Remembering to breathe

 

   “Electronics,” my attendant, who is considerably younger than I am and that much more familiar with electronic gadgets, said, “are weird.”

   I forget what it was that time.  I forget if my computer was frozen and I wasn’t able to click on anything.  Or if the mouse on my speech device was going haywire, perhaps with the sun hitting it at a certain angle.  Or if the joystick on my wheelchair was jammed. Or if the smart T.V was suddenly acting dumb and not doing anything. 

   As I panicked, wondering when I could get it fixed and how much it would cost, my attendant once again, and again being familiar with “weird” electronics, suggested turning it off, waiting a few seconds, and turning it back on.  Like taking a deep breath. 

   What do you know?  My attendant, with that knowledge of younger years, was right – again!  Sometimes – or most times – just flipping the switch on and then on again does the trick and is all that is needed. With just the flip of the on/off switch, my computer was working fine, like nothing had been wrong.  The mouse on my speech device moved along as it should.  The joystick on my chair was operable, and the T.V was smart again.

   If only the rest of life was that simple, that “weird.” If only we were able to turn off when things go wrong or are a mess and then turn back on with everything okay, back to normal. Or at least with a new perspective on the situation.    

   Maybe it is possible to turn off and turn on, to flip the switch and start anew.  With a change of scenery.  With some time away.  With a conversation.  With a good night’s sleep.  With, yes, a deep breath.

   Is life that simple, that “weird?” Do we just have to remember that?  Is that the hard part?   

Why i keep being gay like that

 

   The other night, I watched the Golden Globes. 

   Yeah, I’m gay like that! 

   It figures.  For pretty much all my life, when other guys were watching football and baseball, I was into award shows, especially for movies – even the stupid ones like the Golden Globes, which are voted on by something like 83 foreign reporters in Hollywood.  (For some reason, they got to be a big deal, with an annual telecast, even after a corruption scandal a few years ago.  Frankly, the show isn’t nearly as entertaining as it used to be when everyone got drunk and especially when Ricky Grevais was the host with the scathing mocking most.)

   It’s not that I’m a red carpet fan, although I do take note at some of the more notable outfits, and not just on the ladies – like the bright, canary yellow suit worn by Timothee Chalomet at last year’s Academy Awards.  I just like movies and like knowing which ones are hot, so to speak, since I can only watch so many. I usually make a point of seeing pretty much all the nominated films before the awards are given out, and I’m frustrated that I’m behind on this due to being waylaid with a pressure sore for much of the Fall when the films came out (I’m trying to catch them online).

   Yeah, that’s how gay I am. 

   But, isn’t all this just silly and stupid right now?  Really.  At a time when the president’s ICE minions are killing US citizens and we’re being told that not what we see on all the videos, when trans people I know feel like they’re in danger even here in blue California, when the president is literally commandeering other countries and playing chicken with Iran and also our own legal system, when we learn of other such horrors nearly everyday, how can I watch, how can I care about a dumb, meaningless awards show? 

   Look, I get it.  I know things are bad, things are scary.  I’m scared.  I’m horrified.  In fact, I can barely function this January.  On top of, or under, the administration’s cruel swings since the new year, I am not only dealing with my usual ridiculous post-holiday funk (I don’t really like the holidays but am always sad when they are over), I am getting over being in the hospital with a bad urinary tract infection over the holidays after three ER visits, including on Christmas Day.  Ugh!  Plus, several friends had messed-up holidays, primarily due to illness or health threats.  Double ugh! 

   You’d think I’d be glad the holidays were over.  But, no, I was back to being sad that they were over – and sad that I missed them this time. 

   I had/have to get out of this post-holiday funk.  And I can’t just sit here terrified by what’s going on. 

   That’s what they want, you know.  Trump and his troopers want to overwhelm us into a stupor so that we give up and don’t do anything about what’s going on and they can take over. 

