Category Archives: reflections

My Very First World Problems

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I got a parking ticket yesterday. $47 for backing into a space that was signed for parallel parking. No matter that every other car north of mine was backed in to their spaces. There was a sign that said, “Parallel Parking Only.” I thought it only applied to the space south of mine in which one car was parked correctly.

I could maybe contest it. But for me to get a ticket for following the mob instead of thinking for myself only seems appropriate. I’m always, always preaching that the mob could be wrong. So I think I’ll just pay it and count it as a. lesson. 

Meanwhile, the parking ticket was placed on my car while I was in the nice, new County Service Center, the place you go when the Department of Licensing won’t issue you an enhanced driver’s license because there is no record that you changed your name 56 years ago when you got married. Yes, you got that right. But hey, I took a number, got in line, spoke with a very nice civil servant, got two copies of my recorded marriage license (filed under a name with a typo, thus not easy to find – also fitting as I am the Queen of Typos). After pouting a bit about the parking ticket, I realized that the document I got did not actually verify that I changed my name when I got married, and the name change is the only part that the DOL really cares about. 

I intended to go back today, take another number, and try again to obtain proof that I changed my name, but, of course, it’s the 4th of July. So I will try to remember to try again tomorrow. 

Meanwhile again, we still need to clean up the living room after dumping all of our camping gear in it when we came home last Friday. Did I mention that we went camping last week. What. A. Treat! Yes, camping. Tent, cots, sleeping bags, outhouses, picnic table, fire pit. The whole works. Perfect weather. Not crowded. (We went Sunday – Friday because it’s impossible to get reservations on the weekend.) 

It seems that I love to get out of town. I try not to complain about the constant city noise constantly, but I don’t love it. Makes me love winters when we close our windows. We live close to a freeway and a bunch of hospitals, a fire station and crime, so in addition to the general traffic noise, we have sirens and sirens and more sirens. It’s pretty handy to walk across the street when your heart is failing, or your abdomen is shrieking in pain, but I’m not certain that that convenience makes up for the noise. Hence the joy of getting out of town.

We had one other first world problem, namely a drug that my husband takes daily (for about 20 years, that makes his life tolerable) was unavailable as we were leaving town. Back ordered! Out of stock! Couldn’t be found anywhere! He had enough to get through two weeks, so we went camping and hoped it would get resolved by the time we got back. It wasn’t, but we got a text today saying his Rx is ready. Hope it’s that one ☝️.

All of this has reminded me that my life is so good. Just imagine if we couldn’t afford a car (or gas), or if we didn’t have a government service center a mile away with friendly civil servants eager to sort through gazillion documents to find the one with the typo that was actually mine, or if I couldn’t afford to pay the parking ticket, or if we couldn’t escape the noise of the city now and then, or if we didn’t have ready access to medical care and prescriptions, mostly covered or very low cost, or if we couldn’t live in a retirement home with activities and good neighbors and food that I don’t have to cook, or if I didn’t live in a country where I could speak my mind without going to jail, or live with the luxury of not being in a war zone. 

Folks, I will take my first world problems, with gratitude, any day. 

In This House, We Believe… What Exactly?

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Recently, I put up a post about the Cowboy Code of Ethics asking you all if you would accept it as it, modify it in some way, or do some completely other thing. Then I needed to look up the wording for signs I see around our neighborhood starting out with “In this house, we believe…” with a list containing phrases such as Black Lives Matter, Women’s Rights are Human Rights, No Human is Illegal, Science is Real… often ending with “Kindness is Everything.” Not exactly a code of ethics, but an interesting exercise none the less.

In the process of looking for that sign, I discovered that people with other ideas had adopted their own versions of this list. I found one that read: Biden Stole the Election; Fauci Can’t Be Trusted; Bill Gates Isn’t a Doctor; Hillary Belongs in Prison; Epstein Didn’t Kill Himself; Media is Propaganda. So, OK. That’s them. 

Then I opened a Substack post in which the author had created her own list. Here’s what Jenny Holland writes:

In this Substack, we believe

  • Tucker Carlson is the most perceptive, intelligent broadcaster today
  • Donald Trump is far less corrupt and dangerous than Joe Biden
  • Steve Bannon is just a Reagan Democrat, not the second coming of Joseph Goebbels
  • MAGA is the the 21st version of the early 20th century labour movement, not the Brown Shirts
  • Anti-vaxxers are probably right about everything
  • Conspiracy theorists should be listened to
  • Traditional Catholics are not domestic terrorists
  • Muslim parents are right to protest LGBT lessons in schools
  • January 6 was a fed-surrection
  • Giorgia Meloni is the most interesting politician in Europe and the left is angry because she sounds more left-wing than they do
  • Viktor Orban is correct about protecting traditional Christian values

I responded to this post by explaining what I agreed with and what I disagreed with. The author was kind enough to reply saying she thought I wasn’t hopeless. 

