When I was a bartender at a grim restaurant located just outside the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel in New York City, I used to tell my customers stories. It passed the time, and it kept them from drunk-talking to me.

I’ve always been a storyteller. Of one kind or another. Growing up, I told my parents lots of stories. They usually centered around me and where I had been and who I had been with. That is, if they asked. In college I told myself stories, like that guy probably liked me even though he was insulting — and worse. Once on my own and doing what I wanted, the stories got more intense. They were like spells I would cast, concerning subjects like money, fame, and love. I told these stories to almost anyone who would listen. Then, in my adult life, I realized I had been telling myself a lot of stories that really didn’t ring true. I mean there’s nothing wrong with fictional story-telling. But when we publicize them as non-fiction, well that’s just disingenuous.

Telling a story brings with it a connotation of not telling the truth. (But all us spiritual folks know that truth is a pretty weak word to pin our hopes on). “Stop telling stories,” the old folks might say. (And maybe some of you young folks, too). But I later figured out that what that actually means is, don’t say anything to me that doesn’t sound true to me. Ah-ha, truth is in the ear of the be-listener.

As an actress I participated in a lot of stories — on stage and off. As a mother I told my children all sorts of stories, some I made up, some were made up by others who got paid to write them. It’s an actual market! Of course, there were some stories I also kept from my children. There were even some stories I kept from myself. Those would emerge later, fully illustrated, in hardcover, waiting to be plucked off my psychic shelf. Gotta face your own stories sooner or later.

Now my work is all about asking who tells stories and why. Historians look at people’s stories and then take those stories and tell them differently to others. But some historians actually ask why the story gets told that way in the first place; and then they ask who told it, and just where the characters and plot actually originated. We even ask if there was possibly an agenda to a particular story, and if perhaps there were different stories told on that same subject at the time. If you’re a scholar, or activist ,or engaged citizen, when it comes to Black history, then this activity will keep you busy for the rest of your years.

You know, I was thinking this week that I was going to tell a story here. Do something different. But the thing is, I’m always telling a story in these blogs. I’m telling my stories, about women and love and fear and pandemics and oppression and more love again. I like to tell stories. But I don’t like to tell others’ stories. That’s not my job. In fact, it’s why I am an oral historian, spending hours listening to the stories of people who didn’t get to tell theirs at the time. My job is to highlight and foreground and amplify others’ stories.

Once upon a time there was a country that started with the premise that all people should be free to practice life in just the way they choose. But the premise was a story told by those who got here first, assumed some power, and then realized that if everyone did as they chose their power would be no more. All sorts of people suffered at the hands of these power-people and their story. They still do. There are moments in this very long story when it seems the country in question might actually be heading in the direction of its premise. But just as soon as it veers that way, the story goes back to the power-people and their need to be in charge. It’s kind of like Wagner’s Ring Cycle, except the three days are translated into three centuries and still going strong. People might need to get up and stretch their legs, go to the bathroom, grab a snack, but the tragic epic tale will continue.

I don’t want to spoil the ending. (I don’t actually know the ending). But it’s a pretty sad story. (With some happy moments interspersed). Black History Month is a radical idea because Dr. Carter G. Woodson knew that certain stories had been interred and were in need of exhumation. He found many avenues for this story-telling, and thanks to him and his colleagues, and all the griots since then, we still amplify these stories — in February, anyway. It’s not silly or antiquated; it’s a month to remember that we are lacking in a certain genre of story told by a certain ilk of author about a certain kind of people. We’ll never catch up, mind you, but it is imperative that we keep seeking out and telling these stories. Every month. Every year. Every life.

I realize I am writing this on Valentine’s Day, this subject that has been buzzing around my mind for a while now. I guess it’s fate, or karma, that this blog falls upon February 14th. Here’s the thing, I keep getting this question from people as if I’m in the middle of some 1950s TV series about a 21 year old girl who has yet to “find a man.” Only I’m 59. I mean, really. I can be telling a story about tennis or protests or cured ham, but if a male figure enters the narrative then my friends and family inevitably jump in to ask if the male is married. I am so used to it by now, that I begin generating my response as soon as I realize I’ve said the m-word.

My responses have certainly changed throughout the years, but they all tend to include some kind of explanation as to why the aforementioned man and I aren’t already in the throes of love. He’s married (most always); he’s gay, he’s boring, I don’t actually know him… Yet, my responses are sometimes met with skepticism in the form of a follow-up questions such as, “happily?”; or “are you sure?”; or “you only played tennis with him once, right?”; or “did you even try to talk to him?”

It has slowly dawned on me that folks are worried about me, worried that I’ll be “alone” (which means I don’t have a romantic partner, so even though I don’t feel particularly alone, apparently I am). Now, I’m not mad at these people and their concerns, they all love me. And they mostly think I’m fabulous and that a man would be lucky to have me. They are correct about that. But I do feel like some of these folks are not considering just how swimmingly I’ve been getting along for some time now — with and without men.