   I have to take action, even if it is tiny, like hanging up a strand of my Christmas tree lights over the front window bay (to remind me of the light that overcomes the darkness, as George Fox, the first Quaker, spoke of) and buying some crazy, colorful overalls (so I can keep up my spirit and, to paraphrase Fox, keep rolling cheerfully over the earth, answering that of God in everyone) and watching award shows where artists congratulate each other for telling different stories and championing diversity.  I had to do something, like write this and watch clips of Jimmy Kimmel continuing to skewer Trump even after Trump almost successfully had him banned (clips of Saturday Night Live cold opens and weekend updates also help).

   A trans friend tells me that it’s hard to find anything funny about what’s happening.  I hear her.  But I can’t just sit here and whine and cry. I have to do something – again, however tiny.  I have to take action and get out there, show up, be present.  I hope to keep hope alive and to help spread it. I have to share the light. 

   This is what I’m doing these dark, challenging days and what I recommend doing:

-As devastating and demoralizing as it is, keep up with the news.  It is critical to know what’s going on and, yes, to be outraged.  That way, we don’t get complacent and let things happen – or the worst happen – as occurred in Nazi Germany and the like. 

-Take that outrage (or, even more so, depression and despair) and use it to take action, spread hope, share the light.  It doesn’t have to be big.  Take small steps.  Wear your tie-dye.  Keep flying your rainbow flag.  Join a peaceful protest – and help to keep it peaceful.  Write blog posts and letters to the local paper.  Help deliver groceries to people who are afraid to go out and perhaps take them to doctor appointments.  Support those who bravely speak out.  Vote. 

   If enough of us do these things, we can get through these dark times and save our country, our democracy. It is easy to feel depressed and hopeless – believe me, I know – but we have to do these things, do them like our life depends on it.   Because it does.   

The light we need

 

   There was an article several weeks ago in the Los Angeles Times about “opening night” on Christmas Tree Lane in Altadena, the night that the lights on the trees along the street were turned on for the first time for the holiday season.  It was particularly special and poignant this year, because it was the first such gathering since the fires in January in which thousands of homes and other buildings were destroyed, many others were damaged and some two dozen people were killed. The trees and houses along the street were left intact while most of the surrounding town was destroyed or heavily damaged.

   A few days later, a woman spoke in (Quaker) meeting about having gone to the opening. She had lived in the area for years in the past and said that the evening was a very special, moving reunion after a trauma like the Eaton fire 11 months ago. 

   I was intrigued – intrigued and inspired. I had heard about Christmas Tree Lane, saw the sign on the freeway, for years.  I decided to check it out.  (Since the fire, a part of me wanted to see the area, but that seemed ghoulish, like disaster porn, like slowing down to see an accident on the freeway.  Seeing Christmas Tree Lane was an excuse.)

   I went a few evenings later and found it striking in a muted way.  The lane itself – several blocks of a residential street – is quite special in a quiet, homey way, with the tall pine trees lining both sides of the street draped with old-fashioned, colored lights.  The lights were donated by the Disney Company – sixty of its employees lost their homes in the fire – but there was nothing commercial about the scene.  The “Altadena Strong” signs and other hand-made sentiments added a poignant, timely note to this unique happening in this community known as a quiet community with a notable diversity and populated with a surprising number of artists. 

   What was most striking, though, is the way it stood out in the area.  I’m sure this unusual alignment of pines garlanded with Christmas lights always stands out.  But, after driving through the area with large darkened swaths in sight, left ravaged by the Eaton fire, it really stands out. 

   It is sad to see all this darkness, all this destruction, in the next blocks over.  You could say that Christmas Tree Lane, with its lights shining out, makes it all the sadder.  Yes, it is sad – it is tragic – but Christmas Tree Lane this year is a striking, powerful reminder that, as we need to remember in these sad, darkened times and to paraphrase Quaker founder George Fox, the light always overcomes the darkness.

Life - and other excuses

 

   No.  I’m not dead.  Not yet, anyway. 

   You would be excused for wondering if I was dead, since my last post here was in the Spring. Fall is now nearly two-thirds over.  (Yikes! Really?)  

   Perhaps this is, on my part, inexcusable in the blogosphere.  At least in my concept of the blogosphere – that is, in which people post daily or at least two or three times a week.  But I want to say that I have an excuse or a few of them.

