Reincarnation

Wouldn’t it be lovely to come back as a cat?

Soft, furry, loose of limb, able to get in or out of most any tight spot, always landing on my feet;

Endlessly cuddled and loved, and yet, my own disdain and aloofness accepted, no questions asked;

Every emotion at my disposal at my tiniest whim;

Fed by others, pampered by others, living in a sunbeam.

Idyllic. If it just weren’t for that personal grooming bit!

First Love

His brown eyes, that shock of slightly uncontrollable dark sandy-colored hair, his deep tan, the shy smile. He was irresistible.

He was an outdoorsman, favoring construction work with his yellow dump truck and fire-engine-red shovel in the newly excavated plot of land across the road from his house and catty-corner from mine.

His name was Teddy, and we were pretty much inseparable the year I was five. I’d rather play with Teddy than any of the girls on our street.

How I looked forward to our starting school together the next fall.

Then, in early January, Teddy had a birthday. I went to the party. And cried my heart out. Teddy was six and I was still five. That could mean only one thing. Six-year-olds went to school. Five-year-olds did not. Teddy would start school without me. I was sure of it.

I couldn’t bear it.

No, Mother assured me. No, Daddy agreed. No, certainly not, chimed in Teddy’s mom. She was older—even wore her hair in a bun. Surely, she could be believed. It was hard to understand their logic, but finally I was convinced. Teddy and I would begin our school journey together, they promised. We could continue walking down life’s path side by side.

Teddy and I share a moment at his sixth birthday party.

And once again, all was right with the world.

(Post Script: Alas, our family moved out of state in late spring. Teddy and I did not start school together, after all. Life is so unpredictable!)

Boundaries

Just as children are astonished to discover potatoes buried in the ground the first time they dig in the garden, I’ve heard there are real people who, on their first airplane flights, have been shocked—shocked!—at the absence of lines differentiating one state from the other. Yes. Strong, black, permanent-marker-type lines like they’ve seen on road maps or in textbooks.

                                     Where are the boundary lines?                                       Aerial photo courtesy of Daniel Schwen – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9578535

I’ve been thinking about boundaries—those demarcations that set us apart. Some are real: canyon ledges, rock cliff faces. Who would want to take that next step into the abyss?

Rivers are demarcations. They divide one piece of land from another, and sometimes (but not always) rivers are used to set boundaries. Even so, they’re usually crossable by one means or another.

But other boundaries are completely artificial. Humanmade. Political, legal, emotional. Some are good to have. Some, not so much.

One of our neighbor families once owned the acreage where we now live—for a very long time—before having to sell it off to pay health care expenses. I’m sure it was a painful decision. They’d sold to someone else, who then sold to us. One day a year or two after we’d moved, we came upon the matriarch of the ‘first family’ hunched over our wild blackberry patch like a furtive hooded monk. She figured we wouldn’t mind her picking those blackberries, she said, to make jelly—like she always had.

She knew she was overstepping boundaries. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have looked up at us like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. But she was ready with her passive-aggressive defense, suggesting that by prior ownership, she now had squatter’s rights. She did not respect our boundaries.

Plenty has been said about personal boundaries of late, with much more eloquence than I can offer. Let it be said that they deserve respect, too.

But what I worry about is the tribalism which we’ve allowed to create artificial boundaries, rivalries that erupt based on nothing more than an accident of birth, or where one’s parents transferred for work once upon a time, or where we went to school, or simple indoctrination. That sort of thing.

It bothers me, this “We live in the best [fill in the blank],” or, “My [blank] is the best” mentality. We use this blanket superlative whether talking about our schools, our communities, countries, spiritual beliefs, or ‘our’ teams. How can we possibly know ours is the best? I certainly can’t; I’ve not experienced all the others, even superficially. Has anyone?

I’m pretty place-bound. I’m at home with what I know. I appreciate the landscape around me, the people who surround me, my heritage. Traditions built from shared experiences help bind us together in ways that help us through times both easy and hard.

But don’t all people everywhere have every bit as strong a claim on pride of place as I have? Don’t I need to understand and honor their natural pride without proclaiming mine is the better, the best, and possibly the only, way?

Is it arrogance that makes us believe such things? Or ignorance? Or both? Isn’t there a better way to live in this world we share? A more thoughtful, generous way?

When I travel across a single state, I may move from salt water and a flat, sand-covered topography to densely green mountains, from arid desert to lush wetlands. Yet, as I step across the imaginary line between my state and its neighbor, I neither see nor feel anything magical taking place to set one apart from the other. Except for a green metal road sign, I wouldn’t know. The terrain is the same. Why should I imagine there’s something completely unique about my side of the boundary?

Photo courtesy of Famartin [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)%5D

Can any lasting good come from this cutting ourselves off from otherness? How can it build understanding and goodwill? And if we don’t want to build those things among our fellow humans, what do we want?

Everyone Knows Someone

(If you’ve been reading my blog recently, you know why this issue is ever-present in my mind.)

I read this comment the other day: “Everyone knows someone who has had cancer.” Someone? As in one? Off the top of my head, I can name ninety people I’ve known personally who have had a cancer diagnosis. Ninety! Not ninety people I’ve heard of. Not celebrities or friends of friends. Ninety people whose hands have touched mine. People I love—family and friends, work colleagues, teachers, childhood play pals or schoolmates, and a few more distant acquaintances.

