Hillary Clinton, Not Okay, Vote, Women

Not Okay. Again.

Last week I was making a return at a Nordstrom’s store situated in the northern suburbs of Seattle. All was very quiet on Thursday afternoon at 4:30 PM on the third floor. I was the only customer in sight. My back was to the escalators and while exchanging information with a very young saleswoman I heard it. Right behind me.

“In my day we didn’t stack women’s underwear on tables for everyone to see,” he growled. I could feel him a few feet away. Those little hairs on our neck? They really do prickle when adrenalin flows.

I smiled at the gal, got very still then heard closer behind me,

“Seriously, you bitches need to do something about this.”

I looked her in the eye, did not turn around and said, “Does he come here often?”

She continued to smile and said without missing a beat,

“Oh, thanks goodness, I thought he was with you. No. Never seen him before.”

I laughed too loudly and said “Ah. No.”

And that’s when I felt a very new feeling. I wasn’t scared. I was completely enraged. Expansively enraged.

He moved next to me, fiddled with some pamphlets, commented on our vaginas. I folded my hands around my bag and turned to face him. I was seriously sweating and ready to deck him. This was not ok. Again. The language, the attitude, coming into our space — ladies lingerie for god’s sake. Like a bad movie rerun after all the news, the endless pussy jokes, the locker room talk from Donald Trump. Not. Okay. At. All.

Then he swiveled, circled the sales counter, got very close to another saleswoman and started to talk in a low voice. Not breaking her smile, my saleswoman asked for my signature, then answered a phone call.

“Yes, I did. White male, pony tail, white shirt, back of the lingerie department. Thank you.”

I looked at her in total respect.

“What did you do? I asked, keeping an eye on him.

“No need for phone calls,” she smiled. “We just have to press a button.”

I was flooded for love for this young woman, her professionalism, her smile, her calm. And deeply saddened that standing in our women’s sanctuary we had to protect ourselves. Again.

I looked her in the eye and said,

“You are awesome.”

As I headed to the escalator two men took got off and split to either side of me and headed to the back.

Not ok. Again. But here’s what is happening since Donald Trump opened his mouth: Women are not scared, we are really, really angry. We are people, not objects of filth, voyeurism, sexual predatory behavior and let me emphasize, this behavior is not acceptable anywhere. Not in a bus, not in a house, not in the street, not at my feet.

Know the difference between OKAY and NOT OKAY. Or you might get smacked by a sweating writer with a bag full of books and bras. And I guarantee it will hurt.

pussy

 

 

 

 

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Changes, Mini Cooper, Vote

Pie?

 

Funny how stress works: it wasn’t the Mini dealer that rendered my car unusable after the yearly check up yesterday with massive brake failure last night. Nor the rental car run, torrential rain or chest cold. No — it was the raisin smushed in my slipper sole that finally caused me to lean against the sink and wail this morning.

Is it just me or are we all a little touchy right now?

I feel a collective traumatic response in everimg_0221one — the stores, the street, the coffee shops. Distraction and sharpness. I have begun to turn away from the television, the radio, the newspaper. My faith in people is being tested as we head to the elections. Maybe the mechanic was listening to Fox News when he replaced my brake fluid.

As I sit and wait for the tow truck ordered by the Seattle Mini dealership I am having difficulty focusing on my work. My chair has been empty for a few days now, trying to beckon me back.

How do we get back to some sense of pride in our country and ourselves? I have no sense that whoever ends up less bloodied at the end of the November 8th Presidential elections will make me supremely happy. I just need this to be over. Having been raised in politics you will not see me make predictions, either. So what brings sunlight to this crappy run of media trolling and endless Facebook shots of Trumpkins?

You tell me. But I suspect a walk to the pie guy on Phinney and another espresso, some soothing yoga, a good movie or book reading may be the way. Self-preservation before destruction. Peace instead of danger. I am going to try removing myself from the chaos and not clicking on the updates all day long — limit reading the paper, the online sites, the running horrors under the newscasters. There doesn’t seem to be anything new.  How can any more revelations, debates or exposed tapes change who those candidates are?