I really like men. Some of my best friends are men, dare I say. I tend to talk to them more when I find myself in large groups. You know, when large groups were a thing. And I’ve dated some great guys these last decades, all on my own! By that I mean, I spoke to them, expressed interest, allowed them “in” — all that stuff my inner circle is concerned I don’t quite know how to do. I have been coupled and non-coupled, and I like both states of being depending upon the company. There are benefits to both.

I’d like to be in a partnership worthy of my time. And I am assuming that I will be, down the road. But it’s not exactly up to me, not according to my particular faith tradition anyway. Certainly I must be open to God’s directions, open to possibilities, but it’s not up to me to twitch my nose like Samantha on Bewitched and generate a boyfriend. Nor is it my particular manner to plow into every human’s life story to see if I’d like to be friends/lovers with them. I just don’t work that way. This is partly because I really like myself, my self, my company, my thoughts, my ideas. Yes, I am more aware of alone-ness (not exactly loneliness) these days, and the hours do sometimes draw on once the “work-day” has ended.

And sometimes I get so caught up in the hype that I start to believe I need a guy. You know the hype, like, oh, say, on Valentine’s Day? The other day I blurted out to my daughter (who probably didn’t need to hear this) that these times were so constricting I couldn’t even have a one-night stand. She promptly replied that I could have one with myself (so wise). And then I promptly responded back, ewwww. Well, I was horrified by my own reaction. My daughter said I better read bell hooks’ All About Love stat.

I am a little tired of myself, it’s true. Not sure that too many people aren’t right about now. And folks are probably a little tired of their partners, too, because quality time is pretty much through the roof these days. But I think my self-devaluing response was a reflection of society seeping in, the “agreement” that alone is bad. I have been re-reading The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom and am really finding the framework of agreement so useful. According to Don Miguel Ruiz, basically we agree to certain opinions early in life, mostly those expressed by our parents: You’re pretty, you’re fat, you’re smart, you’re too sensitive, and so on. Then later we start agreeing to other sentiments, such as being busy is good, having material things brings happiness, not having a partners is sad. The idea is to realize these agreements that we don’t even know we have made, and then cancel the poisonous ones. I guess I still have some work to do in that area.

This is not a new topic for women of a certain age. There are a lot of really nice pieces written, podcasts aired, and art created on the subject matter. It tends to be a subject unique to women because men either die early or get married pronto. So I am just sharing my own little thoughts on the topic, from a birds eye view. Or perhaps more like from the center of the storm. I’m not asking my people to change their behavior; I am just asking myself to pay attention to my responses.

Here’s what I do know, I’m making myself a nice dinner tonight, after getting a pedicure this afternoon. I’m treating myself because that’s what I would do for someone else if they were here. I’m still practicing this whole love-yourself thing, and probably won’t ever participate in one of those wedding ceremonies women are doing when they marry themselves. (Why)?! But if I am going to enjoy a partner again one day then I damn well better enjoy this time I have with me right now, while I have it.

So, Happy Valentines Day (I won’t mention the part about this holiday really celebrating a massacre and all), to me and to you, to all my friends and acquaintances, single and not — and especially to that cute guy out there who will some day be my Valentine.

The people across the driveway are having a party and I’m not even mad. It’s nice to hear people having fun. I am guessing it’s a Super Bowl party, though it doesn’t sound like everyone is exactly glued to the TV. Reggaetón is playing loud, and right now some folks are singing along. There are probably too many people in the space, but the host has the apartment door open so the air can flow I guess. They are a really nice family and that probably plays into my lack of issue with the party. For God’s sake, have a celebration.

I mean everything sounds like a loud party these days. We cringe when someone nears our personal space, which has now grown to 6 feet in distance. We spot groups of 4 or more at a park and judge them for their carelessness. Everything seems looming and treacherous and so I like this little contained party that I can attend vicariously from the safety of my study. In another season I might even try to get invited, pretend I was going out for a walk or something. But I am off the hook for making new friends like that right now.

I don’t watch the Super Bowl anymore. I used to — always. I love sports, the idea of sports, the spirt of sport, the feeling of participating and watching sports. And I also know the NFL has been a corrupt, capitalist organization for a long, long time. Yet, I happily entered a relationship with the New York (New Jersey, yo!) Giants in the 1980s, after moving to Manhattan. (I used to say “the city” but apparently that term expanded into the outer boroughs a long time ago).

I was waitressing and bartending at Chumley’s, an historic speakeasy in the West Village. It had no signage. People who knew about it would vociferously pat themselves on the back upon entering the Hobbit-like wooden door, ushering their yuppie (because that’s what we called them back then) entourage into the dark, paneled interior. There was a juke box that seemed to play Billie Holiday on repeat, which was fine with me. I dressed up as a member of Run DMC one Halloween. That was before I/we realized that was appropriation. (Please, I did *not* wear blackface). I even was part of an effort to start a union at the restaurant. We all met with the NLRB in my tiny studio on East 28th Street. We went to court. We got a settlement, and made an agreement we would never enter the premises again. Sure, okay.