If I try making a list tomorrow, it will be different. I’ll remember new folks and inadvertently overlook some on today’s list. But today’s list looks like this: breast, 34 (!); prostate, 11; blood, 5; brain, 5; colon, 4; lung, 4, skin, 4; tongue, 2; cervical, 1; and others—those diseases whose names I don’t know or are too complicated to spell out here, 20. (btw, 34 related to me, 17 of them by blood)

And those are just the people I happen to know about (and that my brain recalls). There are friends and relatives I’ve lost contact with. I don’t know their stories. And some people are more private about personal issues. My best friend might have cancer and decided not to share, at least not yet.

Is this—ninety—is this normal? Seventeen blood kin? Is that the way it looks for others? Or am I the only one in touch with so many whose lives have been hijacked by this awful disease?

Now, I know cancer is an inclusive term for more than a hundred so-called different diseases, but they are a family, all identified by abnormal cell growth that spreads and crowds out healthy cells and interferes with necessary body functions and steals nutrients from tissues.

Cancer is a cruel disease, mean, vicious, painful. One whose treatments can be as bad or worse than the disease itself. It doesn’t matter how good you are, how old or young, what gifts you have for the world—cancer doesn’t care.

At least some people with cancer have found unexpected gifts along the way. Some of us know how to do that—to find some good, to learn something valuable, to grow, even in the most difficult of circumstances. But that doesn’t negate the atrocity of the disease itself.

For forty percent of the people on my list, cancer, or complications thereof, was their cause of death—mind you, some of those deaths are from as far back as the 1950s when early detection and advanced treatment technologies we have today simply didn’t exist. Others have almost sailed through treatment and are, at least at the moment, cancer-free. For still others, an uncertain prognosis hangs over them like the sword of Damocles. That sword actually hangs over everyone who has received a cancer diagnosis, whether they’ve been declared ‘cured’ or not, because those potentially deadly cells can hang around, unseen, for years. Every next check-up is a question mark.

People live with that question mark or that sword in different ways, but are rarely, if ever, unaware of it.

The same is true for those who love them.

My Writer’s Life

Every writer is first a reader. Probably a voracious one. I was weaned on Little Golden Books, those short, richly illustrated stories for toddlers and preschoolers. The books had only been in circulation for five years or so at that time, so they were still somewhat of a novelty—and at a quarter a pop, pretty affordable, too.

I still have some of them. The little books suffered through a lot of abuse, first at my hands and then my two brothers’. Some covers are missing. Crayon scrawls adorn the pages of most. Here and there one or another of us practiced our newly-acquired penmanship skills, such as they were.

For all their stereotypes, I still hold my first books in high regard. Busy Timmy, The Brave Little Tailor, A Day at the Seashore, and Three Little Kittens are some memorable ones. And I swear, even though I haven’t cracked The Little Golden Book of Jokes and Riddles in more than forty years, I can still repeat, without thinking, the silly rhymes and riddles I learned there.

One of my favorite reading memories is the bookmobile. I didn’t understand exactly how it worked, but I remember the large, squarish van pulling into our driveway on a regular basis the year we lived in Charlotte. I was six. Mother and I hopped on and picked out a good-sized stack of books to read until the next time our library-on-wheels stopped by to refuel our reading habits. It was like being in a candy shop!

I was six and had just begun to read Dick and Jane books in school. I wasn’t a reader before first grade—kindergarten had been unavailable to me. But I caught on fast, and, ever since, it’s been hard to pry a book from my hands—even now, after I’ve fallen asleep while reading one, according to the Gnome.

Remember writing themes in school? As I recall, those weekly events took place from the seventh grade on. They represented my first forays into creative writing. My themes were always graded well, but they were nothing spectacular. I’m not being modest; I remember being blown away by the imagination and creativity displayed in some of my classmates’ writings. I didn’t think that way. I had the technical aspects mastered, though. That’s probably why my grades were so good.

And then came that ubiquitous assignment for all college-prep senior English classes: the term paper. My chosen topic was the House of Windsor. The British royal family had dominated the news of my childhood and teenage years what with Elizabeth’s coronation and Margaret’s boundary-pushing escapades. And the romance surrounding King Edward VIII’s abdication to marry American socialite and divorcée Wallis Simpson was a never-ending source of media curiosity, even though it had occurred years before. The notion of giving up the throne for love was almost too romantic to bear.

How I loved the after-school hours I spent at the public library, reference books and 3×5-inch, ruled index cards spread out on a large, oak library table along with similar supplies belonging to one or more of my friends. The quiet togetherness, the visual stimulus of the stacks, the scent of old books and pencil shavings, the magic of the card catalog—oh, it was heady stuff! We walked the couple of blocks from school to the library, first stopping at the Rexall Drug Store across the street for a vanilla or cherry Pepsi and a pack of Nabs to give us sustenance. It all felt so sophisticated and scholarly.

In my career, I did a lot of writing, though most of it was on the technical side. Off and on (mostly off), I got a yen to practice creative writing, but I was never one of those writers who write because they can’t help themselves.

Maybe that’s not quite true. I’ve always been a pretty prolific and long-winded letter writer. And if a pen or pencil is handy, I’ll pick it up, even if it’s only to write the letters of the alphabet or indulge in some goofy doodles—I suppose a writer will use whatever outlets are available.

It was only after repurposing my life, thanks to Social Security and Medicare, that I rediscovered the great joy writing brings me, the satisfaction that comes from putting into words and onto paper the myriad thoughts that keep swirling in my head. Finding a couple of informal writing groups has cemented my writing habit, and blogging keeps it disciplined. While I may not be driven to write, I’ve come to realize my life feels more complete with it than without it.

So I write.

How about you? Are you a writer? How did it all start? What inspires you?