Servant of the People: Fiction to Fact

The Ukrainian television series, Servant of the People (2015 to 2019), is currently airing on Netflix. It stars and was produced by Volodymyr Zelenskyy - yes, actual President of Ukraine -and follows a high school history teacher who, thanks to a rant about government corruption caught on video by one of his students and uploaded to YouTube with 8 million views, becomes the unlikely president of . . .  you guessed it . . . Ukraine. 

I can't turn away from it. Yes, it's subtitled, but you get used to that quickly. 

The storyline is poignant and hopeful and funny and way too true. Every corrupt thing Ukraine faces - selfish politicians who enrich themselves and their cronies, gotcha' media hounds, crazy families, global entanglements - every government faces. Yep, there's even a defeated president who refuses to leave his office. Very prescient (remember, this was 2015). 

And whenever this TV president needs to get the attention of fighting parliament members or citizen hordes, he shouts: "Putin has resigned!" stopping people in their tracks. ("Not really" he apologizes, once he has their attention.) I guess the real President Zelenskyy feels that more than ever now. 

Watching Zelenskyy these last few months, fighting desperately for his country and against Putin, then watching his very political television series is mind-blowing. He is adorable (yeah, sorry, he is), he is smart, he is funny. And he loves his country.

I'm learning so much about Ukraine - a modern, beautiful country. It's also affirming to see that people and politics aren't so different the world over.  

I'm dreaming of a world where we have more history teacher world leaders and fewer lawyers and business folk. It couldn't hurt. 

The good people of the world are on your side, President Zelenskyy. (And thanks for Servant of the People!)

Simple Gifts

Sometimes the most ordinary things bring joy. 

Today I planted a fresh crop of red geraniums in my balcony boxes. Just seeing the splashes of red against the green outside my windows helps me breathe better. My heartbeat eases. Shoulders relax. Stress evaporates. 

Red geraniums are my favorite flowers. Always have been. Mother told me once that red geraniums were Mama's (her mother, my grandmother) favorite, too, and that I must have inherited that love from her. Well, I don't know about that, since Mama and I were never that close, but I do like the family connection.

I also planted a bunch of zinnia seeds. Zinnias were Daddy's favorite. We had this little flower garden next to our driveway at my growing-up house, and every year we'd planted lots of zinnias (he called them "old maids") and marigolds. He especially loved the zinnias, so I do this in his memory. I hope they bloom like crazy, because I love those old maids, too. 

Take joy wherever you find it. Simple gifts are usually the best. 

Heretical Thoughts on Holy Week

I've always wondered what Jesus might think about the Christian observance of Holy Week, especially Good Friday. 

"Seriously, people. Why so much focus on the absolute worst week and day of my life?"

"I get celebrating the Resurrection, but the awful week that preceded it? Nah."

"I love what y'all do at Christmas, though, even though it's not really my birthday. (I was born in April, by the way.) The lights, the presents, cinnamon/pine/peppermint - a splendid birthday celebration, so thank you." 

"Really, you can appreciate the empty tomb without making us all relive the trial, the agony, the torture."

"So go forth and bless the incoming of Spring - flowers, bunnies, Peeps, Cadbury Eggs. It's kind of a mini-birthday celebration rolled into the Resurrection story. That I enjoy. But making me relive that terrible week and day over and over and over? I'd rather not."

"And don't even get me started on Lent."

"More Christmas. Less 'Holy Week,' because it was flat-out UN-holy for me." 

"Love y'all. All of y'all. Spend more time living out the Beatitudes. That's what I really want."

Can't Help Falling: Another Elvis Moment

I'm a faller. I just am. I can be walking barefoot on a flat, dry surface, and I'll take a tumble. I have a history, even writing a blog post about a spectacular fall down some stairs at New York's Tabla Restaurant in 2008. 

Then there was a fall in 2015 when I mis-stepped off a curb when a young couple walking a dog didn't move aside as I approached. Still have the scars from that one. 

So I was due for another klutzy, fabulous trip-up, which happened the other day at work.