You know who you are voting for– just please vote.

In the meantime, I recommend the holiday pumpkin pie with candied walnuts.  Or the bourbon butterscotch if you need more. And a scrubber brush for removing slipper raisins.

Meanwhile, my chair awaits.
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Friendship, Kansas, ovarian cancer, Suzanne Wedel

Lesson From A Friend.

Last weekend I traveled to North Newton, Kansas to attend a memorial service for my friend, Dr Suzanne Wedel, who died seven months ago from ovarian cancer. Her Kansas family and their mennonite kindness was astonishing; everyone hugged me, everyone I met — and there were so many! — was a cousin, schoolmate, teacher, or friend of Suzanne. I ate my weight in family Swiss chocolates, Zwieback rolls slathered in jam and cream cheese, sweet, swirly poppy seed cakes, dense orange and white cheese curds, drank gallons of iced tea. And the endless beauty of Kansas; black birds diving through indigenous grasses, soybean planted as far as my eyes could squint, traces of the ancient indian tribes in art and markers and the clouds.

I had anticipated this rich historic land. I had not anticipated that I would feel her standing next to me. In North Newton, Kansas, I had found the heart of her heart.

I saw her in her father’s smile, her brother’s laugh, her sister’s voice, her mother’s eyes.   I cried and laughed as friends and family reminisced about her antics from four-years old and beyond. They embodied her and she embodied them in every story. I see you, my friend.

I had goosebumps when I walked into her childhood home. After climbing the narrow staircase and ducking my head into her bedroom I swear she tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hey, let’s go rake those leaves!”I could hear her scamper out the house full of purpose. We know what she went on to do with that purpose — that little Kansas girl grew up to make a monumental impact on emergency medicine around the world. Just a year ago, she launched a fund to support research for ovarian cancer early detection , initiating steps to prevent ovarian cancer in her daughter, grandchildren and generations of women to come. She was beloved and respected from coast to coast. Her dedication to family, work and friends was tireless.

Suzanne raised the bar on living life from early on but especially during her illness. She demonstrated that every, single second we breathe we need to love and love and love. Each other and ourselves. And her essence, her care, her calm focused center formed right here under the eaves of this solid little white house. I saw her in the big sky, the massive oak trees, the sheltered porch, the family who loved her so. I missed her all over again in North Newton, Kansas. Hard.

When Suzanne was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, she called me and said, “You know. I don’t even have to tell you.” And I did know. The thirty-five years between her call and my mother’s same call had not changed the statistics for ovarian cancer survival, or even the drugs all that much. Our friendship was intense, loving and too short.

You know.

Grief is a strange and wondrous emotion that takes possession of us in so many different ways. Do not believe anyone who says there are time limits or any sort of statue of limitations on sadness after the loss of someone or something you hold dear. I will never forget her and know that sharp moments of grief will overwhelm me for years to come — seeing her children grow to adulthood, walk down the aisle, have their own babies, when our friends gather for chili during the holidays, when her teams win, when we sing Christmas carols.

There is a childhood story that circulates about Suzanne. Once when she was very young she announced that she would go to heaven first, then come back down and tell everyone how to get there. As I sat under the sparkling stained glass and soaring wood ceiling of the Bethel College chapel I knew one thing for certain: Every day of her life she had shown us how to get there.

This lesson from my friend will shape me forever.

Now I know where she is, here in the heartland of Kansas, skipping stones and running along the wide, warm sidewalk. And someday I will return to North Newton and tell her what’s happening, pat her favorite tree and thank her for reminding me what I do counts, each and every day.

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Wedel House, North Newton, Kansas.

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Choices, Hillary Clinton, Vote

Bite Me.

Tuesday, September 27 was my birthday. The day after more than 80 million people tuned in for the first presidential debate of 2016, a night that changed the decorum of politics forever. You can go on Facebook, Twitter, TV or NPR and listen to the debrief. Or not pay attention. Your choice.

I am going to talk about cookies.

