you’re practically on top of it.

I remember in high school spending practically all day on Good Friday in church.  When working at Ritz Camera (after seminary, trying to stay ahead of student loan payments), managers looked at you funny if you asked for it off.  You see, I need spiritual time to recover from the onslaught of work.  Easter, however, is just another Sunday.  Watched on Zoom, with maybe special music.  If you’re able to be there in person there may be lilies with their distinctive Pascal scent.  Then the next day it’s back to work as usual.  Thinking about Easter always make me think about hearts being where the treasure is located.  When we take treasure too literally, it leads to too much work.  My mind, I fear, is that of a professor, with built in spring break.  And semester breaks.  Not exactly holidays, but unstructured time to catch up on work.  Holy days.

Squeaky Clean?

Leave a comment

A New York Times story, apart from the expected misunderstanding of actual Evangelicals, made me sad.  The article points out that, especially since 2016, “Evangelicals” have taken to soft-core porn, cussing, drinking, and premarital sex.  In other words, Trump has given them license to behave like secular folks while still claiming the name “Evangelical.”  Why should this make me sad?  I lament the loss of place for those who grew up, like me, striving for clean living.  It’s an image—a mirage—rather than a reality, of course.  But still, if conviction holds, you can get pretty close to the ideal.  That vision of life has been occluded by a guy who runs for President because he cares only for himself.  Jesus, on the other hand, was all about caring for others.  Going as far as, if the Gospels are to be believed, sacrificing his own life.

Like fiscal conservatives, such legitimate Evangelicals now have no public voice.  One of only two political parties has become identified with an individual rather than ideals—what used to be called a platform.  I have Republican friends.  I grew up identifying as a Republican.  I also grew up as an Evangelical.  I studiously avoided things like bad language, sex, tobacco, and alcohol.  Even at Evangelical Grove City College I was a bit of an outlier for how seriously I took all these things.  Of course, studying history can be dangerous, particularly for ideologues.  Still, “clean living” had its own virtues.  Those who continue to try to live that way are swimming into a rip tide, it seems.  For some Trump seems like the Second Coming, sans the white horse.  And this, above all, is sad.

There are those who claim, often loudly, that religion is bad.  I agree that when a religion tries to force others to obey its standards it can quickly become evil.  Still, the baby should be left behind when the bathwater’s discarded.  Religion has led to much good in the world.  Hospitals, charities, and yes, “clean living.”  These things, along with retirement homes and affordable apartments for low-earners in their autumn years, are necessary to pick up the slack that the government leaves.  It is cause for sadness that the clean living camp has succumbed to Trump-style hypocrisy.  Heck, religion gave us the word “hypocrisy.”  The standards of classical Evangelicalism are often impossibly high.  If we look at current Evangelical leaders we find many, many skeletons in a house with many closets.  And a wagging finger warning the young, “Do as I say, not as I do.”

Showing Gratitude

Leave a comment

Stealing is something that we all, except some capitalists, know is wrong.  I think quite a lot about the land that was stolen to make America possible and I know that simply giving it back isn’t an option.  Nevertheless, I do believe that we should listen, and listen attentively to those who’ve been here longer than Europeans.  Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass is an important reflection of this dilemma.  Kimmerer is Potawatomi and she’s also a professor of Environmental Biology.  The book is a series of essays that focus mostly on plants and what we can learn from them.  It also brings in indigenous teaching, contrasting the outlook of gratitude against that of greed.  By turns sad, funny, and profound, Braiding Sweetgrass contains a message that is vital to counter climate change.  To correct our attitude before it’s too late.

There’s so much in this book that it’s difficult to know what to touch on in this brief notice.  Throughout, Kimmerer notes that the First Nations viewed life as a gift.  The earth is constantly giving and the native way was to be thankful and to accept the responsibility of being given a gift.  Seeing how the European attitude was “take until there’s no more to take,” she points out that taking what you need and leaving for others is a way out of our current dilemma.  She does this, most strikingly, by the story of the windigo.  The windigo has become popular among monster fans as a consuming beast, but Kimmerer shows how the story has a profound point.  If all you do is consume you become a monster.  You stop a windigo by showing gratitude.