Leaving the Swan House to refresh my tea before taking over for a colleague's lunch break, I tripped on the sidewalk, falling forward really hard on the flat, dry surface. (See, I told you!) Tea tumbler and walkie-talkie went flying as I managed to brace the fall with my hands. Despite my arms and hands taking the brunt of the tumble, my head hit the pavement, bouncing once. 

Guests approaching the house rushed to my rescue, retrieving the walkie and cup and helping me sit up. Hands chewed up and bloody from the sidewalk, small head wound, and general body-shock, it took a few minutes for me to shake it off. I notified my bosses on the walkie and assured the guests that I was fine, just a little shaken. 

Security and bosses rushed to assess the damage, document my injuries, and offering to call an ambulance. Nah. I was shaken (not stirred) but felt well enough to carry on for the rest of the work day.

Two days later, I'm still sore all over and the heels of my hands are bandaged, but my hard head only has a small cut, not a swollen lump or anything that would belie the fact that I'd bounced my head of a hard pavement. The band-aid across my right temple makes me look kinda bad-ass, so I'll keep it on for a few days. 

So, yes, another spectacular Elvis moment, because I can't help falling. Sigh.

I do, with God's Grace

Today marks the 40th anniversary of my Confirmation. I was late to the game - just about to turn 31 - because I was raised Southern Baptist and they don't confirm. I have my own thoughts about why they don't offer the choice to stay or move on to teens and adults, but I'll keep them to myself. 

Anyway, we landed on the doorstep of All Saints' Episcopal Church, Atlanta, in September 1981, shortly after a new rector, Harry Pritchett, arrived on the scene. I've often wondered if we'd stepped in and heard a sermon by anyone but Harry on that autumn day whether or not we'd have returned. And returned. And returned. But here I am. Forty years later. 

Harry had the wild and crazy preaching style of a tent revival preacher, but his message was one of love. Always. Harry (and subsequently, Martha Sterne and Barbara Brown Taylor) is foundational to my Christian belief system. It was so refreshing to hear his message of love, forgiveness, justice, and mercy after years of being told repeatedly what a sinner I was. (Yeah, I get it.)

Jack and I were in Harry's first Adult Confirmation class the fall and winter of 1981-82. The class was small, maybe 10 of us, and held in the church library. Jack was Roman Catholic and already confirmed, so he would just reaffirm and be received into the Episcopal Church. But as a former Baptist, I was to be fully confirmed. Coming from a non-liturgical background, I had a lot to learn. All you clergy who want to be called "father" or "mother" can blame Harry for the way I address you for responding to my question of what should I call him. His answer? "Harry." (Anyway, y'all ain't my father or mother, so, nope, not gonna call you that.) Just Harry. 

On April 4, 1982, I was confirmed by the Right Reverend Bennett Sims, bishop of Atlanta, renouncing evil, affirming my faith, and renewing the Baptismal Covenant to seek and serve Christ in all persons, strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being. 

Harry, Martha, Barbara, and many dear parishioners of All Saints' have helped me live up to those vows, even when I do a lousy job of it. In the years immediately following my confirmation, we faced two major crises, homelessness and AIDS, testing those baptismal vows. Do we really want a night shelter for homeless men on our property? Yes! Can this be a safe haven for gays and those suffering from AIDS? Yes! So, I was thrown right into the deep end of the pool of how to respect the dignity of every human being as a new confirmand. 

It's not always been easy to stick around. I had to learn how to deal with clergy coming and going (it's normal and healthy for them to do that, by the way). Harry eventually moved on to become Dean of St. John the Divine in New York City. Martha moved on to her own church in Maryville, TN. Barbara, of course, moved on to teach and write and become really famous. Losing them hurt. Finding out that all clergy don't preach as brilliantly or love as strongly hurt, too. But I learned to abide. There will always be glory moments and desert moments. When you've hung around as long as I have, you learn to navigate the ebb and flow. 

Daugher Kate was born, baptised, confirmed, and married at All Saints'. The grands were baptised here, as well, and the whole family is active in various ways. I will be buried in the church cemetery under one of those fabulous windows. So, yeah. Forty years. Just wanted to honor the journey. 