Anyway, the clientele was all over the place. Lots of yuppies sat at the tables ordering hamburgers and mugs of Black and Tans, but regular folks from the neighborhood — which was still regular-ish in the 80s — were at the bar. (As an aside, I met the one and only Adam West there. I was barely able to speak. Batman was right there in front of me). So there was a guy who lived on the block, seemed old as the hills. But that may have been because he drank his weight in cheap whisky and beer most hours of the day. He was a Giants fan. I had recently arrived in NYC without a real affection for a pro football team. I was a rabid University of Michigan Wolverine fan, and kind of paid attention to the Detroit Lions. But I could be easily swayed. Phil Simms was QB for the Giants back then. This bar-regular would curse Simms up and down, like he was strangling his mother or something. The passion moved me, and before you knew it I, too, was a Giants fan. As in fanatic.

When I met Pepper Johnson at a club on Varick Street, and he took my relatively petite hand in his to shake, I almost passed out. Years later, at a fundraiser in Montclair, New Jersey, Michael Strahan held the floor length leather coat I had won in a raffle. I took as long as possible to slip my arms through the sleeves as he patiently stood behind me. (Sigh). Now, all along I was kinda “woke,” like I knew that the way the NFL treated its players — especially the ones of color — left much to be desired. (Remember I tried to start a union)? But they made so much money anyway, I rationalized, as I put on my various jerseys, from Lawrence Taylor to Victor Cruz. And sure, the players did some wrongheaded things, but… Anyway, I scheduled my Sundays around the games. 1 o’clock start? Okay, get the house cleaned first, workout after. 4 o’clock kickoff? Get everything done first, and you can drink beer by half time. Night game? Yes!

But times change. Life changes. And as life changes we sometimes sharpen our senses in the process. Stuff was always happening but lots of people started paying more attention. Concussions. Bounties for injuring opponents. Cheating, in all manner of ways. Domestic violence perpetrated by players, barely acknowledged by management. Weapons fired in public spaces. Racism. Homophobia. How you gonna say you support all the causes you do then turn around and crack a beer and root for cheaters, abusers, racists and bullies? I had to stop. And I will say right here that college football is no dream of humanitarianism, to be sure. That is a whole other subject. But, the way I see it, the college athletes still have more “agency” than the pros in a certain kind of way. I take some solace in the trend towards fair remuneration of college athletes, while there is just no major sign of change that I can see on the NFL horizon. Colin Kaepernick was my last straw.

The party is still going on across the way, though it has quieted somewhat. Here on the west coast it’s the 4th quarter of the game, with only minutes left. And apparently it’s quite a rout. I hope all the players return home safely — in good health, mentally and physically. They probably won’t. I really pray that my neighbors have had a good time, let out a little steam (through their masks, God-willing). They probably have a better chance of a happy end to their night. Maybe. I don’t know what their tomorrows, their Mondays bring. Mine? Oh, I’ll be following my routine: read, write, exercise, teach. And hopefully, before we know it, I’ll be having parties in my backyard, replete with people singing along with my music and rooting for a new tomorrow. I really hope we’re at the two-minute-warning of this Pandemic Bowl. Maybe I’ll even go to Disney World when it’s all over.

When is routine good for you, and when is it, you know, routine? Noun versus verb. Positive connotation versus negative. I woke up this morning, clear in the knowledge that I was about to set upon my routine for the day: make coffee; read the Los Angeles Times; attend online church; write my blog; exercise; prep for class. I felt defeated. Or maybe weighed down. Which I guess is the same thing if you’re in a wrestling competition for example, which is kind of what these days/weeks/months often feel like. The routines that I have taken on seem to both salvage my days and color them drab. See, routines offer little possibility of happy disruption, yet they are pretty much all I have right now.

I’ll just get out of the way right now that I am sincerely and consistently grateful for all that I can do, and all that I have, to make these routines happen. Healthy body, shelter, access to the internet, leisure time, a job. But I believe we privileged folks are still allowed to express our frustrations during this historic moment, as long as we acknowledge the safe, secure framework within which these looming frustrations live.

Thing is, I like schedules — I have always liked schedules. I find them to be different than routines. We schedule classes, manicure appointments, dates… And who-knows-what might happen during one of these scheduled events. A student might say something transformative; a new shade of orange might appear at the salon; the date ends up treating you to drinks and dinner and you actually have fun. But a routine, now that’s a different story. Routines, the repetition of specific activities, can be good for us; yet implicit in them is little possibility for change. Which is the point, I understand. So many of us routinely exercise, drink water, pray, read, write in journals, cook…. But when the routine becomes routine, should we do something about it?