   One is that I have felt so overwhelmed, bombarded by what President Trump and his administration and allies have been doing that I don’t know where to begin, to know which one of the dozen of outrages to write about.  Yes, as I’ve even written about in a few of my Claremont Courier columns, that’s exactly what they want – for us to be overwhelmed and not fight back.  I sadly plead guilty to falling for that at least most of the time  

   We saw in this month’s election that this isn’t necessarily the case, that we can make our voices heard – and in a meaningful way.  This has been a shot of energy, a bit of hope that sure feels good (and perhaps is part of what inspired me to write this).

   Perhaps I should just not write here about Trump and all that and instead write about other stuff, small stuff.  Like, again, being at Stater Brothers and seeing signs asking for our understanding when it would close early – 5 p.m – on Thanksgiving Day so that employees “cab enjoy the holiday with their families” – after closing at 11 the night before and opening at 6 that morning. God! Really? We Americans are so addicted to money and buying stuff and making it convenient to do so.  When I spent time in Europe, everything was closed every Sunday and sometimes, like in Italy, in the early afternoons.  (Maybe this is writing about Trump, Trumpism….)

   The second excuse is that I’ve been doing a lot, or, really, have been preoccupied by some things.  Among other things (see below), I’ve been preparing a presentation to give at Pacific Yearly Meeting, an annual gathering of Quakers, in July.  I was one of three panelists asked to speak on how Spirit has lead me to find my balance, over and over, and move forward in my life.  This was a real honor and a real gift to be given this opportunity to look back over and share about my life. 

   Finally, when I began this blog, I never intended to post every day or several times a week.  For a while, I posted every two weeks, but I can’t, or don’t want to, commit to that now.  Perhaps I can post every month or every other months – like I tend to write now for the Courier.  Perhaps. 

   Meanwhile, here are the last two columns I wrote. The first came out in September; the second earlier this month.  They will give you some idea of what I’ve been up to or, rather, what has been taking over my life, so to speak. 

                NO WAY!  THERE HAS TO BE A WAY! 

   “You can’t get thar from har.”

   I met John when I was at UCLA for the Spring 1984 quarter.  He was from Maine and was a big guy, like a dairy farm boy, with a big grin.  But he was no country hick. Not only was he at UCLA as an out-of-state student, he was majoring in bio-chemistry or some such, way outside my English/humanities lane. 

   So it would always crack me up when he would break out his best heavy Maine accent and proclaim, “You can’t get thar from har” – apparently a common Maine saying, at least in the rural parts.  It was like a favorite line from a movie that we shared. 

   I was recently reminded of the line, except, this time, I wasn’t cracking up. At least not in that sense.    

   Last month, after a four-year hiatus due to increasing disability, I flew to the Bay Area for a three-night visit.  It was something of a triumphant return, after having told myself that I wouldn’t return, made possible with lots of work in physical therapy and a critical and  clever logistical update. Getting up there and being up there, while not easy, was no problem.

   The problem turned out to be getting to the Ontario airport, the nice, quiet airport not even a half hour away.  My van was driven up some hours before in order to get to the Oakland airport in time to pick me up, so I needed to find a reliable wheelchair-accessible ride to the nearby airport. 

   This turned out to be quite difficult, ridiculously, insanely difficult. 

   The key word here is “reliable.” In the past, I had had some horrendous experiences with the wheelchair-accessible cab service, being all-but-too late or not showing up, which left me rattled to say the least.  I couldn’t deal with this.  I just couldn’t. 

   The big bugaboo was that Ontario airport, as close as it is, is in another county – San Bernardino.  When I called Dial-a-Ride and Access, which offer cheap, subsidized wheelchair-accessible transportation, they said they can’t, won’t, cross the county line.  If I was flying out of LAX, Access could take me, no problem, but who wants to fly out of LAX? 

   Things only got crazier. 

   AgingNext gave me a few numbers of private non-medical transport companies to call.  (I called the agency after the Services Center for Independent Life, which I helped found decades ago, had, much to my dismay, no advice for me.)

   The first place I called wanted $260. One way.  For a ride that’s barely half an hour. 

   WT---! 

   The second company I called wanted something like $220. One way, again.  A bit better – but, REALLY?  A half-hour ride cost more than a flight to the Bay Area???      

