Sunday Morning ~ Knowing Persons

Cosadziwa ndi nkhondo, adausa nkhondo pa dziwe. ~ The “unknowing person” is trouble, he sought shelter from the war by hiding (drowning) in a pool of water.

~ Chewa proverb

September 26, 2021

Hi Everyone,

I used to tell women in labor, “You can waste your energy complaining that it hurts, or you can accept that this is how it is and save your strength to push the baby out.” I feel like this is where we are. We need to stop wasting our energy with complaints about fighting the same battle over and over, accept the situation as it is, and push the patriarchy out.

In 1981 I was just back from Peace Corps. I had a one year old baby and a husband starting undergraduate school. We found a rental house we could barely afford in a rural town in western Massachusetts: uninsulated, drafty, and so cold during the winter the pipes froze regularly and the dog’s water froze on the kitchen floor. I got a job as a visiting nurse in Holyoke, about a thirty-five minute drive. We bought a used Volkswagon with our readjustment allowance and moved into our home. I was making six dollars and twelve cents per hour, pregnant with our second child, and supporting our family. Because we were poor, Joe’s tuition at the state school was covered with grants and a couple of small loans. We had hoped to buy an unfinished house selling for thirty thousand dollars on a nice piece of property as the mortgage payment would have been less than our rent, but we had little for a down payment and with my tiny salary we couldn’t get a mortgage. I managed to arrange to work the evening shift so we could minimize babysitting costs. I’d drive our son to the college campus and wait outside Joe’s classroom, hand our son to him and run back to the car to get to work. Other days he’d take the car to school, get home and leave it running in the driveway as I waited on the doorstep to jump in.

It was the beginning of the Reagan raping of the disadvantaged and we missed the financial boat. We had friends buying houses with family help and turning them over for a huge profit a year or two later. Health care was turning into what felt like the Walmart of the times: anything for profit. At the Visiting Nurse Association we kept people on our caseload long after they should have been discharged as long as their insurance would continue to pay. Others in need went without care if they had no insurance. We had to be creative with the charting to make the patient seem dependent on us. I’d argue at staff meetings that one patient or another could change his own dressings; that he was completely competent and could reach his leg. After several of these meetings my supervisor pulled me aside and said in a low voice, “Linda, I am a conservative republican and I agree with all the budget cuts being made in this country. But this is a business and we rely on the income.” This was my nursing supervisor milking the system she accused welfare mothers of milking. It was the beginning of my disillusionment and disgust with our system and the people who run it. Many conservative health care executives  and practitioners rail against the uninsured because it makes their lives difficult. Yet, without a hint of shame, they milk the system for their own profit. I worked in that system for another forty years and witnessed sexual harassment that would land people in prison now, downright sanctioned fraud, and overprescription of unnecessary (and dangerous) medication. All for profit.  Sickening. It’s worse now. I quit when I financially could and when my self-respect demanded. I felt I was being complicit by staying but conflicted not offering care to the vulnerable women going without. Dangerous people were practicing medicine and they were knowingly tolerated. Women suffered and it’s worse now. The greed machine can’t get enough. And yes, I’ve heard the arguments that not all doctors or CEOs are like this, blah blah blah. This is true, but they knowingly tolerate the ones who are. It’s just like the argument for the police going on now. We need to face this.

So what to do? As rural hospitals eliminate maternity care because it is “too expensive”, women are put at higher and higher risk. And now they cleverly send out bounty hunters instead of funding health care. I believe the perpetrator is stronger but also women’s wisdom wider. As scary as the machine against women is right now, the tactics are stale, transparent, and they don’t know their enemy. We owe a lot to women who have stood up to this machine. They have raised strong daughters who are smart, powerful, and refuse to be controlled. I think of the scene from Ghandi when the British governor asked incredulously, “You don’t expect Britain to just hand over independence do you?” And Ghandi replies “That’s exactly what I expect, because you cannot control a population who refuses to be controlled.” I see women right there, facing a patriarchy that cannot control a population who refuses to be controlled. Let them drown themselves. They cannot win this. 

From The Art of War by Sun Tzu:

If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. 

If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. 

If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.

We know the enemy and we know ourselves, they know neither.

In contemplating where to donate, I’ve decided on Powered by the People because Texas is capable of electing legislators and a governor who actually represents the majority.

What We Do

And Maine Healthcare Action because we need health care for everyone in this country and Maine is capable of setting that example for other states to follow.

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Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Weaving a New Net

Ukonde uyambira ku bwakale. ~ You start weaving a new net using the old one.