Perhaps the most striking thing, to me, was how Kimmerer describes her own experience becoming a scientist.  How standard academics refused to believe they had anything to learn from Native American outlooks, especially when borne by a woman.  How she was told she couldn’t be a scientist, not with that outlook.  And how she learned the European way but didn’t give up her native understanding.  How she brings two worlds together and does so with a sense of urgency and hope.  Things have gone too far simply to turn back the calendar and say that our ancestors had it all wrong, but it’s not too late to learn from those who lived for millennia on this land and were untainted by ideas of private ownership.  Those who knew how to live sustainably with nature.  Those who knew, and still know, how to defeat monsters.

Not a Peep

1 Comment

Time changes everything.  Peeping Tom, which has been on my list for some years, was castigated when it was released in 1960.  Now it’s considered a classic.  Indeed, it’s frequently discussed in books analyzing horror films, and it had a bit of influence on Alfred Hitchcock.  Films like this must be watched as period pieces, of course, but there’s so much psychology here to unpack that I wonder if it’s used in mental health courses.  Mark Lewis is a loner who inherited a spacious London house from his father.  He lets out the downstairs rooms but keeps to himself upstairs.  One of the reasons is that he realizes that he’s mentally unstable.  He’s a serial killer, in fact.  His young downstairs neighbor takes a shine to him and he reveals, via film, that his father tormented him as a child to film his fear reactions.

As an adult, Mark works in the film industry.  He also kills women while filming them to capture their fear reactions—taking his father’s work a step further.  Although shy, he is charming enough to others.  When he sees a fear reaction, however, he feels compelled to murder.  The neighbor downstairs doesn’t suspect him, but her ocularly challenged mother does.  Thinking back over it, many moments reminded me of a racier version of Hitch.  Racy because Mark picks up money on the side by taking boudoir photographs that the local news shop sells to certain customers.  This is a creepy film and perhaps the creepiest scene is where a local girl, well underage, comes into the news shop to buy a candy bar just after the owner sells an older man a pornography book.  We don’t like to admit that such things could happen.

There is so much going on in this movie that it’s clear, at least to me, why it has garnered such acclaim.  I spent the first twenty minutes or so wondering whether I should really be watching, but as I stayed with it I couldn’t look away (which is one of the very self-reflective issues that the film addresses).  The analyses I’ve read never really went into detail regarding the plot, so there were plenty of places where I wondered what would happen next.  The pacing is more in keeping with the turn of the sixties, but the mind work seems ahead of its time.  Some call it a precursor to slashers, but it doesn’t linger on the actual bloodshed (which is minimal, considering).  It does take its time to make you think while you watch.  And somehow it makes viewers complicit, it feels, with what they’ve seen.

Time Flees

Leave a comment

I can’t speak for all early risers, of course, but for me the absolute worst thing about this useless tradition of switching to Daylight Saving Time is the loss of morning light.  I’m in favor of keeping DST all the time, as the US Senate has voted to do.  The only reason this is still an issue is to give the House yet something else to fight about.  How dysfunctional are we, really?  This one’s a no brainer!  Look, I start work early every day.  I jog before work because I’m too tired afterward.  In late February to early March I can get out and back before seven.  (In the summer before six!)  Then DST happens.  I’m plunged into another month of waiting until seven to be able to jog.  DST is just one of those ridiculous things we just keep doing because we don’t have the will to change it.  We’d rather fight.

I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately.  How we think of it, how we divide it.  We sometimes lose sight of the larger picture.  If relativity is right, the stars we see at night are, many of them, long gone.  We’re seeing light trudging through the near vacuum of space, or maybe dark matter, and thinking how we’ve got to get to our meeting on time.  How we need to be at work from 9-2-5.  How somebody with money owns that portion of our time.  There’s a reason that DST starts on a weekend.  Time.  We can’t grasp it but we can waste it.  What are we waiting for?  Some of us are seeking the truth.  Even so we know that Morpheus was right—time is always against us.  It’s a limited commodity, but even that language cheapens it.