A Secular Lessons & Carols

Lesson 1 

Song of Alvin 1:3  -  And there were in those days Hula Hoop-craving, Loop-the-Loop Plane-desiring chipmunks who try to alter their usual bratty, destructive behavior in anticipation of the gift-giving season. ~ The Chipmunk Song

Lesson 2 

Impossibilities 4:9   -  And, lo, a child demands a large, mostly herbivorous, semiaquatic mammal and ungulate native to sub-Saharan Africa for Christmas instead of dolls or Tinkertoys. ~ "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas

Lesson 3

Second Incisor 8:15  -  In want of missing teeth, a young child eschews the usual list of goodies for the ability to say "Sister Susie sitting on a thistle." ~ All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth

Lesson 4 

Repercussions 31:45  -  Bewailing the possibility of an empty stocking, one frog-in-bed-hiding, ink-spilling, bug-eating-forcer tries to lay blame for his bad behavior on a tattletale. ~ I'm Gettin' Nuttin' for Christmas

Lesson 5: 

First Warnings 6:5  -  Behold, Santa is making a list, checking it twice, and - like your cell phone and Alexa - spying on every little thing you do. So be good for goodness' sake. Until Christmas. ~ Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Lesson 6 

Improprieties 17:12  -  Childhood trauma ensues when mommy is caught tickling and kissing the gift-bearing North Pole resident underneath the mistletoe. Or maybe it was all a big misunderstanding. ~ I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

Lesson 7 

Felonians 23:10  -  And it came to pass that a beloved blue-haired matriarch went too far with eggnog-imbibing and met with a fatal "accident" while making her way home after a party. We are left with the question: Was it an accident? ~ Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer

Lesson 8 

Rug-Cutting 16:25  -  In spite of misbehavior and empty-stocking fear, merriment is encouraged through dancing around a festooned fir tree in this time of caroling and pumpkin pie. ~ Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree

Lesson 9

Ohbygolly 12:22   -  All's well that ends well, as humanity is encouraged to drink a cup of cheer (but not the laundry detergent) and greet everyone they meet for the holliest, jolliest, memory-making Christmas ever. ~ Have a Holly Jolly Christmas

 

Song for Autumn

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies?  And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.  ~ Mary Oliver

On Looking at Millais' Autumn Leaves

Live life fully before the autumn
Make sure you blossom and flower
Let life be full of fruitfulness
Don't be afraid! Be a little bolder!
You'll colour autumn when it comes
Rich or poor is not the measure
More important, to live in delight.
Let life itself be your treasure
Scatter the leaves! Enjoy the sight!

~ David Adam

Happy New Year!

To me, the new year has always started in September. I've never been a fan of the one in January. I mean it's not the start of anything new except the month of January, and who needs to celebrate that? 

No, my Jewish sisters and brothers have always been correct on this point. I, too, recognize Rosh Hashanah as a chance to begin anew. The seasons are changing (January is smack in the middle of winter - what's that about?), it's back to school time, and all sorts of other things are getting cranked up again. 

There's a feeling of new possibilities in the air.

I remember a sermon from years ago by my favorite priest about this very thing. How he, too, felt that September was the start of a brand new year, new energy and excitement, so much so that he always found himself singing:  

Here I go again
I hear those trumpets blow again
All aglow again
Taking a chance on love

Well, OK, I'm not planning to take a chance on love, but I do think about this sermon, from maybe 35 years ago, and that song when September rolls around. And there is something about this September New Year that's energizing. The anticipation of interesting beginnings and cool autumn weather, even with masks and vaccinations, give me hope heading into my favorite season.

L’Shanah tovah, y'all! Wishing you a good and sweet year ahead.  

Here I go again . . .

Labor Day Salute to the Real Workers

 

If we've learned anything over these past 18 months, it's who the actual boots-on-the-ground workers are in this country. It's the folks who keep things running as safely and smoothly as possible, often at danger to themselves and their families. 

Despite fatigue, uncertainty, and the sheer selfish, despicable behavior of a small but loud chunk of our population, these American heroes show up and perform their duties with the utmost professionalism. 