~ Chewa proverb

September 19, 2021

Hi Everyone,

I tried to find a proverb relating to birthdays and, finding none, am going to conclude birthday celebrations are a western thing. Many elders in Malawi and Congo had no idea when they were born. When asked their age they’d reply “adult”. When asked when their child was born women would reply, “After the rain.” or “During the dry season.” We’d count the baby’s teeth and add six months to get an estimate of age. When life depends on subsistence farming the calendar isn’t important; the rains coming and going are. I’m not sure I ever had a conversation about birthday celebrations with any of my Malawian friends either. I thought about it this weekend as the calendar told me I am now eligible for Medicare. That’s a big reason for celebration in my book and I’m hoping I’ll see it for all our citizens during my lifetime, no matter their age.

Birthdays were not big in my house growing up. They were noted and celebrated with cake for desert, traditional candles, and song but there were neither parties nor many presents. We usually got some clothing and money which had to go into our bank account. For me it was always a little disappointing. When I started working as a midwife and was present at births I started wondering why we celebrated the baby and not the mother that day? She worked really hard and deserves recognition. I began the tradition of sending my mother flowers on my birthday thus eliminating expectations. Then I’d treat myself on each of my children’s birthdays. This made more sense to me. But milestone birthdays seem to come with greater responsibility.

Early in our marriage my husband and I would daydream about our future and create fantastic scenarios. We started out small, like eating lobster every wedding anniversary (that was before we moved to Maine and lobster was still a treat). We planned to turn forty in Venice and when that year came my mother came to stay with the kids and we headed off to that fabulous city then biked around Tuscany. (As I write this I realize I have a lot to pay forward). For our fiftieth birthdays we planned to bike across the country. This idea was hatched when we were twenty-two and turning fifty seemed a few light years away. The bike trip didn’t happen. Our marriage had ended abruptly five years before and though I had rehabilitated myself into a functioning person again, turning fifty was a painful reminder of what dreams were flushed deep into the sewer system. The financial instability with losing an income did not allow for a six month sabbatical for a cross-country bike trip. I lowered the bar and decided to run a half marathon, something well out of my comfort zone. This was not a superhuman challenge but something I’d never done and it provided me reassurance that I wasn’t over the hill. (This is my version of self care.) There was a half marathon in town on the very day of my fiftieth birthday so it was all very convenient. I threw myself a big party to boot.

Now I’m thinking about the next stage of life and what to make of it. When my grand daughter asked me how old I was turning, she cringed when I told her sixty-five, as if I’d told her she needed an injection. “Oh no!” she said in a sad way. I asked what the problem was?  “I don’t want you to die.” she said, which was very touching. I hugged her and told her I thought it would be a long time before I died, not that anyone knows. I remember being eight and thinking forty was old, sixty was ancient, and eighty was a rare and exclusive club. Now I look back on how quickly the last twenty-five years passed and think I should get busy planning that bike trip.  

I’ve had dear friends with me the past weeks and we’ve had lots of discussions about rituals, birthdays, and how we incorporate our past into our future. Like when I turned fifty, this is not where I expected to be right now. The pandemic tossed a big wrench into my professional plans. But I’m lucky and privileged to be able to stop and think about how I can start weaving a new net. It’s exciting to think of this as a beginning with a better stocked tool kit, gratitude for all I have, and a wider view of what’s behind.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ What We Agree To

Khoza lipita ndi mwini dzanja. ~ The ivory bangle goes if the owner of the hand agrees.

~ Chewa proverb

September 12, 2021

Hi Everyone,

A friend from Peace Corps/Seed has been visiting for the past two weeks and we’ve been going non-stop. It’s given me another opportunity to tune out current events and focus on the beauty of this state. The Texas news broke just before she arrived and I balanced sinking into despair with preparing for a camping/ hiking adventure wondering what to do next in this forever fight for reason and equality. I wrote a blog last week but didn’t post it. It was a sarcastic tirade about the patriarchy and it felt redundant and not particularly well written. I let it go and left for Baxter State Park hoping we had all we needed for a week in the wilderness and my noisy breaks would hold out on the dirt roads. The three hour drive gave me time to think.

I thought of Texas as a spoiled child making more and more outrageous demands. I don’t have much tolerance for unreasonable demands. Those who expect more than they deserve or earn irritate me, especially when the demands bankrupt others emotionally and physically. They make everyone miserable. It’s just so Texas right now, throwing a fit in the grocery checkout line when we say no to more candy. They can scream all they want but we have the wallet and the car keys. I want to leave them there and let them walk home, if they can find the way. 

Then I think about generalizing and how I rail against that when it applies to race or religion. I realized I was doing this with Texas hoping the whole state goes down in flames. There are many, many good people there who are ashamed of what their state has come to. Believe me, we were there in Maine for eight years. There is a powerful group needing a comeuppance but I need to stop blaming the whole state. The challenges are not insurmountable. I need to reframe my thinking. I am making a conscious effort to describe the governor and republican legislators in my disgust, not the state as I have been. This took focus as civilization retreated in my rearview mirror.