At my daughter’s engagement party Saturday night we were served some amazing cookies.  Cut, styled and frosted imaginatively and deliciously. When was the last time you grabbed three cookies? I could not refrain or restrain. I ate a silver-leafed champagne bottle, a blushing bride and a handsome groom. Every bite divine.

Restraint is overrated at my age.

I wore a bubblegum pink dress with bell sleeves and a swingy hem. I had on flats and danced until two in the morning. I stuck to Bud Light. I didn’t care what I looked like or that I didn’t drink the Tequila punch. But when I walked in and saw those platters of cookies?

“Bite me,” they called. And I ate as many as I could.

And this election year I feel strongly about my candidate. I am making a choice to vote for Hillary Clinton and I don’t care if it is the same as your vote. America, we can either choose or snooze every four years. Which will you do this November?

Because this matters. 

I’m choosing. I’m voting. I’m talking. I’m biting into this, people.

Do it. This is not the time for restraint.

#Imwithher

She doesn’t bake, thank goodness. She needs to run the country instead.

Besides, I know where to get the best ones in town.

 

 

 

 

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Women

Notice.

A few months ago at a college reunion I told a woman I barely knew that she was beautiful. I had been so struck by her stunning calm, her sweet smile, her kindness to other people that day. Her face fell when she heard my words. She narrowed her eyes, checked sideways to see if her husband was listening, glared at me and hissed in a whisper,

“Don’t say that!”

And quickly walked away like I was toxic.

I tell my daughters and son they are beautiful always and forever because they are and always will be. They are my works of art, marvels of DNA and history and memories.

But we woman don’t say beautiful to each other. Well, women have said to me “you look great!” which I instantly translate to “you didn’t look so good the last time I saw you.” Then there’s “you’ve lost weight!” and I cringe because what I weigh is none of their business nor is their assessment of my body type sought after at any time.

We tell each other that we are dressed well, or our hairstyle looks good, or our shoes are glamorous. Exterior compliments. Men or the fashion industry or the magazines rate, weigh and place cultural values on our looks. But for a woman to call another beautiful, in a completely a-sexual manner –the kind of beautiful that is a state of being; not of hair, or clothes, or skin? Highly unusual.

Why don’t we — as women — acknowledge when another woman glows, or looks happy, or truly radiates beautiful?  Why do we let others be better judges?

Her fearful glare had warned me  “back off  you are embarrassing me, my husband won’t like that,” and indicated to me that no one had told her enough or, sadly, at all, that she was beautiful. After the reunion incident I decided more notice was necessary, not less.

Strangers hug me after I say it. Girls smile. Men (yes, I am not exclusive) kiss me on the cheek. Let me tell you something: you will feel as good as they do when you say “you are beautiful.”

A random stranger brought this home today. I was headed to an early ferry, my hair a mess, my jacket rumpled and not quite awake. The morning was so sweet, the coffee so perfect, my car smelled so like heaven packed with dahlias, sweet peas and apples that I had jumped into the car not caring at all about my appearance. I may even have been still wearing my sheepskin slippers.

The ticket lady handed back my change and said, “you are so beautiful, and so early in the morning.” I looked up at her and said “thank you” and cried all the way down the ferry dock.

It was nice to be noticed for the right reasons. It was even better to have a woman tell me.

Notice the beauty. Pass it on.

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“Carnation”, oil on canvas, Emma Dane Garfield 2015

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Changes

Details.

I am fresh off summer. Too tan and crunching sand in my closet. Today I aired sweaters and gazed with dismay at the soles of my feet. Waistbands are not my friend yet.

I brought some tokens home from summer holiday, tucked into pockets and the bottom of my duffle bag. Something to remind me of the light on the water, the lull of the crickets, the soul-warming smoothness of a summer day.

Rocks.

I was choosy. They had to be smooth. Just the right round. Just the right shade of grey. Warm when I picked them up. They had to fit in the palm of my hand with fingers closed or my palm open to the sky.

I often forget to look down and under my feet, I am so busy getting places. I talked sternly with myself on the last beach walk: slow down, take time, notice the details, remember this day, you don’t know when you will return.