To the teachers, healthcare workers, domestic and sanitation workers, transportation professionals, wait staffs, construction/landscape/infrastructure workers: Thank you to the moon and back. I see you. I honor you this Labor Day, even though I'm sure you're hard at work, not lounging by a pool. You deserve our respect and a whole lot more pay and benefits. 

To the company big-wigs, fat-cats, and billionaires who refuse to honor those who actually do the work of this country by paying a living wage and providing full benefits: a big, fat raspberry!

Happy Labor Day, honorable workers!

COVIDiary: My Pandemic Rage

I've had it with y'all. We could've saved a lot of lives last year. But no. Granted, there wasn't a vaccine yet, but if everyone had followed the very simple rules of wearing a mask, keeping a safe distance from others, and washing hands, the spread of this thing could've been mitigated. 

Sure, you weren't too concerned because last year's version seemed to strike just old folks or people with health concerns. Disposables, right? 

But this delta variant is hitting children and young people particularly hard. More and more children are testing positive for covid, more are being hospitalized, more are dying. Children!

So what do y'all do? You protest mask-wearing in schools. You protest vaccination requirements for schools and businesses. You send covid-positive kids to school. You're not only bat-shit crazy, you're putting everyone - kids included - in jeopardy. All because you don't want you or your kids to wear masks? Seriously? 

I don't want to hear anything about "freedom" or "God's protection" or any pseudo-science you got off the internet about masks harming childhood development. That's big-time bullshit, by the way. Please check reliable sources. Face it. You failed. You failed every time you - an adult - bitched and moaned about wearing a mask. So of course your little special darlin' feels free to whine about it, too. 

What you're teaching your children by not modeling the importance of the basic pandemic rules is the most dangerous kind of selfish behavior. You're modeling lack of concern for your family and your community. You're teaching them "to hell with everyone else, it's all about me." Great. More of that is just what we need in the public square nowadays.

So, thanks. You've landed us where we are right now. Hospitals full. Children on ventilators. School closures. Immature, life-threatening behavior toward school boards, medical professionals, and educators. 

Yes, I'm in a rage. Hot white anger. 

Wear a mask - certainly in all public indoor spaces. (Yes, that includes schools.) Make sure everyone in your family who's old enough is vaccinated. Stop being the problem. 

All this rage is wearing me out.

COVIDiary: Back to School 2021 vs 2020

 

 

Welp. What a difference a year makes. Sorta', kinda'. 

Though grandson doesn't start middle school until next week, granddaughter starts 3rd grade tomorrow. She told me she is glad to get back to school. Her main teacher from 2nd grade has moved up with the class to provide a smoother transition from last year's virtual school to this year's back-to-campus. 

Most of the COVID protocols are still in place: masks, distance between students indoors, etc., but the kids are so used to it by now that continuing to protect themselves and others doesn't bother them. And this new variant is scary, especially for young children, so I'm grateful those rules are still in place.

I've been putting together a photo book about our 2020-21 coronavirus year. While most of the photos and experiences included - holidays, the lockdown, projects - didn't dredge up too much horribleness, I have to admit the pages about virtual school caused a little trauma. It was hard. Looking back on it was hard. Remembering the internet disruptions, the app-confusions, the tears - oy! It's a wonder we're not all in therapy, especially the brave, wonderful teachers (and they may be - I'm sure they need it). 

But looking over what our children learned last year - yes, even while remote from their classrooms - I'm really impressed. It was most certainly not a lost year, and I know that everyone learned all sorts of skills and adaptability that they'll carry with them from here on out. 

As painful as looking back on 2020's start of school is, my main takeaway is that WE MADE IT! We all survived. Now we're ready to face a still-not-back-to-normal school year, knowing that as long as we keep each other safe through this weird virus- vaccinations, masks, distancing - we can keep going, progressing, growing. 

Compare/contrast, you say? Here you go:

Back to School 2020                                                   Back to School 2021

Set up distance learning areas at home                       Lay out school clothes for school

Ensure all internet access and apps work                    Ensure backpack is filled will school supplies

Practice patience because something will go wrong     Practice patience because something will go wrong

Have plentiful snacks/water on hand                           Bring water bottle (no snacking in school, y'all!)