   I stopped calling.  I was getting too angry.  This was insane, highway robbery (literally). This was wrong!   

   Would I get up north?  I was wondering. 

   A friend saw how desperate I was and recommended a company she knew about.  $200. Round trip.  This was way more than I wanted to pay – nearly as much as the round-trip airfare for two – but I took it, figuring the trip may have been off otherwise.  (The service was great, right on time.  Better have been!)

  If I had the energy and the time, I would try to put together an organization that provides affordable, reliable, wheelchair-accessible transportation regardless of municipal or county lines.  Somebody should. 

   There has to be a way, a better way, to get thar – er, there – from har – er, here!   

     A RENEWED GRATITUDE FOR CLAREMONT ACTIVITY, ACTIVISM

   I didn’t go to the No Kings Protest last month. 

   Not because I didn’t care.  Not because I didn’t agree with the protesters. 

   It wasn’t  because I’m not outraged by masked thugs and goons deputized as federal officers grabbing people who are of certain color, have accents, work at certain jobs – some of whom are citizens – and whisked away in unmarked vans to be detained and often deported.  It wasn’t because I’m not alarmed by the dismantling of agencies to help the poor here and internationally and promote the rights of racial minorities and LGBTQ folks as well as cultural diversity.  It wasn’t because I’m not horrified by President Trump’s attempts and efforts to shred the Constitution and destroy our history – vividly on display in his projects at the White House, our White House - and our very democracy. 

   I would have gone.  Sure thing.  Just as I went to the huge protest radiating out from the intersection of Indian Hill and Foothill in June. 

   Yes, I was plenty riled up, raring to go and protest what’s going on.  Instead, I was down, not going much of anywhere. 

   Literally.  Because of a sore, a pressure sore, I had gotten, I was stuck lying down.  I did get out now and then, but it was like I was sneaking out, escaping prison, since I was told that lying down is the fastest if not the only way to get rid of the sore. 

   “Fastest” is a relative term here.  There’s nothing fast about getting rid of a pressure sore. I had been lying down, stuck in bed-jail as I call it, since early September.  To make matters worse, this was happening in October, my favorite month with its cooling days and nights and colorful leaves and fading light, and I was missing it. 

   Even worse, this happened two years ago at exactly the same time, and I swore at the time it wouldn’t happen again. Ouch! 

   I’m here to say that lying down all the time isn’t all, or at all, what it’s cracked up to be. We all wish we could lie around all day with nothing having to be done – right? But having to lie down all the time, when one feels perfectly fine, is not only no picnic or day at the beach. It’s exhausting!

   What’s more, it leaves one feeling overwhelmed, at least when everything is going wrong and/or crazy.

   It’s hard to lie there and read or hear about children and wives wondering what happened to their father and husband after he was snatched and whisked away by anonymous ICE agents, about queer folks like me wondering if they’re safe anymore and if they should go back in the closet, about poor people in other countries and then here not getting the assistance they need to eat and stay healthy, about dangerous health advice and policies being established and disabled people like me nervous about maybe not getting the funding they need to live full, productive lives in their own homes. 

   It’s hard to lie there when a torrent of dangerous, unjust, cruel and undemocratic actions are being taken day in and day out.  I have felt overwhelmed. I have felt trapped, paralyzed. 

   Trump and his team have said they want to overwhelm, to do so many things so fast that it’s difficult to stop.  Boy, it sure looks that way when stuck lying there day after day!    

   I have missed being able to get out and do something, to be part of getting something done, not just lying there alone, feeling helpless, hopeless.  I was missing all those opportunities in Claremont, not just to protest but to be at a meeting or to just hear a talk. 

   Or what about going to the many concerts and performances here?   Yes, some entertainment is important to get our minds off all the crazy stuff going on – and books, podcasts and streamers, as infinite as they are, only go so far. Even going out to the local cinema makes a difference.

   I have missed being part of the community, being in community. In this challenging time, I have missed feeling not on my own, not alone. 

   As the season of gratitude and goodwill approaches, I am thankful that I’ll soon be up to not only enjoy what’s left of our beautiful Fall colors. I’ll be even more thankful for being part of the rich, vibrant community that is Claremont.