Right now it feels to me that everything I do, eat, clean, say, and think are under a gigantic magnifying glass. Like all I do is watch myself do things. I don’t even know how I look to others anymore, or if my actions even affect other souls. Sure, I connect with friends online, get to see my daughter regularly, teach online, and work at a food pantry; but for the most part I am still either a masked mystery woman out in the world undercover, or home alone doing those things I do that no one else really knows I do.

I believe I am saying, in my own way, the same thing so many of us are saying right now: Get me out of here!!!! I can’t take this!!! Help!!! For some of us, we arrive at these mildly frantic moments spurred on by lack of movement, inability go to a museum, complicated rules about dining out, spontaneous possibilities thwarted due to the cutting-edge efficiency everyone employs in the outside world now, never tarrying too long in one spot… All those things spur me on. This morning it was routine that got to me. Even this blog is a routine, and maybe even feels like a routine sometimes. But, kind of like government cheese, I feel like ultimately these routines will end up keeping me nourished just enough, until that time where I am able to go shopping freely for that which is my own preference, items outside the presently mandated staples. And so until then I guess I will practice gratitude for my routines, and make Herculean efforts to keep them from feeling routine.

I would love to hear about some of your routines that are either saving you or making you crazy, or both. Leave them in the comments below if you’d like. Peace, love and freedom to all.

Phillis Wheatley is a poet who many of us learn about in school. Especially during Black History Month, when select African-American literature is typically trotted out, and then just as summarily, returned to its hiding place for another year. In case you are not familiar with her, Phillis Wheatley was a West African poet ( born in 1753) who spent most of her life in Boston. Born in Senegal, Phillis was brought to America in 1761 (at age 7) and sold into slavery to John Wheatley. The Wheatley family believed Phillis should be educated, noticing how very intelligent she was early on. She was given the opportunity to study Greek and Latin literature, the Bible, and other “classic” works. She became an excellent writer at a time when most White women still could not even write at any kind of sophisticated level. At age twenty, Wheatley was the first African-American and only the second woman in America, to publish a book. (It was published in Britain, however, as no American press was interested). All this while be enslaved. Phillis Wheatley was a real stand out.

One of Wheatley’s best known poems is, “On Being Brought from Africa to America.” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45465/on-being-brought-from-africa-to-america Even though she wrote all sorts of other poems, and important correspondence to political and religious leaders throughout her years — many railing against the vagaries of slavery — this poem has been the one most associated with her. Most taught in the classroom. “‘Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land…” it begins. This had to be a comforting line for anyone perhaps concerned about possible resentments from the enslaved Africans.

After early detractors were finally convinced that she, indeed, was capable of writing in this “classical style” and offering sophisticated Biblical allusions as she so often did, Wheatley became an emblem of Black female respectability. She traveled the world, read for royalty, all the while being owned by the Wheatleys. Life was not easy for her, even once freed after the deaths of her owners. She married a man who had a difficult time keeping a job, quite probably through no fault of his own. She had children. And she lost children. Her husband was ultimately incarcerated, and Wheatley became destitute. The woman who had been heralded as a writer of the times, a true American, who had acquaintances with power players like George Washington and John Hancock, died sick and alone. In the end, she had been abandoned by those who had called themselves her supporters.

Amanda Gorman was born in Los Angeles in 1998. She grew up contending with both an auditory and speech impairment which she eventually overcame. She credits these seeming obstacles as strengthening her and pointing her towards the reading and writing she is so passionate about now. Gorman attended private school through the 12th grade, and then went on to Harvard where she studied sociology. Soon thereafter she founded a non-profit organization for youth that focused on both writing and leadership. She also became the first National Youth Poet Laureate. She has a book deal with Viking Press, and a modeling contract, too. She is most certainly a stand out.

Gorman read her poem, “The Hill We Climb,” at the recent presidential inauguration of Joe Biden. While known by some beforehand, Gorman became an instant star afterwards. She is twenty-two. Praises for her work, and her appearance, were sung by the media. Social media was laden with her photos and quotes. Hillary Clinton tweeted support of Gorman’s plan to eventually run for president. Teachers immediately began including her inaugural poem in lesson plans. Syllabi were constructed around the piece. In an interview with the Washington Post the week before the inauguration Gorman said, “My hope is that my poem will represent a moment of unity for our country” and “with my words, I’ll be able to speak to a new chapter and era for our nation.” The inaugural poem is celebratory. Its tone, hopeful. One stanza reads:

We the successors of a country and a time
where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one.

Gorman has been writing for a while already. It is difficult to find her work online, aside from the inaugural poem. In her past she has also staged protests in classrooms and spoken out on issues of climate change. And she is not alone. These days there are many young Black women like Gorman, creative, intelligent, and provided an education that sharpened the skills they were born with. Where are they in our popular discourse? And how long will we adore Miss Gorman they way we’re doing? Until we feel we’ve given enough support to this particular woman of color? Until we are done iconicizing this single young artist in a sea of so many? Is Amanda Gorman the Stacey Abrams of literature? Will she, too, have to eventually remind people that she is not the only woman of color whose work should be acknowledged? Will she also need to teach us history the way Abrams did, the befores, the durings, the afters?

