“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America….” I grew up reciting those words, with hand on heart, every school day morning.
Eventually the god of “one nation under God” changed for me. After baptisms of babies, teaching Sunday school and repeating the other pledge; the one that starts with “Jesus said you should….” something shifted. A light came on.
The narrow focus of the Christian god became a bigger god. A more encompassing god. A god that truly says love all your neighbors. God, for me, became, as the roots of trees underground, a connector. The unseen energy that joins all that lives.
That school day pledge, the part that says “…..with liberty and justice for all” means ALL no matter our differences. That is the beauty of the bouquet.
This nation’s current administration of clowns and buffoons, along with a congress of cowards, with one hand in our pockets and the other on their dicks, have ripped down that flag. They have distorted those pledges and made an idol of the god.
Is this the end of a 249 year republic of democracy? Or is it a light shinning on the roots of a grander connection?
Yesterday I returned from a week long change of scenery. I can gage the passage of time and season by the changes that happened in my garden while I was away. The iris, at peak when I left, are heavy with the gooey spent flowers and are now showing last blooms. The sweet william had just put out buds a week ago and now the rose follows suit. The lavender had only a hint of the now fragrance and color in it’s stalks. The peony also just the exciting possibility of pink is now full skirted and dancing brightly in the breeze. Mother Nature hard at work. All of these changes I noted yesterday in a fog of fatigue and late afternoon light.
Most exciting was the changes to my puzzle house. The calendar pages are down a few more and there was room to load in more stock to share with passersby. This little house gave me great joy to work so hard for 3 months to build it. And now I see that others are enjoying it as well.
I spent the middle of my day yesterday driving along Route 2 aka the Mohawk Trail. It is my habit to drive with the windows opened and the music playing. This day’s play list was one of protest and “No Kings” randomly chosen by Pandora with lots of Dylan and interestingly, Springsteen. I was heartened to see a number of overpasses (2) populated by flag waving, “No Kings” sign holding protesters. And in a small New England town intersection were sign holding seniors concerned about their social security that they worked so hard to earn and the future of the country they fought past wars to secure. I gave my horn a good work out in solidarity. These people were not counted in the millions that congregated in our large cities covered by main stream media (poorly IMO) but they count never the less. And they WILL count in the voting booths at mid terms. We all will.
My youngest and her life partner/spouse/husband/friend and father to her two babies have for the past three years generously shared with me a week on the northern coast of Massachusetts. The house is a good sized cape cod shingled classic right on the beach in Newbury, Plum Island. Plum Island, literally an island, is predominately a national seashore preserve with a number of pricy “vacation” homes fit in as tightly as possible.
This year upon a visit to the local museum I learned that Newburyport was once the last stop before Canada for slave carrying clipper ships. There was tremendous wealth as shown by many large (for the time) well preserved homes and historical markers in Newbury and Newburyport.
Packing up to leave from vacation is far easier than packing up to go on vacation. Dirty denims get bagged together with sandy sneakers, last night’s bath towel and yesterday’s tee. Road snacks abound as open chip bags and a few remaining cookies jumble together with the remaining banana (only slightly brown) and an apple (only slightly bruised). Water bottles are filled and cold caffeine is on the ready.
The final walk through is followed by an assessment of just how untidy, dirty, or lived in the house is left for the cleaner(s) who come(s) in to ready for the next guests. This year I saw things “differently.” I don’t know if it was hearing of the Irish “staff” in the homes of those wealthy clipper ship captains at the Mariner Museum or the witnessing of the wealthy at play all around me present day or perhaps my daughter’s MIL still wiping cleaned off counters to “leave them clean,” but I was thinking of those that comprise the “service” that would come in and clean behind me.
Do I leave a space so clean that they barely have a job to do and therefore not work so hard, or not get paid? Or do I leave a space that they have to spend some time cleaning so as to get paid more? Are they getting paid enough either way? Do I leave a tip?
The hard working stick sprites of my puzzle house.
These are part of the “invisible” work force that make it easy to live as a person of privilege. The hospitality works and farm workers. The builders, painters, and maintenance people. The people that make the world run.
I am grateful to my daughter and SIL for providing me the opportunity to be at the beach. However, I don’t know if I want to return there. I know that the color of my skin has afforded me privileges. I hope I have not taken that lightly.
I worked hard all my life. But maybe not nearly as hard as others still do. And where will we be if all of these hard workers are made to go elsewhere?
As I reread that last bit I realize that it reads as all the worry about the current administrations impact on me and my life. Selfish to say the least. But what of the impact on the people living in this threatening time? What of the babies that will lose parents? Children ripped from loving arms and locked in basements?
This is far more than “unfortunate” and “appalling.” Three cheers for the Pope for pushing back against this hellish evil that is our current administration. May they and anyone that supports them suffer painful uncommunicable diseases and financial disasters, and also maybe a permanent expiration date on their ED meds.