Pray all distributed instructions have been followed    Pray all distributed instructions have been followed

Get to know your teachers via Zoom or Teams             Get to know your teachers wearing masks

Get to know your classmates via Zoom or Teams          Get to know your classmates wearing masks

Crazed parent as virtual school monitor                       Professional educators teaching, monitoring, caring

COVIDiary: To (Continue) Mask, or Not To (Continue) Mask

A couple of days ago, the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) here in Atlanta lifted the COVID-19 mask requirements for folks who've been vaccinated. 

It was sort of a good news/bad news situation. 

Good news: I've been fully vaccinated since mid-February. Summer's coming and while I loved wearing my mask in the cold weather, mask-wearing in Atlanta's heat is brutal. And at some point we do have to get beyond this thing. 

Bad news: How can I (or stores or museums or churches or restaurants, etc.) tell who has been fully vaccinated and who hasn't? We didn't get tattoos on our foreheads when we got our shots. Yes, we were given a card with the vax info on it (which I keep with me all the time), but news of fake vax cards are everywhere. And if I've learned anything during this pandemic (shoot, let's be serious, since the 2016 election), many of my fellow country-citizens are selfish and stupid, so I've lost all trust in Americans to do the honest and moral thing. 

My workplace, the Atlanta History Center, is following the CDC guidelines and dropping mask requirements for staff and guests. Fortunately, we staff members have been told that we will not be responsible for asking for proof of vaccination, as it might provoke unwanted confrontations and compromise our safety. 

Well, OK. I'm vaccinated. While working inside, I'm behind plexiglass in a huge atrium with proper ventilation. My other assignments are outdoors. I welcome never having to remind people to keep mask over mouth AND nose. 

Yesterday, I went shopping at real stores for the first time in a year, and mask requirements were still in place. I was surprised that everyone was abiding by mask rules, staff and shoppers. It was good to know that people are still being cautious.

I'll miss you, mask collection. I'll miss having my smirks covers. I'll miss not having to wear make-up and lipstick. I'll miss having something that hides sleep-face creases. On the up-side, it'll be good to let my face hang out again, I reckon. 

I suspect masks will be around beyond this point, especially during cold and flu season. And I have so many cute ones, I'm prepared for whatever viruses hit us in the future. 

Or maybe I'll just frame the whole mask collection as a reminder of this weird, historic year.

Still Crazy After All These Years

 

On this day I start my seventh decade. Let's see what the rest of this life has to offer.

COVIDiary: Oh, the Places I Want to Go!

Having been completely vaccinated since mid-February, I've found myself travel-dreaming of late. Flying is out of the question for the foreseeable future because there are so many stupid assholes who refuse to get their jabs (and you can just bet that they're the ones flying around). 

Still, this is travel-dreaming, so in the best of all possible immunized world, here's where I'd pack off to first:

• 
  
  New York, New York. These vagabond shoes are longing to stray right through the very heart of it. I want Central Park. I want the Brooklyn Bridge. The Met, the Cloisters, the Morgan. I want crowded sidewalks, slippery subway steps, street vendors, and my NY lottery scratch-offs. I want to fill my belly at Sarita's Mac & Cheese, Fraunces Tavern, Sardi's, Chez Josephine, any good bagel shop, and whatever food truck around Union Square that suits my fancy. And I want to settle into a comfy orchestra seat at the St. James or the Shubert or the Lyric or whatever - just get me back to live theater, please! It's up to you, New York, New York!  

• Hawaii. Pick an island, any island. I've been to Kauai, Oahu, Maui, and Hawaii (the Big Island) and love them all. Willing to give Lanai a try, too. The Grand Wailea on Maui, the Napali Coast and beaches of Kauai, a little peek at Oahu's Diamond Head, and the wild volcanic action on the Big Island - yes, to all. Mahalo, y'all!