I am somewhat nervous about our country’s response to Amanda Gorman. Mostly about the White people’s response. We do this to African Americans a lot. We lift one up and celebrate them — as long as they keep us somewhat comfortable while still allowing us to show just how supportive we are of “them.” And then… There are so very many stories of talented, brave, intelligent Black Americans being lauded one day, and forgotten — or worse — the next. There are too many stories of these same people who end up destitute when their usefulness in validating, rationalizing, identifying, and signifying has expired. I hope, as Gorman grows older and in all probability continues writing, that some semblance of this public support will remain. That people will continue to post her poems on social media and report on her continuing success. I hope we don’t abandon her the way we have done so very many women of color in the past. I hope that she lives a life much different than Phillis Wheatley’s. And I am not fully confident that she will.

Last night I watched two documentaries: one on Ulysses S. Grant, and another on Tiger Woods. One man attempted to stop the lynching of recently freed people, while the other was fetishized as an African American and then virtually lynched when he did not keep up with the expectations of his White fetishizers. On this Dr. King Day I continue to be sickened by the way some White people make Black folks (and their allies) into “heroes” until, that is, they cease to comfort or entertain us. Then we attempt to destroy them. All out of fear.

President Grant actually thought it was a good idea for freed people to have rights — to vote, and all sorts of other citizen stuff. He was, himself, considered a hero for a while; he had “saved” the Union while still extending benevolence to the South. He let those Confederates keep their guns and horses (against Lincoln’s suggestion) so the men could go back and reconstruct their society. But once Grant started looking a little too much like he was on the side of those African Americans who were being violently assaulted all over the country, people turned on him right fast. Cartoons appeared, replete with horrendous caricatures of Black folk, portraying Grant as a “negro-lover” who was ignoring the needs of his people. That would be the White people. Historians proceeded to redraw a profile of Grant as a weak and drunken man. Many of us continue to consume this story today. He became destitute. BUT, because he was White and thus privilege is always around the corner, Mark Twain published his memoirs and his family was financially supported after his death.

Now to Tiger Woods. A Black athlete in one of the Whitest sports there is. He was a magnificent athlete. Crowds of White people cheered him on. He made lots of money for himself, and for Nike. But he was going through some personal stuff that became public stuff, thanks to probably the same people who were praising his golf swing just moments before. (There is nothing like a Black man falling, failing our expectations). White people shook their heads at yet one more example of how African Americans can never really measure up in the end. And the tide turned against him hard. In the media. On the golf course. The PGA commissioner scolded him in public. Who was he to do that? Why was that his business? Racism and paternalism is why. Tiger became yet another sacrificial African American, a man we lifted so high in order bring him down when he inevitably crumbled. He has turned out to be an extremely brave man, countering the popular narrative of poor, hapless victim. It takes bravery to be Black in America.

Dr. King was brave. Way more than many of us are aware. He was made a hero, too. What does that mean? In this country it often means that White people decided he was an acceptable Black man. Interesting, but safe. That is how early historians drew him, for the most part: great orator and man of God. He wasn’t mad at White people, after all, he wanted us to all be nice to each other. Later, thanks to new historiography, the general public had the opportunity to learn that Dr. King had the nerve to demand responsible action from his government when it came to things like poverty and war. Suddenly he was persona non grata. Remember the part where he gets murdered? Fear kills.

When will we stop killing Black people in this country? Stop hating them? Judging them? Fearing them? Fetishizing them? Black Lives Matter isn’t only stating that Black people shouldn’t be gunned down in their backyards or choked to death by police, but that they should have all the same opportunities as White people do. Black Lives, like our lives, are complicated, confusing, and even messy sometimes. They deserve the same chance to be human as anyone else. Why must they behave like model citizens (which means following White law) and/or fear becoming pariahs and targets of violence? Why has this been a practice for so long? Answer: fear.

Fear stormed the capitol on January 6^th, fear that looked like White people believing ugly and deceitful messages that they were not getting what was rightfully theirs. They were told there was an enemy that must be vanquished or their lives as they knew them would be gone. We saw this during Reconstruction, post Civil Rights Era, post President Obama, and everywhere in between. People who did not think like these paranoid, fearful, angry White people — or look like them — were taking over. Something had to be done. In this case, it was to “take back” the election and kill those who got in the way. Their lives mattered too! they screamed, as they rioted through the streets of Washington, DC.

Dr. King believed that all lives mattered, to be sure. But he was aware that too many Americans believed that some lives mattered more than others. So he, and the many others who formed the coalition, fought for those other lives. Black lives. Poor lives. Immigrant lives. Queer lives. Then he was murdered. Because his life no longer mattered to those in power, in fact his life was starting to become quite inconvenient. So, I ask, when will we stop murdering people because they are telling the truth? We are so far from a democracy. (Or maybe that is exactly where we are and thus need to transform into something else altogether).