So, dear readers, what would we agree on if we were to come up with our own version of “In this house, we believe…” I will start, and probably not finish, this task expanding on my thinking on some of them. Feel free to challenge me on any of them.

In this house, we believe:

  • All lives matter.
  • Doubt is essential.
  • Fairness is fine, but don’t expect that you’ll get it.
  • Schadenfreude is acceptable once in a while.
  • Western medicine is capable of good things, but a little humility would be good for all. (I survived pneumonia as a kid with the help of penicillin; I’m alive with the help of a pacemaker today.)
  • The health of my community sometimes requires sacrifices on my part.
  • The concept of “My Truth” is BS, though “The Truth” is often elusive.
  • We all act based on our hopes and fears. Understanding other people’s hopes and fears might help heal some of our divisions. We could, at least, have better conversations.

Regarding the first of these, “all lives matter,” I honestly, truthfully, deep, deep down, believe that if we are not safe to say that all lives matter, we cannot heal our divisions. Saying this does not erase our history, but if we cannot respect each other enough to say that their life matters just as our own life matters, then we cannot get to square one in solving anything.

Regarding doubt, we obviously need to accept some things as provisionally true in order to get out of bed in the morning and do anything at all. But we should also be willing to entertain new information and change our minds when something persuasive comes along. It’s becoming really, truly hard to know what’s right and what’s wrong, but doing nothing is not an option, just as picking a side and sticking with it no matter what is also not an option. 

Western medicine, aka Big Pharma, drives me crazy with their ridiculous propensity to take advantage of patents, their ability to flood any legislative body with lobbyists, and their ability to present cherry-picked information to doctors along with steak dinners and cocktails. Is the answer public funding of all research? I doubt it. Better oversight by a more independent FDA? Perhaps. Whatever the case, we need to address this. AND other forms of coziness between physicians and services such as labs, imaging, and other equipment providers.

Public health has been targeted since Covid lockdowns, vaccine mandates, and masking school kids. But it’s essential. So many of the improvements in life expectancy over the past 200 years are due to public health efforts. We can’t allow this service to be undermined.

“My Truth:” Give me a break. Yes, your experience has shaped your thinking, but no, you do not have “Your Truth.” You have your thoughts based on your experiences. Actual truth is what we can agree on after testing it in a series of back and forth challenges. And even then, it’s provisional until somewhere down the line, new information upends our current understanding. 

My brain is now maxed out for the day. Time for you to argue with me!

Can I Meditate My Way Out of Here?

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Let’s imagine you are shopping for a new place to live. You want a walkable neighborhood, meaning that you can walk to a drug store, a grocery store, a bank, a library, a movie theater – the essentials of urban living. You find a neighborhood, find a dwelling place, the vibes seem OK. You move in. 

Your new place seems pretty good. It’s not ideal, but then few things are. You’re a stranger, but you soon discover that most of your neighbors moved here because they had friends or family already here. They ignore you. You join in some neighborhood activities, but in between organized events, no one calls, your doorbell doesn’t ring. Eventually, you offer up an open house for your nearest neighbors. People come! They mix with enthusiasm, they linger. But after they leave, your phone doesn’t ring; your doorbell doesn’t ring. Hmm.

As you sample the various public activities, you find a few that interest you.  You attend and join in the conversation. You begin to learn more about your neighbors. You learn that they are not exactly what they claim to be. They claim they are all about inclusion, that they seek out diversity, but the diversity they seek does not include the likes of you. What will you do now?

Will you pull up stakes and look for a different neighborhood? How far would you have to go to find one where your sort would be welcome? You could go back to your home town, but you’ve changed in ways that it hasn’t. You could move to Canada, but it’s changed, too, and now it’s worse than your new neighbors. You could find property in the country where you wouldn’t expect your doorbell to ring (but it did!), but you have health concerns that couldn’t be met there. 

Maybe the problem is you, not the neighborhood. Well, not maybe: it is. You actually are hoping for a neighborhood of adults, similar to the neighborhood of your childhood, where adults were curious to learn more about their neighbors without immediately sorting them into my kind and not my kind. I remember a remarkably inclusive neighborhood where my blue collar parents were invited to mix with the hoi poloi (they generally didn’t). Jews and gentiles mixed regularly. No, my neighborhood wasn’t racially mixed, but people had serious conversations about issues of the day including serious ones such as how to sort the town into two high schools in a way that didn’t create a ghetto school and a privileged school. 