Mount Katahdin is the highest peak in Maine and the beginning or end of the Appalachian Trail. It is a sacred place to the Wabanaki people and to many who have experienced it. It’s short compared with mountains of the western United States, but it is a challenging climb with a unique summit with a ridge that spans a little over a mile. That ridge is narrow with steep drop offs to each side. It’s called the Knife Edge and is spectacular. Crossing it is not for the feint hearted or acrophobic. My friend Polly was up for it and we set out on Tuesday which looked weather-wise to be the best for completing the circuit. The first three miles are a pleasant mountain hike to the cirque where Chimney Pond marks the start of the steepest ascent. We were there in good time and I thought we’d make the circuit well before dark, have time for a bit of a swim even! But when we talked with the ranger, he was discouraging people from doing the Knife Edge, or even summiting. It’s often a windy mile up there and can be dangerous. The winds were blowing with 30-40 mph gusts. We pondered. Should we try again the next day? Predicted sunny but windier, we ruled that out. It’s a process to even get to the trailhead with a 4:45 a.m. start and doing that two consecutive days without a guarantee wasn’t attractive. We decided we could at least make ti to the summit and decide if we wanted to cross or just turn around and come back the way we came.

We decided against going up the Cathedral Trail (my favorite). It is very steep and very exposed and the winds would make that unpleasant. We went up the Saddle, which is almost as steep but less exposed. It was a challenge and all the way up I thought, ugh, this is going to be the easy way down if we can’t do the knife’s edge, and it won’t be easy. It was very wet from the previous day’s thunderstorms we thoroughly enjoyed from the porch of our cabin. The aftermath of that rain wasn’t as pleasant, but we made it to the saddle with another mile to the summit on loose stones. As soon as we crested, the wind about took our skin off. I pulled my down jacket out of my pack and if I hadn’t held it with both hands I would never have seen it again. I told Polly we were not doing the knife’s edge in that wind. She asked if it would be worse than going down that same trail? I knew what she meant. That was not an attractive thought either. We decided to wait and see what it was like at the top. 

The next mile was a cold, windy trudge. We were engulfed in a cloud so there was no view unfortunately. The view makes it all easier. I willed the cloud to move but it didn’t. Tiny and vulnerable humans that we are, it’s humbling. The landscape is majestic and must be respected. We make our decisions and pay the price or reap the reward. 

At the summit we nestled between boulders to eat our lunch and drink our hot tea. We took photos. We sat to decide which way to go. The wind had subsided a little but who knew when that would kick up again? Polly asked again, would it really be worse to cross the knife edge if we went slow? 

If I had been with anyone else I might have said yes, but I knew her mountain skills and strength. I was fairly confident of my own if we went slow. Again, I knew what was ahead and I have heard horror stories of unprepared overconfident people trying to get over in bad weather. I had no desire to spend the night up there. I like reading those thrillers but am not keen to be the protagonist. We agreed to turn around if we felt unsafe or unable. We started and it felt like the right choice though the wind was fierce and the rocks slippery. It took a lot of energy to stay upright. I started thinking when we’d past the point of no return that going the direction we were, the hardest part is at the end where there is a very steep “chimney”. I started thinking I’m not sure I’ve ever done that section without help. My legs are short and I’ve needed a push up that section. Don’t think, I told myself. Look at what is in front of you. The clouds parted occasionally and the view opened slightly and what was ahead was strikingly beautiful and terrifying. Sections looked impossible to traverse. The winds blew in gusts and we crouched on all fours, very slowly making progress. Each section we crossed I thought, it’s amazing what we can do if we only look at the bit in front of us. Focus. Progress. Stay strong. Nourish. Encourage. 

By the time we got to the chimney I was spent. I wasn’t sure I could hoist myself up those vertical boulders. Don’t think. Polly got up and I handed her my backpack. I asked her to stay close just for reassurance, knowing she could not haul me up. But she cheered me on and that helped. No choice, just do it. I checked my hand grips ten times. I knew once I stated to haul myself up there was no going back. Falling wasn’t an option either. When I made it to the ledge we rested a minute and it all became clear. I looked back and marveled at what we accomplished. Stopping hadn’t been an option. Bemoaning what’s ahead only wastes energy and we needed every bit. I thought up there in that cloud that the Texas fight is like this. We can summit and cross looking at the steps in front of us. Failure to descend is not an option. This scary, rocky path is crossable if we focus on getting past the dangerous part then we can relish the way down.  

Love to all,

Linda