As we careen wildly around the final curve before November 3rd, I join the masses of Americans who are grappling with an existential casserole of feelings. Scared? Yes. Angry? Of course. Depleting the world’s chocolate supply one mini Twix at a time? Most certainly.
But there’s more to this casserole than just good ‘ol American tuna and noodles. There’s an ingredient in there that I’ve been struggling to identify. A feeling that is less straightforward than just fear and anger.
I’ve been engaged in a fanciful exercise this past week of trying to select gifts for myself as a reward for either outcome of the election — one that would serve as a numbing salve to stave the hemorrhaging of my heart if things don’t go as I hope, and the other as a pure, raw, celebratory marker of victory. …
Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today… Aha-ah…
Imagine there’s no marriage
I wonder if you might
No marriage for anyone
Yes, you heard me right
Imagine all the people
Not involving the government in who they love…Aha-ah…
Okay, yes, he’s John Lennon and I’m not, but come along with me for a moment.
Amy Coney Barrett’s lifetime installment onto our land’s highest court is accompanied by her evidentiary positions that LGBTQ folks who would like to get married should not be allowed to. To put an even finer point it, this relegates LGBTQ people to sub-class citizens who do not get the same rights as everyone else. “Now hold on!” you might say. “She only believes that the United States should reverse marriage equality as the law of the land and give that decision to the states to make individually!” While that certainly can be the case in some non-prejudicial decisions, there’s too much evidence of Barrett’s actual prejudices to have that argument fly here. For one, she served for years on the Board of a private Christian school “…that effectively barred admission to children of same-sex parents and made it plain that openly gay and lesbian teachers weren’t welcome in the classroom.”, adhering to the school stance that “Homosexuality is an abomination against God, sex should occur only within marriage and marriage should only be between a man and a woman.” …
We all witnessed it. As March 2020 limped bruised and broken to a close and April peeked a cautious head around the corner, an insidious wave had washed up upon every shore. There was no avoiding it. Social media simmered with posts and photos about it, with folks courageously documenting their foray into this new, intimidating unknown.
It was inescapable.
Everyone was learning to make sourdough bread.
What I can only think was a knee-jerk survival instinct in answer to a life-threatening worldwide development (MUST MAKE FOOD) manifested as every third person in my web world being deputized into this yeasty posse. …
The first outfit I can ever remember wearing was a red and white checkered dress. I was about the height of an end table, and the outfit’s adorableness was backed up by shiny black patent leather shoes and folded over white socks. Those were the days of E.T., Pong, and pet rocks, to put a pin in that moment of space and time. The dress was abundantly cute on a curly-headed a three year old girl and drew its share of “Awws how adorable’’s, but it’s real virtuosity lay sneakily in a little zippered heart-shaped pocket on the chest. “What’s behind the zipper?” an admiring passersby would ask innocently, to which I would slyly respond, “Unzip it and see.” …
Recently on a sunny spring Tuesday in Seattle, I was having a socially distant chat with my next-door neighbor Mark. I asked about the health of his sugar snap pea plantings, while he parried with inquiries around how my kids are handling online school. I won the neighbor lottery, so this over-the-fence type chat is a common occurrence for us. Living out in the sticks, we each have a bit of land, so I didn’t immediately notice that in the distance over Mark’s plaid jacketed shoulder and high up over his grazing horse’s head, an American flag properly stationed up a proper flagpole danced in the crisp breeze. “You put a flag up,” I observed. “How long has it been there? …