Those of us of a philosophical bent allow ourselves time to ponder such things.  We call time a dimension, but what does that really mean?  Theoretically it can be traveled along in either direction (again, pending relativity) but we only experience it in one.  So what do we do?  We interrupt its flow because during a war during the last century it was deemed that industry could be more productive if it were light an hour later.  Maybe we should just all agree to shift our perception of time ahead by an hour permanently.  That’s forward thinking.  And who knows, it might just save us all a lot of time.

Work for Good

Leave a comment

You learn a lot as a primary caregiver.  Since dealing with a family cancer diagnosis last year I joined a local support network for caregivers.  Three things I’ve learned: healthcare is very uneven, we ended up in a good facility, and finding a social worker on your own is very difficult.  I see lots of messages on the support boards from people in poor facilities that can’t find the help they need.  I know what social workers do—I had several friends who majored in social work in college—but in this age of all the information in the world at your fingertips, just try to find a social worker!  I was trying to find a website to suggest to a person on my board who didn’t know where to turn.  Searches bring up links to places trying to sell you their services to find a social worker.  Are we really that callous?  

People tend not to try to find a social worker unless they really need one.  Many people, I suspect, wait until they feel pretty desperate.  This is not when you need some salesperson trying to sell you something.  Medical care can be very expensive—devastatingly so—and there are professionals out there who specialize in helping you get through such things.  Why are they so difficult to find?  I tried government sites that seem more interested in telling you how to become a social worker than how to find one.  If we’re in such a state that we don’t have enough social workers why don’t we pay them more?  Here’s a hint, most politicians could stand a salary cut.  My college friends all said they knew it didn’t pay well, but social work was a way to help people. Saints still walk among us.

Photo by Georg Arthur Pflueger on Unsplash

We have the means to help everyone.  What we lack is the will.  We continue to let capitalism and the hope of individual wealth run our economy.  Economy means nothing without people.  And we have many people who are willing to receive less personally to help others get by.  Why do we have to hide them behind a pay wall?  What does that say about us?  We’ve been fortunate.  Our medical facility immediately put us in touch with a social worker.  If, however, you end up where healthcare choices are limited, or don’t know how to find a social worker on your own, the internet’s not a great resource, unless you want to pay someone to help you find help.  What have we become?

Love Life

Leave a comment
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash

I suppose that it’s good to keep Valentine’s Day mostly private, but there was some wisdom to how it was practiced in school when I was growing up.  In primary school the rule was that everyone had to give everyone else a valentine card.  You couldn’t just give them to the people you liked.  Valentines Day was a day of equity, and, as children understand it, love.  Love for everyone, not just those of your nation or ethnicity.  Kids of any gender received cards from kids of any other gender.  The point was, love one another.  Looking at the way that hatred has become the new normal with right-wing politicians leading the way, Valentines Day has become a much-needed symbol.  We should be loving those who are different.  Instead we go to the polls and elect extremists who start wars and who brag, even before votes are cast, of the damage they intend to do in their next term.  Where’s the love?

I confess to being an idealist, but I do wonder why love is so difficult to achieve.  Are we so much the victims of tribalism that we can’t see there’s enough to go around?  We live in a world where, were it properly administered, we could see to it that most people, if not all, would have their basic needs met.  Where love could be our highest motivating factor.  Instead, we want the love of only those we love and everyone else can fend for themselves.  And whatever facsimile of love we can muster ends at an artificial line we call a national border.  Those on the other side are our enemies and we want to take what they have.  Is this a sane way to spend Valentines Day?

The irony of all this is that those who perpetuate this divide and conquer mentality were raised in religions founded by leaders who insisted on love.  Love your neighbors.  And, more radically, love your enemies.  What if Valentine’s Day were more than just a time for romantic dinners and little treats, and those things which are best kept private?  What if it were a day when we all tried to love that kid who’s always picking on you?  Or who looks different?  That kid that doesn’t seem to have any friends?  Childhood taught us that everyone’s shoebox got a card today.  We may have been too young to understand some aspects of love, but one thing we got right.  Everyone deserves ours.  Why not try love?