• 
  
  England and Wales. Just because. I want to spend time with friends. I need to stock up on tea at Twinings and Whittard's in London. I have a real need to journey back to Walton-on-Thames and pass familiar places, though I know it's much-changed since I was last there. Same goes for Oxford. I want to get to Wales and meet Liz in person, not just online. I crave a full English breakfast and drinking gin and tonics at a riverside pub. The sceptred isle is another of my "homes," and I need to be there. 

Sure, Maine and Greece and a return to South Africa, Germany, and Italy are on the list, but they'll have to line up behind the top three. I've missed travel so much since I left my big-girl job. I'm ready to roll!

Of course, I'm broke as hell, but a girl can dream, can't she?

COVIDiary: Back to School

No new shoes. No new backpacks. No new uniforms. But masks, water bottles, and laptops at hand, our kiddos returned to almost full face-to-face school this week.

For the past two weeks, the students have been divided with half going Monday and Tuesday and the other half going Thursday and Friday. It seemed a good way to acclimate everyone to the new rules of masking and social distancing, classroom arrangements, and lunch/recess accommodations. The teachers have to do double-duty (when haven't they?) by teaching the in-class students as well as those opting to continue virtual school. 

I know Liam and Charlotte were glad to get back; they both admitted it to me. Just being with their friends and teachers and in a familiar space lifted their spirits, I think. 

Teachers and staff have been vaccinated, and everyone remains masked. No use of water fountains,so the kids have to bring their own water bottles. Desks are separated. Lots of hand sanitizer. 

Praying all goes well with the return to in-school learning. I know parents and grandparents want the best for everyone, but it's been a hard, hard eight months as we've struggled with technology glitches, wonky schedules, and basic algebra, multiplying fractions, and decimals (me!). 

Historic. A time for the ages. The kids will be fine academically. They've learned a lot these past months, much of it not academic. Things like resilience, creative problem-solving, and flexibility. 

We'll all recover. We'll never forget, though. And teachers aren't paid enough. Ever.

When Will We Ever Learn?

At what point in time and place will white "Christian" folks accept responsibility for the injustices we slam onto other races and ethnicities? 

Not a week goes by without some violent act against Blacks, Asians, Latinos, Muslims, and others considered "different" or off-kilter or "not one of us" just because they are. Just because they want the same respect and opportunities and rights. 

If you're white, I bet your brain automatically goes to "not all white people, not me!" Well, you know, I don't know. Speaking for myself, no, my family never owned slaves, I do my best to work at being anti-racist, and I've always worked in professions with colleagues of diverse races and backgrounds. But I am aware that simply because of the color of my skin I have an advantage that outweighs even the disadvantage of my age and my sex. 

My white European features and style of dress - however plain and unremarkable - give me a free pass for all sorts of things. No one steps aside to avoid me on a sidewalk or holds their purse or packages tighter when I'm near. No one has a problem with my hairstyle (except me!) or speech patterns. I'm pretty confident that if I'm stopped for a traffic violation (haven't been in years, but, hey, who knows?), I'll come out of it alive, even if I show some attitude.

White privilege is real and deeply embedded in our culture and government. The sooner we pale folks own up to it, the sooner we can work to tease out all the threads tangled up in this privilege and straighten them out so that everybody's "thread" is equal in opportunity and respect. The color of that thread should not and cannot matter. 

To our Black, Asian, Latino, Muslim sisters and brothers, we owe recognition, respect, and a fierce effort to ensure our skin privilege never again puts them in danger or at economic, educational, or cultural disadvantage.

When will we ever learn? It will take work. Hard, good work. But this has to stop.

COVIDiary: One Year

It's been a year, friends. Remember that thing we thought might change our lives for a few weeks, maybe a month or two, that weird virus-y thing that no one really knew what it was about, but, yeah, better safe than sorry for short time? Yeah, it's been a year. 

I wish I could wax philosophical about how I grew, what I learned over the past twelve months, but I just can't right now. I did none of the things I'd always told myself I'd do if I only had the time. I didn't write. I didn't organize all those boxes and bags of old photos. I didn't sort, discard, downsize. Nope. All I can say is that I survived and my family survived. 