Yesterday, I piled them on the edge of my writing desk, feeling a little guilty, a little bit like a thief. Little bits of mica I hadn’t noticed winked at me. I saw they weren’t just grey at all — veins of pink and white ran through and around them. I have already stacked them two different ways while thinking out a word. I worry the roundest one in my hand while I reread paragraphs.

I believe they will carry me through the darkening days of fall, just as they steadied me on the uneven shore. beachstone

Just five arbitrary stones lifted off the sand. I caught endless flak when everyone realized why my bags were so heavy. But there is a good chance that I will return them next summer, a gesture of good faith to that little beach. And say thank you.

I swear they still feel warm when I cup them in my hand.

 

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Changes

Reconstruction.

The sky is blushing like dry rosè tonight. I am packing up a family vacation feeling the usual mix of relief and regret, fatigue and rejuvenation. August had been action packed:  my Connecticut childhood home was sold and emptied, the eldest’s wedding has taken form, winter travel has been hashed out. What we are not doing is prodding a child along to get ready for school and writing a tuition check —  not one remains on an academic schedule this fall, 2016. The first time since 1990.

At first, a boulder of grief lodged under my clavicle when August began: things were not what they had been, or should be, or would be again. In Connecticut I leaned against a tree that shaded me when I read my first Nancy Drew. I photographed the weathered boards of my first pony barn to remember the texture of the two-hundred year old cedar. I ran my hand along the settled, lichen-grey stone wall I watched built, stone by stone, when I was six. I visited my small foot, imprinted in cement, 1964.

Who would remember the stories?

Ahead, there are no lacrosse schedules, student art shows, parents weekends.

Everyone now works the day after Thanksgiving.

The boulder grew unbearable as I followed the moving van out the driveway. Swallowing was impossible. Nothing would ever be the same. I steered the car north and didn’t know who to call.

But here’s this:

The words of 86 year-old Triathlon athlete and nun, Sister Madonna Buder.

“You carry your attitude with you…you either achieve or you self-destruct. If you think positively, you can even turn a negative into a positive.”

I have to reconstruct as time and life changes me. Positively and with purpose. Otherwise  I would never realize the potential of the next day, of myself and the potential of my family and friends. And that, I believe, would be a waste.

As I put away the beach towels, the old flip flops, the worn picnic blanket I think to myself September will be my month — my own reconstruction time, sharpened pencils, another quiet birthday, a wonderful engagement party is on the calendar, there will be travel and visits with good friends. Soon, I begin a new workshop in Seattle that pushes me to the next step.

A new type of promise this fall.

I sip my sunset-colored wine and watch the sky begin to deepen. I think of all the new opportunities. A fireball of excitement warms me from head to toe. The boulder dissolves.

All good.

SkyChunk

Cuttyhunk Island sunset, August, 2016

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Island, Uncategorized

Star light, Star bright.

I am on holiday where the stars are so bright my daughter and I didn’t need a flashlight last night. Olive could hop through the grass and hunt crickets along the roadway. The sky was actually crowded. We craned our necks and stubbed toes watching upwards, walking up a hill, silent for the beauty.

Here it is summertime and as the song goes the living should be easy. But we need rain in a bad way and forget social media. Have you noticed how the conventions escalated super-bad-form behavior on FB and Twitter? This week I have read a lot of good ‘take your finger off the keypad friend’ reminders. As well as a lot of ‘unfriending.’ A hearty dose of not very nice emoji, too. I turn on my phone and usually end up wincing.

When I first came to this island thirty years ago or so there was no technology: neither Internet, or cellphones, or television. One phone booth at the Fish dock. It worked just fine — I would liberally spray myself with bug spray, grab my piece of paper, walk down to the dock in the pitch dark and stand by the phone booth to await my turn to call in my groceries. This was fun, truth be told.

When I get here now I practice leaving my phone behind on walks and keeping it on silent. I remember to concentrate on what is happening around me. I am reminded on night walks like last night that I am very, very small. That I am part of a greater planet watched over by the sun, the sky, the stars and the moon.

Not to get too other-worldly here, but try this. Even in the city. Park the square of plastic and glass that bring you such distress and walk away — into the street, the back yard, the field.

