Sunday Morning ~ Where the Fire Stops 

Akulu-akulu ndi m’dambo mozimira moto. ~ Elders are (like moisture) in the marsh where the fire will go out.

~ Chewa proverb

October 25, 2020

Hi Everyone,

I had huge anxiety swings this week; you could chart a graph by the news cycle. It’s been a real challenge balancing staying informed and staying sane. To boot, I watched The Social Dilemma and consequently spent one completely sleepless night. I also attended a deescalation training and, though learned and practiced new skills, got anxious about having to need them. Wow. What times we live in. To address this anxiety I turned off the notifications on my phone and stopped responding to bait set out by those I politically disagree with. This has helped. Cognizant of the danger of listening only to those I agree with, of being tribal, of living in the bubble of my choice, I still make this choice as a mode of self care. I’m aware I might lose perspective when I shut others out, but this week it seemed a better choice than alcohol. The shortening days, the colder nights, the uncertainty, the threats, the downright cheating and blatant lies, good lord, how can anyone be faulted for pulling the covers up over their head? 

I debated watching the debate. I feared doing so alone would be unbearable. I miss having family here to share political drama. In my past life, electoral nail biting with my spouse was bonding. It’s hard to be alone during these times and am nostalgic for the political repartee I’d have with my ex. I can not imagine being part of a couple with opposing views right now. Holy cow. So I relied on social media and felt like I was watching with friends. This technology is truly amazing, no matter what horrors lurk out there. I held my breath during much of it. I’d had an opinion that Biden should just refuse another debate, considering the base comportment of his opponent. But then I thought, he will be the leader of the free world (please God) and will need to deal with adversity. He must do this. He must show us how he handles it. This shit is real. And I have got to say, my anxiety diminished along with time left to watch. 

Biden was not my first choice of candidates in the primary. He was not my second choice. But right now, I am extremely glad he won. I watched and listened and could feel my heart rate stabilizing. I registered a deep feeling of confidence that he is the one to lead us out of this. Yes, he is an old white male, a characteristic I originally railed against. I’m tired of the patriarchy. But, he comforted me. He exuded a calm and wisdom I wanted to wrap myself in. I trust him. I liked when he admitted past mistakes. I held my breath as he stuttered and pulled himself out of it. I admire him and realize I knew little about him before now. I believe he is a good role model. I wondered who coached him in debate prep. I saw how the effort paid off. I thought about his transition team and all the brainpower, energy, and positivity working toward a reasonable recovery.  

I was part of a volunteer group in Malawi in 2016. We sent in our absentee ballots without worrying they wouldn’t arrive or be counted. We were all shocked and devastated by the results. A week later we attended a mid-term conference in the capital to share project status, define goals, discuss cultural issues, and group support. It was a weird conference. It was low energy––fitting for our moods. The future of Peace Corps and the State Department was the elephant in the room we didn’t acknowledge.The Blantyre volunteers had taken the five hour bus ride there and and on the return trip the bus got a flat tire about halfway home. We ended up on the side of the road for several hours. I sat with a colleague the age of my kids, a brilliant woman early in her cardiology career. We talked about our anxiety about the election results. She was about to listen to a podcast, and I swear, I did not even know then what a podcast was. She handed me one of the earphones and told me to listen. It seemed an incredibly intimate gesture; I thought we looked like siamese twins. The podcast was both educating and entertaining me, hilariously. It was everything I needed to hear. I thought these guys were beyond brilliant! How can you entertain, educate, speak for everyone’s frustration and anger in a way that doesn’t turn people away? Are you just born with this talent? Over and over again for the past four years, I have been grateful for that flat tire. I never miss an episode of Pod Save America. Even the ads are funny, or at least not obnoxious. It’s just brilliant. The hosts are former Obama speech writers and aides, are incredibly knowledgable, progressive, and realistic. They always end with a suggestion for what we personally can do to help change things at that moment. 

Friday, they interviewed Biden and it was both booster shot and balm. Yes, he has long and winding answers, but I found myself, again, grateful to this man who has served this country for a very long time and deserves a rest. Instead, he is rising to the call to take on the most difficult job in the world. Here I sit, comfortable and anxious, doing my paltry part and I think, he really is the perfect person for this time. I’m excited about his cabinet and those he’ll surround himself with. After listening to him I feel less anxious about a peaceful transfer of power. I believe it will happen. My heightened fear of violence is soothed. He knows what he is doing. He is the elder where the fire stops. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Arrow We Look At

Mubvi woyang’anira ulowa m’cikope. ~ The arrow you only look at, hits your eye.