The year feels lost to me. Summer, lost. Autumn, lost. The school-year, lost. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas - all lost. Vague memories of everything with photos as proof, but the real touchstones of traditions and gatherings that mark the years couldn't take place, so what's happened over the last year is a jumble. 

I'm not sure I can really reflect on the impact this pandemic has had on my life until I can get some distance from it. I need time and space to see how - if - it's changed me. What I suspect - at least, for myself - is that there are some lasting scars that I can't acknowledge right now. 

I believe a grieving period is needed. A period to sort through the lost days, the lost connections and memories of things that couldn't happen. 

However, I do believe there's light and life at the end of this dark tunnel. So be gentle with everyone for I'll bet they are fragile after making it through this year, whether or not they want to admit it. Be grateful for the small things. Celebrate the big things. 

That's all I've got right now.

COVIDiary: Clouding

Last year during the March/April/May lock-down, my late afternoon and early evening balcony-time became my soul-saving time. I'd drag my camp chair out onto my tiny 4th floor balcony, tea or water at hand, to read or listen or just to be. 

To be honest, most of my balcony-time was the just being stuff. I'd watch how the trees were leafing out. Or count the number of trains coming and going on the tree-hidden track behind the apartment. But mostly I'd let my mind go blank as I watched the breeze push the clouds around.

Today was lovely and warm - a bit cloudy at times, but fine for balcony-sitting. So I dragged my camp chair out on my tiny 4th floor balcony with a book and my tea to enjoy this last day of February Sunday afternoon. 

I did a bit of reading, but I found the breeze and the tree branches and the clouds pulling me away from my book. So I decided to give in and watch the clouds roll by.

Except I've discovered that, usually, clouds don't roll by. Neither do they scud. 

Nope. In the words of Joni Mitchell, I've looked at clouds from both sides now, and they mostly drift. And slide. And gather, merging with other clouds to grow and form new shapes, or pull apart to drift away from their mama-clouds. Clouds flow. And they are hypnotic. 

It's noisier and louder now than it was during last year's lock-down. Cars coming and going. Lots of folks walking around, talking and laughing. The stillness and silence from last spring has given way to business as usual, the busyness of life. My clouding has a different soundtrack now. 

Still, there are worse ways to spend the last day of February than enjoying a springlike breeze watching the clouds drift by.

One Night in This Wine Bar in Walton-on-Thames . . .

. . . in the summer of 1979, it was girls' night out to celebrate the impending wedding of my friend Sarah. Sarah and I had survived working behind the bar at the Ashley Park Hotel a couple of years before. We tended the lower pub, for the more well-off folks, not the upper pub where all the railroad workers hung out. Lots of stories about that time, but those will have to wait.

So, back to the summer of 1979. Wine bar. Walton. 

Sarah, a few of her college girlfriends, and I were partying big-time, drinking way more wine than was good for us (none of us were driving). Boney M's "Night Flight To Venus" album was spinning for the enjoyment of all, when in the course of things "Rasputin" hit the air. 

As I recall, there was a small dance floor - or maybe not, maybe we just created one - and up we all jumped and danced free-spirited to that fun song. You cannot sit still during "Rasputin." Arms flung out, spinning around, jumping, being adorable (or irritating, depending on your perspective). Such a joyful memory of being young and carefree and not giving a fig about what anyone thought about our wild abandoned dancing. 

The next day I got down to the local shops to get my own vinyl (yes, vinyl) "Night Flight to Venus" album, which I still have today, even though I do not own a turntable. Thank goodness for YouTube and Alexa.

Why bring this up now? Well it seems that Boney M's "Rasputin" is the latest thing on TikTok, causing a well-deserved resurgence in the song and the group. Hearing the song again made this old lady jump up, fling out her arms, spin and jump around - though I'm not nearly as adorable as I was at 28. 

Boney M was never big in the U.S., so Americans missed out on this joyful stuff. I hope TikTok can introduce my fellow citizens to this Euro-group and its fun music.

"Alexa, play Boney M's Rasputin." Now, go fling out your arms and jump around!