Remember what Dr. King wrote in his Letter from a Birmingham Jail:

I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.”

It’s Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day today. Not just a “three-day-weekend.” Not even just a “day of service.” That’s nice and everything, but King was an activist. The Civil Rights Movement was made up of activists, not just people giving out blankets to the homeless once a year. Let’s go be activists together to honor King’s Black life. Let’s find that thing that bothers us most within the systems that we live — there are so many to choose from after all. Let’s go make a difference regularly, not just annually. And while we’re at it, let’s all figure out how to treat Black lives with respect, and love, and humanity. Maybe “one day [we could] live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character” and, what’s more, maybe one day they could even enjoy the relative peace and confidence so many of us have in knowing that our children are not targets for violence each and every day that they wake up in this country. Let’s do all that today. Let’s do this because “since we know that the system will not change the rules, we are going to have to change the system.”* Let’s change some systems today!

*qtd from Belafonte memoir, My Song

Things I don’t want to write about today:

1. The attack on the Capitol
2. Fools who take selfies of themselves committing crimes.
3. The Black woman who was attacked in LA during a Trump rally. (Thank God she survived).
4. The selfishness, greed, and complicit silence of the majority of politicians.
5. COVID
6. Selfish, ignorant people who think the pandemic is not real — or at least not so serious — and are now taking up space in very real hospitals.
7. The LA Rams, and pro football in general. You lost me after what you did to Kaepernick.
8. Insecurity, manifesting as self-aggrandizement, that others are forced to listen to. (Watch Brian Regan’s “Me Monster” stand-up routine on YouTube ).
9. White men in general. (There are some wonderful ones, but I’m tired of the demographic in general).
10. White women. (See above).

Things that would be refreshing to write about:

1. Mountains, when the light hits them just right, and they seem like the stillest, most beautiful thing there could be.
2. Silence, at least a semblance thereof.
3. Love.
4. Poetry (the good stuff).
5. African-American voices.
6. The way my cat is the one creature I spend time with who doesn’t know how bad things are.
7. God and the way He provides strength through our faith, love and service.
8. Spirituality — the understanding that it’s really not about us. (See previous #8).
9. Unfamiliar flowers and the joy of learning their names.
10. The joy my children bring me, however far or near they may be.

There have just been so many words written this week, ideas consumed, I don’t feel like adding to the weight. Do we really need one more opinion or perspective? Probably not. I hope this week shows you some peace, provides a shred of love for all inhabitants of the earth, and adds something fun, too. Good Sunday all.

I saw many tiny wildflowers on my walk through suburbia today. Were they always there and I just now noticed them? New Year, new awareness sort of thing? Or is something finally coming alive in this world that has been dormant for so long? Is Nature reflecting this impending rejuvenation by blooming small crops of Bush Sunflowers at the entrance of Route 134?

I saw tiny English daisies in a sweeping patch near the bus stop, and little purple azalea flowers poking through someone’s shrubs. There were dandelions, too. Which I know are technically a weed, but there’s a metaphor there, I think. Anyway, I know it’s only January, but I think proverbial Spring might be on its way!

So positive right? Even as this virus continues to ravage people to our left and to our right. Especially those on the side that features poverty, poor housing, and limited job security. And even as thousands of people across our nation gathered in groups of hundreds and more to celebrate New Year’s Eve. Celebrate, the word simply coming from the words frequent and honor, so I guess these folks were just doing as they had done so frequently, honoring tradition, while thinking not a whit. The hospitals are at — and over — capacity. And someone is dying of Covid in California every eight minutes. Happy New Year, right?

But Spring is not all lollipops and butterflies. It comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, remember. So were are still in the lion’s mouth, collectively. I must say though, that I have found myself experiencing something akin to survivor’s guilt for all that has not befallen me and my loved ones these past months. We may all be in this storm together but, as others have noted, we are on varying kinds of watercraft. And, unfortunately, far too many people were provided absolutely nothing to keep them afloat . Yet I still declare that in some way, Spring “is bustin’ out all over, all over the meadow and the hill…” (From the musical Carousel which I may have performed in once, a very long time ago).

It’s silly to think that a calendar page can change the world, the vibe, the biorhythms, but that page was eagerly turned by many a human hand on the 31st nonetheless — at whenever their midnight occurred. (This was my first time on the West Coast for New Year’s Eve and I was completely flummoxed as to what to do at 9pm when the ball had dropped in Times Square and Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper were already drunk and signing off). I think we will all move slowly into this new mindset, that idea that there is some hope in front of us. I, for one, am taking solace in the fact that there is (probably) no longer a giant boulder perched above our heads that we cannot yet see but will soon be falling with a mighty speed upon us. (Picture Road Runner untying the pulley attached to said rock and Wile E. Coyote standing underneath, unaware). There is some reprieve ahead: vaccinations; a non-tyrant for president; increased consciousness about policing, incarceration, climate, and the foundation of inequality upon which this country was founded. These are like the tiny little flowers I saw today, popping up here and there, making me feel hopeful.