~ Chewa proverb

October 18, 2020

Hi Everyone,

Last evening I opened a bottle of kombucha and it exploded. I don’t mean bubbled over, I mean, exploded. I had just finished baking bread and cleaning the kitchen. I was about to have a nice soak in the hot tub and thought a glass of kombucha would go well with that. The rain had stopped and the temperature was dropping. I took a bottle of my homemade brew off the pantry shelf and put it on the counter. I took a glass off the rack and flipped the metal thingy that holds the cork in place. I was prepared for a little pop, even a little spillover. I’d made a mess before with kombucha and, worried about wasting the precious contents, have put my mouth over the top to catch the foamy volcano. Thank God I did not do that last evening. I would be dead. I am always a bit cautious when I open a new bottle, but was not prepared for what happened with the lemon/lemongrass concoction. The top blew, and I mean BLEW, off. The contents of the bottle shot to the ceiling in one steady stream like a rocket. I watched the drippy mess cover my pots and pans hanging on the rack and stood in the sticky puddle on the floor. It was so shocking I could do nothing but say, “Oh my God!” over and over. I was on the phone with my friend had to switch to FaceTime just to show her what happened. She said, “You’re lucky it didn’t hit your eye.” The realization sunk in that if I had had my head over that bottle it would have blown my face off. I had that shudder you get when the near miss sinks in. Oh my God, what could have happened. I spent a fair amount of time imagining how I may have opened that bottle with my face over it. Or how it may have hit someone else (assuming there will be a post-pandemic time when someone else may be in the house). Shudder.

I did a quick clean up of the mess dripping off the ceiling. I took all the pots off the hanging rack and put them to soak. I wiped up the floor. I did all this immediately after the explosion. I wanted to contain the mess as quickly as possible. Then I sat in the hot tub and enjoyed the night sky. The clouds had cleared away and leaves had fallen, and I had an amazing view. My face was still attached to my head. Today I will start really cleaning as the initial wipe down was no where near adequate. I can imagine the fruit flies and ants organizing right now. No, today I will get the ladder out and really scrub. Then I will evaluate which of my kitchen tools really need to be there. I’ll clean them off and relegate them to the retired pile, thanking them for their service as I do. This will leave more space for what is useful to me right now. I know this second round of cleaning will also not be enough. I’ll have to wash the floor a third time, that’s how far the destruction spread. It’s ok. I’m under no illusion that cleaning up after a disaster, or even a mishap will be easy. But if I want it to be functional and useful for me, I’ll be happy to put the energy into it. I’ll breathe easier when it is finished and be extra careful when I open the next bottle.

This is how I want to feel on November 4th. I want the explosion to be a signal that the fermentation worked and worked well. We will have a mess to clean up but no sense wasting energy wailing about that. Just get to it and stop sticking to the floor. We’ll make things cleaner and brighter. And we need to be realistic that it will take more than one swipe. This will be a  long-haul clean up job. But unlike my kitchen, I won’t be working alone.

I mailed my letters to voters yesterday at the designated time. I don’t know how the date was calculated but I trust that someone knew what they were doing. I enjoyed writing a note to each person whose name conjured up an image for me of who they might be. I wondered what their circumstances were. I kept to the task and only wrote two or three sentences, but I thought about becoming pen pals with each one of them. I wanted to know their story, where they worked, how old they were, if they had kids. I wanted to share my story and see what kind of connection we might have. I know lots of people who wrote letters and imagine what a great web of interconnectedness we were making. Kudos to the ones who organized all this. May it save the post office and our country. May it lay some groundwork for the clean up job ahead.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ I’m Speaking

Cenjere-cenjere sakupha nsomba, akupha nsomba n’kombe. ~ Being boastful does not kill the fish, it is the net which kills the fish.

~ Chewa proverb

October 11, 2020

Hi Everyone,

One of my biggest frustrations as a kid was not being allowed to speak. If I were upset by some injustice, I simply cried. Making a point while crying is very inefficient. My mother would say, “I’m not going to listen to you if you are crying.” as if crying were the problem not the complaint. I’d feel like exploding and walk away, crying. On a good day I’d muster my strength and come back with my tears safely beneath the surface. On other days I’d just hate myself as I cried. As I got older and didn’t have answers to make a rational argument, I couldn’t bear the rebuttal or the humiliation so would cry in frustration. Later, in romantic relationships, I was told I was too angry, didn’t know what I was talking about, or the conflict was my fault. I’d cry, withdraw back into my shell and the world of self-loathing. Crying was a good release for frustration but was just so ineffective for communicating. I’d scream, “I’m trying to tell you something!!” I looked like a maniac. I hated that I was behaving that way, and often resorted to breaking something instead of hurting myself or someone else. To this day I mourn the loss of my favorite platter. It was the perfect size, the perfect green, the perfect target of my fury. I kept a fragment of that platter to remind me never to destroy my own stuff again. What was the point of that? It only reinforced that my anger was out of control while he sneered with an I-told-you-so look that made me want to smash his face. I’d walk away, crying. 