I know a handful of adults, by which I mean people who are curious about what other people think. They want to learn why someone has an opinion that is at odds with their own. They admit that people with whom they disagree have some good points. Inclusion to them includes people with ideas that challenge them. If you are reading this, you are probably one of these people that I view as adults. Thank you for at least being curious if not actually open to my point of view. 

As for my dilemma about where to live, I don’t know what to do. This is a good place for my husband. If I followed my mom’s example and died before my husband, I’d want him to be here. But it’s not a good fit for me. Society in general is so thoroughly sorted today that there may not be a good fit for me anywhere. I’m not confident that I could find a place where I fit, and I probably couldn’t afford to move anyway. 

I have a few good role models here; people who likely share some of my views but just never share them publicly. I’m doing my meditations today on whether I need to give up, shut up, and join them. They have somehow found a way to be here without hoping to find any personal support here. Could I do that without descending into madness? I might have to. Wish me luck.

Your Neighbors Are Not Fine

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A week ago, I was on my way home from an appointment with my psychologist. Yes, I need therapy. And, not your business. In any event, I took light rail to Westlake, then walked up the hill from there. I met a friend in Freeway Park, we chatted a bit, then I decided to be brave and ask her a question I rarely ask people. 

Her husband died last winter, but I’ve seen her out and about in our retirement community since then, and she looks “fine.” By this, I mean that she is dressed as smartly as ever, seems always to have a destination in mind, and simply looks as she always has. But frankly, I’m curious about how people deal with the death of a spouse, so I asked her how she is with life alone. Without hesitating, she said, “I hate it. I really hate it.” 

“Wow,” I said, “I’m glad I asked because you always look fine, but I don’t know how you could be.” “No,” she said, “I really miss him. I miss the things we used to do together. Everyday, I miss him. I don’t like this at all.” 

Not an hour later, I was leaving the laundry room on our floor and bumped into another friend. I say friend, but in neither case was this someone I would call on for help. Yet, we are friendly to each other, and we chat from time to time. Again, I asked this friend how she was. “I’m finally starting to feel more like myself again,” she said. The last time I’d seen her, it was near noon, and she’d just gotten dressed and left her apartment, still looking a bit disheveled. This time, she was brighter and told me she’d started taking an antidepressant. A closer friend than I had told her she really seemed depressed and needed to get help. Fortunately, she trusted this friend enough that she followed through and did find help. She said the pills were kicking in, and she was doing better.

Those two encounters made me wonder how many other people I pass in the halls or see in the dining room or lounge each day are not “fine” no matter what they say. I rarely tell people when I’m down in the dumps, and I’m sure most of us are pretty good at passing for fine. So how is it that we can not see that some of us need more than a “Hi, how are you?” in passing. 

Many of the 500 residents here had friends or relatives living here when they moved in. We did not. Neither did the friend who was depressed. And we did not find it easy to make new friends here. Yes, there are plenty of activities that we can join in. We have exercise classes, speakers and programs, committees galore. (That is we did until Covid. We’re just starting to get back to a semblance of normal.) I’ve volunteered for a few things, but I haven’t made close friends from those ventures. I have one good new friend here. One. How many others are in the same boat? 

I’m not sure if there’s a fix for this conundrum. But I think we should ponder it. Residents who moved to Seattle to be near children or grandchildren still need friends here. Unlike college, when we were all looking for friends, not everyone here needs new friends. But those of us who do, don’t have an easy way of advertising that fact. And people who’ve moved in to join an existing cadre of friends or family don’t need to reach out. 

At the very least, I will try to be more attentive when I ask how people are doing. Perhaps I’ll follow up with another question or two and give them an opportunity to open up a bit if they choose to do so. And maybe I’ll open up a bit. Truth be told, I don’t always share much during down times when I could really use a friend, and I’m guessing others don’t either. So I will need to experiment. I’ll report back.

We Went To Church

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We went to church last Sunday. While the rest of you were doing whatever you do on Sunday mornings, we were being dazzled by a service very reminiscent of how Orthodox services were in the old days. The Holy Resurrection Orthodox Church in Kodiak, is the oldest Orthodox community in the Americas. Founded in 1794, it no longer carries the “Russian Orthodox” designation; rather it is part of the Orthodox Church in America. The OCA was formed during the cold war in order to clearly separate the Russian churches here from the hierarchy in the Soviet Union. 