For those who have suffered so heavily during this pandemic, they are coming towards a time where there might actually be moments to process, to grieve, to begin the healing. For those of us who were given somewhat sturdier ships, we will soon have increased opportunity to provide that which the former are in need of. And we will also have the opportunity to see those many who we have not seen, have not touched, nor heard their voice in person. That is going to happen. We just need to be patient. April showers bring May flowers. There is a storm before the calm. Those little splashes of white, and purple and yellow that I saw on my walk today are not yet abundant. They are just making their first appearances right now, reminding us that it will get better, that the lamb is on its way.

Am I getting old? Yes. Everyone is. Every day. (And that is two words, people, unless you are using it as an adjective. Sheesh). Getting old is actually cause for celebration at some points in life: old enough to drive, old enough to drink (something I tapped my foot for throughout high school); old enough to vote… But what is just plain old? We know what older is, simply more time spent on earth than yesterday — or than someone else. But when do we get old? How do we know? And is it that something to avoid at all costs? (Advertisers certainly seem to think there is something we can do about it).

I’m just starting to think I might be old, to some folks anyway, and I am trying to reconcile it with my own self-identification. One thing I’ve noticed that makes me feel old is the Los Angeles Times obituaries. Now, I’m not usually one to read these things, but the way they are placed in the “California” section, one sort of is in the midst of them before one even knows what happened. (Like growing old). So back in the day –as my students write, when really they are referencing a particular historical era, which of course makes me crazy — if I ever glanced at an obit, the birthdates were so far back in the past I wondered to myself how some of those people held on as long as they did. Now, of course, the section is brimming with names and it is heartbreaking. There was a piece in the Times earlier this week that noted a trend in obituaries; it is that family members are using them as a platform to warn about the dangers of COVID. Whether their own loved one had not believed in the virus’ strength, or just because there is a whole anti-masker movement afoot (I mean, really?!), these people have started writing brief biographies of their deceased relatives, followed by warnings to the public that they are on the same trajectory if they don’t choose to take precautions during this pandemic. So I look at the photos, and then the names. And then the dates. And guess what? A whole bunch of people born not all that long before me have been dying. And not only from COVID. I have come to realize that I am on the brink of belonging to an age group that has people dying at a regular clip. When, may I ask, did that happen?!

Yet another reason I think I might just be old is because I have started watching (some would say bingeing but I find that word repulsive) the 2015 Netflix series, Grace and Frankie. It stars Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda, with a host of other excellent actors. But I rationalize. I think I like it because I think I relate to some of the things these two women are experiencing as Senior Citizens. Not me yet, but it all looks so familiar — or at least nearby. The underestimating and overlooking by others towards them pierces my heart. And the way their bodies don’t always cooperate with their minds, well I relate to that a little bit already. And so the question becomes, for me, is this a problem, me maybe getting old? Can anything that is inevitable really be a problem? I think not, as problems can be eradicated with solutions and there is no solution to growing old, save that of dying, which is an alternative more than a solution.

I definitely am feeling more mortal these days — even before I saw way too many people my age on ventilators, and lost acquaintances not any older than I. I don’t jaywalk the way I used to, for one thing. I was hit (really, bumped) by a car a little while back and deftly hopped onto the hood so as not to end up under its tires. I’m not sure I’ll have that in me should it happen again. I also find myself unconsciously keeping my tennis playing to twice or three times a week, max. (Yes, poor me in Southern California having to turn down outdoor tennis plans in December, right)?! But when I play more often than that my body feels like it might have ended up under that aforementioned car after all. I used to pity and sneer at people who turned down tennis — ever, who wanted to rest. Now I am that person. And so I sneer at myself sometimes.

I stopped ordering pasta with red sauce a long time ago because it gives me heart burn. Who gets heart burn? Old people! And I always have to get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. (Sorry if that’s TMI but I am trying to support my thesis here). I take more vitamins than I used to, and purchase skin cream made specifically for old people. Hyaluronic acid ain’t marketed to the kids, my friends. My skin moves separately from my musculature now, and I have taken to wearing SPF 30 at all times. (Though this is probably too little too late). I could go on, but that’s what old people do, so I’ll stop with the list.

Here’s the thing, I am practicing the embracing of elderliness, of the journey on the path to senior age and beyond. Because with all those above complaints, there are also a few things I happen to love about being older than I used to be. For one thing, as I believe I have mentioned before, once you’ve gone through a number of decades of life, you’ve probably gone through some things that put even dire situations in perspective. We are in the middle of something horrific right — in so many ways — and I have never been party to a pandemic, BUT I have been scared, isolated, angry and confused about all sorts of things in my life. Many, many times. So there is something familiar to me in all of this. It’s not my first rodeo.