I needed a coach. I needed someone to guide me to the sweet spot of point-making without the violent need to smash something to announce that I AM SPEAKING! Well, really I was yelling not speaking, but only because when I was speaking he wasn’t listening. Or he was listening, heard it, and didn’t like what I was saying. Fair enough. We’re all allowed. But then the taunting would start, “You don’t know what you are talking about,” or “Here you go again, same old argument.” in that dismissive tone that was sure to escalate the encounter. His message: “I’m nice, you are angry and unreasonable.” Same old same old. Be quiet, do as you are told, don’t question me, go back in your shell. This is what I heard. This is the flashback I had during the debate on Wednesday. I felt that same fury as I watched that smug man belittle both the moderator and his opponent with his insincere gratitude for the question. The way he said her name in his initial address with the superior expression that screamed, “I am white, I am rich, I am male, I am beyond your reach.” Then, I watched another women, from another culture, wiser than me, navigate an insulting encounter under pressure and confidently state, “I am speaking.” in a tone that commanded respect. It was regal, confident, alluring, beautiful. Two simple words. Damn girl! 

I’m of a generation that missed the boat of early girl empowerment. Our childhood was filled with sappy role models succumbing to the male savior. Even as a kid with rich fantasies I knew that would never be me. Maybe that’s why I loved the Nancy Drew books, until we were told those were no good to read anymore. Something about the way they were written. I never did understand what that problem was. I often wistfully fantasized how different life would have been, growing up female knowing from the beginning of time that your voice matters. You wouldn’t have to yell, or cry, or stamp your feet, or break things. You could just say calmly, “Excuse me, I’m speaking.” 

Imagine that.

Love to all, 

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Being Bullied

Bisani matenda, maliro tidzamva. ~ You can hide the sickness, but we will find out at the burial.

~ Chewa proverb

October 4, 2020

Hi Everyone,

I’d been wondering what the October surprise would be, fearing a new armed conflict somewhere, though the month is still young. Gotta admit, this wasn’t on my list, considering the literal and figurative bubble he keeps himself wrapped in. I didn’t believe it when I first heard. I figured it was some meat thrown to the media to get their focus off the house of cards falling around him. I thought I’d believe it when he’s dead. I imagined him spewing fantasy about a remarkable comeback, stating from first-hand experience that it’s not that bad. Expecting some kind of national sympathetic rallying. Gag me. But, considering the evidence, I now believe he’s sick and more than just mentally. At least that part of this spectacle is true. How severe his condition, who knows? When we’ve been lied to this much it astounds me that anyone believes anything. My appreciation of investigative journalism has reached new heights. I’ve lived with liars. I long ago adopted an I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it attitude.

Tuesday’s debate seems ages ago. I was laughing at first, the absurdity and insanity were straight out of an SNL skit. How do you even parody this stuff? Then I started feeling scared and ran to the cabinet for a shot of whiskey. The bully. The mean aggressive abuser. It became traumatic to watch, though, I couldn’t tear myself away. Chris Wallace reminded me of an abused wife begging him to stop, uselessly telling him he’d get what he wanted. I went into one of my childhood fantasies imagining the abuser in a glass cage, raging away but unable to get out. We could be safe. The beast would be contained, petted occasionally by his keepers, fed, watched. Studied. 

I looked for proverbs having to do with bullying but couldn’t find one so searched for ones relating to sickness and this is the only one I could find. I wish I could sit and talk with a Malawian to give me context. I miss the long rides where I could ask the driver to explain such things as he understood them. I love how they relate these proverbs to everyday life. This one has to do with truth obviously, but hearing them describe how to use them in conversation is a rich experience. I miss listening to their wisdom. I miss listening to them put their worries into God’s hands. I’d love to ask them how they deal with bullies.

When I was in sixth grade I was ambushed walking home by three boys, about my size. One pushed me from behind and two stood in front of me. It’s funny now as I think of it, I don’t remember being scared, only angry. I gave them a look of rage, which, apparently scared them and they started to run. I chased them, jumped on one of them from behind, knocked him down, and started wailing on his back with his face in the snow. “You want to beat me up?” I yelled as I beat him in the back. He didn’t even try to fight back, which, as I look back on it now, is pretty sad. He may have been put up to it. The others took off leaving this kid to take my beating. I got up to walk home, filling his hat with snow and throwing it at him as a parting shot. I never told anyone, never was bothered by them again, never felt bad about it. In fact, I felt good. Now that I think of it, they could have really hurt me if that was their intention, but it was probably just an attempt at bullying. If it had happened in the schoolyard I may have acted differently but there was no one else around. If people could have analyzed and judged my reaction I may have been the one punished for overreacting or being violent, or being “just as bad”. Funny, I never felt that way.

Love to all,

Linda