The Kodiak church is thriving. Picture a modest meeting room with at least 50 people milling around. In years past, men and women stood on separate sides of the church. Today, there was some separation. One man stood on the women’s side. Several women were on the men’s side, but they were with their husbands. (Yes, they were standing. A few folding chairs were along the sides and each side had a pew in the back, but most were standing.

Kids of all ages were milling around squealing, crawling, toddling, running around the adults, begging to be held, being handed from one adult to another, climbing upstairs and going in and out the front doors. Older kids tried to mind the younger kids with little success. As a teen, I tended the nursery in our prim, protestant church so as to keep these little distractions away from the serious business of the adults. But this chaos is the way it is still in many Orthodox services. 

White women mostly wore long dresses with their hair tied back with a scarf knotted behind their neck. Very Russian peasant style. Native women often didn’t have a scarf or long dress. Men looked perfectly normal, but there were lots with long beards and some with long hair. The service lasted two hours so adults took breaks now and then, going outside to visit on the lawn or use the social room in the basement. Kodiak has a seminary a few blocks away, so there were also several men dressed in monk attire. 

The service was in English, but honestly, it was hard to tell. Everything is sung or chanted except the sermon, so it was hard for me to understand it. Perhaps, if I attended regularly, I’d begin to catch on, but I’m not sure anyone cared what was being said. The interior, which is filled with icons, was also full of lighted candles ($2 to $500). All of the principal characters of the drama, and there were a lot of them – men, of course – were outfitted in green robes with gold trim. (I think the colors change for certain holidays). A wooden panel (iconostasis) separates the congregation from the secret work of the men in green. Only the priest can come and go through the center doors; all others must use side doors when coming and going to perform their various duties during the service. 

There was so much repetition and so much kissing of cheeks and icons, and swinging the incense, that it felt as though the record was stuck and someone needed to tap the needle to move on. A small choir, about 3-4 parishioners and monks, played an important role, exchanging parts with the priest throughout the service. The congregation chimed in occasionally with “Kyrie Eleison” (I always thought it meant Christ is Risen, but I looked it up and apparently it means Lord have Mercy), usually repeated three times. 

About 75 minutes into the service, the priest came out to deliver the sermon. Most of those who were standing immediately sat down on the floor. I’ve never seen this before, but maybe I never lasted long enough to get to the sermon. Nick thought the sermon was overly long. He has always said that he liked his father’s sermons, which were apparently shorter. This sermon was based on the scripture about Christ causing a blind man to see. (Must have faith!) But it went on with a tale about a venture to Monk’s Lagoon on a nearby island. The priest was taking a few dignitaries, but the water was too rough to land. He was hoping God would part the waves just long enough for them to get ashore, but it didn’t happen. However, they went to a calmer part of the island, got ashore, and wonderful things happened there. Moral: Maybe God has something better in store for you than whatever it is that you want.

Eventually, they got to communion, and I was shocked to see jugs of grape juice and small paper cups. People went to the priest, who held out a spoon, presumably with the blood of Christ. Did he drop a tiny bit onto their tongues? I couldn’t tell, but perhaps the grape juice and paper cups were a nod to the fact that Covid is still very present in the community. In the church of my youth, we never had wine for communion; it was always bread and grape juice and was strictly symbolic of the body and blood of Christ. 

After the sermon and communion, there were announcements, a lot of them. Some newborns are in the NICU in Anchorage, and a trip to Monk’s Lagoon is happening next week. The church in Kodiak houses the relics of St Herman, who lived at Monk’s Lagoon; the relics are a big deal to this parish. 

We had a few short conversations with people after the service. It really is a vibrant congregation, Anglo and native people both. One baby looked as though he might have a black father, but black people are not common here. There is, however, a Coast Guard Station with approximately 6000 people stationed here. That brings the total population to about 13,000. 

Other than church, we’ve driven all of the 100 miles of roads on the island. It is absolutely stunning. It looks like a tropical paradise, but much of the vegetation is deciduous, so it is quite different most of the year. We have had spectacular weather. Two cloudy days, but upper 50’s to upper 60’s everyday. We’ve turned in the car, so we’ll be walking to the museums in town and chatting with people until we bring some lovely Kodiak weather home with us on Thursday. 

Update: We actually won’t go the museums. On Monday, we both tested positive for Covid. We stood at the back and wore masks during the entire church service, so we likely didn’t spread it to anyone there. We probably caught the bug during an extended wait for our food in a local diner. We’ve been so cautious about eating out, but let our guard down in order to chat with a relative by marriage. We are not very sick, but this is still making hash of the end of our trip.