And the big prize? Grace and wisdom. Offered up to people at a certain age, if we choose to accept it. I’ll take as much as I can get of it, myself, because it helps me to see goodness and beauty amidst the barrage of evil and sorrow. I know others can see the same, and they are almost always of a certain age. Faith and spirituality play a role in this perspective, to be sure, but those are practices. Being older is simply being. And I am glad to be right now. To be healthy, loved, and excited for what’s next. That’s a lot. So go ahead, age, do your thing (because that’s what age does anyway) and I’ll embrace you. For the most part.

Vive la grand âge!* And Happy Yet-Another New Year!

*Translation: Long live the big age. I love those French people.

I’ve been trying to put my finger, as they say, on exactly what it is I have been missing during the pandemic. What am I really in need of? After all, I have quite wonderful shelter, more than enough food, and — since September — consistent sunshine. But I was sitting in my living room the other night, admiring my Christmas tree lights and realized that what I — and I think maybe a whole bunch of us — have been missing is sharing. It sounds kind of obvious, but it took me a while to come up with just the right word. So I’d like to expand, if I might.

As a single person I often get that look that says, “wouldn’t you really rather share your life with someone?” You know the look. You may have even given the look. I am not so sure that I want to share my life, turn over pieces of my living days to someone else. Or, at the least, I have yet to come across that person of late. But… I would like to share my living room for a night, or the orange-rind liquor I just made, or my backyard firepit and string lights. See, I’ve only had opportunity to share just a little bit. Sparingly. I really miss copious sharing.

So here comes the etymology: the Old English word scearu has to do with dividing something. This is related to the Dutch schare and German Schar which mean among other things, to shear. This verb apparently dates back to the late 16th century, so you can see that sharing is pretty much hardwired –for most of us anyway.* Of course, there have been times when some of us have felt pretty shared out. Divided up. As if we had been shredded into little pieces and everyone and everything was just helping themselves. We felt practically non-existent we had shared so much! (Did you notice, by the way, that shred is just shared with an “a”)?! So that state of being is obviously a result of too much sharing. But these days, because so many of us have not been able to share much of anything, we’ve acquired a stockpile: from stories to stress to string cheese.

In the spiritual — or supernatural — realm we often talk of sharing our gifts. For some of us it feels like a downright commandment. Or, it might take on the the shape of a calling, or a drive, or a deep desire to share what it is we have been given.

“Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them: if prophecy, in proportion to our faith;  if service, in our serving; the one who teaches, in his teaching;  the one who exhorts, in his exhortation; the one who contributes, in generosity; the one who leads, with zeal; the one who does acts of mercy, with cheerfulness.”

– Romans 12:6-8

We all have different gifts — sometimes more than just one — and for the most part we feel compelled to use them. Otherwise we’re just leaving them up on the shelf to gather dust. And when we use our gifts, then we are sharing our selves. It satisfies both the giver and the receiver. That’s part of what I miss.

But I also want to share experiences. Even going to the grocery store, ornery as I can be sometimes, there was usually an opportunity for a friendly hello or a knowing glance. Now I feel much like a squirrel, scurrying into the store as fast as I can to collect my little pouch of nuts, bent on using time efficiently, head down, on a mission. Nothing close to sharing going on in there! Every squirrel for herself.

And for those of us who enjoy sharing a few drinks at a bar, this has all been downright painful! It’s not just the communing that occurs between you and your invited friends, but there is community with all who sip around you, too. It’s a collective kind of thing, sitting shoulder to shoulder with strangers (will that ever happen again?), overhearing snippets of conversation here and there, commenting on someone’s beautifully wrought cocktail or dazzling plate of french fries. I miss that, too.

One more thing I’m thinking about is electronic sharing versus in-person sharing. Many of us have commented on how it feels very different to meet up with friends online, as opposed to in person. I think it’s because we can’t share our energy. Instead it just hits the screen with a splat and slides right down, like a plate of spaghetti thrown against the wall. No energy exchange whatsoever. It may feel good, or at least better, to see someone’s face after so much isolation, but it can still leave us flat. Literally. One dimensional. How do you shear something off a one-dimensional entity?

So, I feel better now, thanks for letting me share. For us Word People, when we can’t quite find the right one we’re like a person who has lost her keys. We look in pockets, under dish towels and behind the bathroom sink. We tear up the house assuming those keys are in a very complicated place. But often they are actually hiding in plain sight and we have simply looked right past them. Words are my keys, I can’t go very far without them. That’s why I needed to find the word to describe what I am missing.

Merry Christmas to those who will be celebrating this week. So many of us will be missing the people we usually share the winter holidays with. They will be absent for a myriad of reasons, and that is sad. Because we like sharing. So I’d say, share whenever you get the chance right now — a dollar with someone in need; a smile with someone working hard; a laugh with someone who is laughing; and compassion with someone who is feeling unloved. And when “this” is all over, then we can go back to monitoring our sharing more carefully. Although, I for one feel like I might just have such a surplus of shareables by then that I might never have to worry about over-dividing myself again!

*Definitions from Oxford Languages