I’m not saying this is easy. I have a love-hate-need-want relationship with my iPhone as great as anyone. But cast your eyes upwards and consider even that annoying drone. And let this sing though your head:
Star light, star bright, 
First star I see tonight, 
I wish I may, I wish I might, 
Have this wish I wish tonight.
(Anonymous)
I acknowledge answers aren’t that simple. But nothing ever hurt for asking.
Phone

Cuttyhunk Island, August, 2016

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Uncategorized

Sing We.

I did not want to jump into the fray of what has been monopolizing the media this week. Nope. Jumped out in the spring with the only promises to remain true to myself. But I would like to talk about you, me and a glass of wine. And singing.

This morning, two headlines were completely unavoidable on my email and I loved how much they contradicted each other and made me think. NPR, New York Times online and the print paper blasted this quote from the RNC:

“I AM YOUR VOICE.”

Well. You know who said that. And nope to that, too. Neither are you my voice, reader, or the guy expounding over his double latte next to me this morning at Cafe Vita or anyone else posting long diatribes on Facebook, which I do not mind reading because they remind me of the diversity I firmly believe in. I have no control over anyone’s words, but I do know myself.

Today’s poem by Mary Oliver (Blue Horses, Penguin Press, 2014) on The Writer’s Almanac reminded me of what I needed today. Titled,

“To Be Human Is To Sing Your Own Song”

and read aloud by Garrison Keillor in his unmatched tone. Click on it. Think.

Writers, thinkers, tinkers, we humans have achieved nothing if someone else tells us what to do, or think, or wear, or believe. Let’s remember We The People. Let’s remember the Constitution that says we instead of I. That is what has made us the USA.

Sing your own song, to yourself in the shower, to your dog on the grass, to the seagulls on the beach. Make it your own and stand on it. Stomp on it. Believe in yourself. Your instincts are right, for you.

Nope to the rug and the mist for me. But you know what? If that works for you, then I can’t wait to talk over a glass of Rosé and hear why. You can’t change my mind but you can expand it.

That’s what our human brains are for. Let’s use them.

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Olive and I found a friend on our morning walk. Random happy photo on this blog today.

 

 

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Uncategorized

After the last three days, I have renamed this blog post:”Resuscitation Is The Only Option.”

 

Angelpic

What is the first thing that comes to your mind here?

Well I stopped and stared and thought a while and this being Seattle, I allowed the possibility that this tree was rescued from demise and a neighbor was thanking an unknown… but then, no. This felt like a human rescue, a heroic passerby that knew to administer CPR, a stranger that then stepped back onto the sidewalk when 911 arrived. So the rescued painted this sign and hung it at the roundabout — which made me think bicycle wreck– and perhaps the stranger kept walking when she or he saw all was stable.

No name, no license plate, no record of this angel. Just a momentous moment of taking action.

I have a friend here in the city that was hit by a car a few months ago, a mess of braking and slamming and somersaulting and then — blacking out — an inability to recall details. Rattled passerby gave conflicting accounts, uninterested policeman wrote a one-line report, the ensuing hours in Group Health made this a lingering PTSD-like experience that has made him reluctant to take his bike out of the shed, unable to piece together what has scarred him.

What makes us good passerby, rescuers, observers and in the greater picture, responsible for others? Recently I have been unable to articulate how to take care of others in the wake of So. Much. Carnage. Since Orlando. And Medina. And Baghdad. And now, Baton Rouge. I know, with horror, I am not listing all the blood shed since June. Guns and more guns and more fire and more violence.

What do I do, some fifty-something gal working on her writing sitting in her nest so far from so much?

I start by looking closely — at myself, at the people around me, at the moss on the north side of the great tree that shades me as I type. How to take action, starting with myself?

At the coffee shop a few days ago I saw a man hunched over on the bench outside, weeping into his cell phone. Without a second thought I lay my hands on his shoulders, held him and pressed a little love into him for a few seconds. Then I kept walking.

It was my turn to make sure he knew he was not alone. It wasn’t CPR but it was action. Take some.

 

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