Spring is the earths fulfillment of the promise to continue. Things that have been hidden, tucked away under not so rich soil, aka dirt, and dead leaves warm, wake, and try to push their way up toward the sun and impossibly blue sky. I feel the daffodil as I lay abed when the sun peeks in, pushing me to get out from under the cozy down alternative and start a new day. I am joyous and hum a senseless ditty as I prep the coffee and plan to take some time to just bask in the sun as I tackle the required cleaning that tandems this miraculous celebration of rebirth.
I’m not much of a gardener these days. I am now what I have coined as an extreme passive gardener or, Gigi the EPG. Gone are the winter days of perusing the seed catalogues and graph paper bed diagrams. I don’t devour the Farmers Almanac and commit it’s weather predictions to memory. This brain doesn’t hold the data like it used to and sadly due, I believe, to climate change the Farmers just can’t call it like they used to.
But still every few days in Spring I wander my yard and see the evidence of my past labors. I watch as the snow on the mountain makes its appearance. I note that perhaps come Fall I should plug a few more bulbs here or there and I should probably figure out when to throw the caladium tubers into a fresh pot of dirt. The snow on the mountain, Euphorbia Marginata, is from my childhood home. My mother got it from my grandmother’s garden and I got it from my mother’s. It continues. The clematis out back is also from my mother’s garden. I hope to be able to transplant it to my daughter’s new home in the fall.
The lilacs are good and leafed out now. There will be blossoms in May. I had an old bush break off a good size chunk in the fall. I watched it get rained and snowed on and in January I dragged it out and chopped it up. I used many of the twigs and branches to fashion my stick sprites (see a future post here) and threw a couple limbs into a snow pile. When the snow pile melted I popped the branches into a small bucket and made sure it would stay good a wet. Note the EPG mode. When the leaves started popping on the mini-trees I informed my two daughter’s that their “trees were ready.” They each got pieces of my garden. It continues.
Needing to get the tree out of the bucket and into the ground at my youngest’s house I tagged her 6 year old to do some heavy lifting. He mostly reveled in the hope of excavating dinosaurs and celebrated with abandon the permission to get his hands dirty. His eyes turned saucer when I told him that some farmers drop their drawers and sit in the dirt to test soil readiness for planting. Sitting in the hole sin pants was just a step too far for the boy. But he too, taking a cue from his Gigi, took some moments to bask in the sun. And it continues. Tomorrow I protest.
I am proud to say that yesterday I participated in the largest display in exercising the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America seen in decades. An assembly of peaceful, cheerful, welcoming individuals stood in the wind and rain to express anger (cheerfully?), fear, and resistance to the agenda and attempts by the current administration to effect a coup on our democratic republic.
This occurred all over the world in solidarity against the denial of every human beings right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It occurred in public spaces, streets and city blocks, towns, villages and neighborhoods, in living rooms and in kitchens. It was millions strong!
I was at the Empire State’s capital. I expected to see a turnout. I expected the wind and the incessant rain to keep some away. What I didn’t expect was that the ride to the protest would be more impactful and memorable for me.
❤️
My smart, sassy, 6 year old grandson was determined that he was going to seize his opportunity to speak his truth. He made his own signs and stated that “as long as there were snacks” he was “100%” in no matter what the weather. He and his mom picked me up in time to make the 10:23 public bus downtown. This was to be his first ride on an other-than-school bus. It was my second in recent weeks for the sole purpose of protesting without possible parking problems. Say that three times real fast!
Our stop was at the beginning of the line. When we arrived we were pleasantly surprised to see a small line gathered of other like minded individuals carry signs.
The CDTA 18 travels the roads that I have known for 60 years. I was tour guide to my grandson as I pointed out the duplex where his mom spent the first five years of her life, the Town Hall where she “practiced law” and the library where “everybody knew her name.”
The next stops were frequent and filled with others carrying signs and dressed for the deluge. Progress through the town I had grown up in was slow and the bus filled. Soon there were few seats left and the windows began to fog. My family removed layers of clothing to keep from overheating and snacks were served to the boy.
A majority of the passengers were persons of a certain age. Older, and probably wiser, and maybe ones that had the resource of time to commit to this necessary task. My daughter had left her husband home with my one year old granddaughter and the list of weekend tasks that not all younger parents have the luxury of splitting. My grandson was the only child on board.
As the bus whined, rattled, stopped and started I reflected upon memories of this community. Twenty-two years ago I had left it, angry and sour from the lack of empathy the residents had for my family during a difficult time. Then today I was seeing literal signs of support and push back from possibly some of those same people.
Shortly after reaching the city limits the bus driver turned on a NOT IN SERVICE sign because the bus had reached maximum capacity. There were a few “regulars” who needed to get somewhere but for the most part we were “an express to a protest.”
One of the keys to successfully navigating this time of chaos is to find community. We the people on the CDTA-18@10:23 were a community. We smiled. We encouraged. We bonded. I cannot say that I forgave the past on that bus ride yesterday but I can say that I do have hope for the future.
swansroost 