A well-worn five dollar bill tucked inside a Christmas card is the most extravagant gift I expect to receive this year. It was given to me during my Friday night piano gig at St. James Cathedral Kitchen.
Five nights a week Kitchen volunteers serve a free, hot meal to whomever shows up — usually around two hundred folks or more. By appearances, I’m guessing the patrons include plenty of homeless folks, some elderly residents of subsidized apartments in the neighborhood, maybe a few university students, occasional families with youngsters. And dogs. Dogs on leash are admitted.
I’m one of the pianists who add background ambience, making the church social room feel less institutional with a layer of music under the chatter and clatter of dishes. The piano is one of the most out-of-condition I’ve ever contended with. There’s no bench, but an office chair on wheels. That does not work for me. I haul a couple of cushions on the four-block trek from my apartment to the cathedral. I set them on a folding chair so I can approach the keyboard from a perch that won’t roll away. The keys almost always sound when activated. Who could ask for anything more?
It is the highlight of my week. I occasionally substitute for pianists on other nights, but Friday is mine.
Friday happens to be the night when Sue and Susan meet up for their weekly dinner together. I do not know their last names, stories or ages (I’m guessing in their sixties, maybe crowding seventy). Nothing about their appearance suggests monetary wealth. I know Sue rides the bus from her home in the south end of Seattle. And I know that they will always, always exclaim after I finish how wonderful my playing was (whether it was or not).
Last Friday Sue placed an envelope on the piano as I played. When music and dinner were done, I began to open the envelope, anticipating a Christmas card.
“Careful,” Sue cautioned. Tucked inside the card was the five-dollar bill.
“I can’t …” I began.
“Stop!” Sue interrupted. “It’s a gift! You can’t refuse a gift. I wouldn’t give it if I couldn’t afford it.”
I’ve occasionally supplemented my income with piano and organ gigs. But no payment could top the handwritten message in the card: “To our piano player who myself and Susan love to hear your beautiful music while we have our dinner. You make us feel so comfortable and Happy. From your friends, Sue and Susan”
We talked a little longer. Sue is celebrating that her son just got out of jail, where he spent seven months. It was his girlfriend who got him in trouble, says Sue.
“I told him! No more girlfriend!”
After they left, I handed the five dollars to Mick, who runs the Kitchen, and told him the story. “This was from OUR folks?” he asked, mildly disbelieving. Then he smiled.
Whenever I’m given a gift of cash, I like to tell the giver how I used the money. I’ll enjoy telling Sue — and she’ll enjoy hearing — that I spent her gift on a new book of music that I’ve been wanting. Music that she and others will soon be hearing.
Wait a minute, you may be saying. You gave the money to the Kitchen. Yeah, well, money is an illusion. Gifts from the heart are the real thing. There’s no limit to how much love they can buy.
If you’ve ever puzzled over the chicken/egg primacy issue (which came first?), you might find your answer aboard the Coast Starlight Seattle-Portland train route.
Or do I mean Portland-Seattle?
As part of “Trails and Rails,” a cooperative venture between Amtrak and the National Park Service, knowledgeable volunteers spend their summers entertaining passengers with stories about Pacific Northwest environment, history and culture. (At least they did last summer. Who knows whether this admirable program will survive?)
Kristy and Phil, volunteers on my journey, were armed with notebooks full of facts and figures. But it was their story-telling skill that hooked passengers who filled the glass-domed observation car.
Approaching the Billy Frank Jr. Wildlife Refuge, just north of the state capitol, Phil described Frank as the “man who was arrested more times than anyone else in the state of Washington.”
“What would you say about such a person?!” he continued, feigning dismay. Tourists murmured, disconcerted. Those in the know smiled at this introduction to one of the state’s most honored Native American activists and environmentalists. True, Frank (1931-2014) was arrested more than fifty times. The first time, at the age of fourteen, was the beginning of his decades-long fight to reestablish native fishing rights. His persistence led to the landmark Boldt Decision of 1974, upholding guarantees that had been set in an 1854 treaty but ignored. Frank’s numerous honors include the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
More stories flowed as the train whistled us through cities and towns until we approached Winlock, a small, agricultural community.
“If you remember nothing else from this trip, I hope you remember this,” prompted Kristy. Winlock historically touted itself as the “Egg and Poultry Capital of the World,” producing hundreds of thousands of chicks and eggs. To prove it, the town erected the world’s largest egg, a claim affirmed by “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not!” in 1989.
Just across the street is another statue: a brilliantly colored but much smaller chicken. As to which came first, the answer depends on what direction you’re going. Heading south, the egg comes first. Going north, it’s the chicken.
That’s US!, I realized.
As in, U.S.
As in polarized. We’re all on the same set of tracks, but our stories depend on where we’ve been and where we think we’re going — or want to go.
Each of us is the sum and substance of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. Information or ideas that don’t fit into our stories bring up uncomfortable emotions — sadness, envy, anger — and we’re inclined to reject them, as if to say the chicken absolutely came first or the egg absolutely came first. In other words, we have bias. It’s inevitable, explains writer Brian McLaren. It’s how our brains work.
We grow up being told stories that shape our own stories. As we mature and age, our stories become more complex. When we are confronted with stories, ideas and information that conflict with our story, we have a choice. We can simply reject those other stories — take the easy route. Or we can figure out how to rewrite our story, even discarding parts, to make our narrative more inclusive. Rewriting is hard and tiring work for the brain. And it’s ongoing. There’s new stuff coming down the track every day.
It’s like the Billy Frank Jr. story. If we get only a fragment, we easily jump to a skewed conclusion.
On my return trip, from Portland to Seattle, I was sitting on the “wrong” side of the train. I missed seeing the chicken precede the egg. In fact, I missed chicken and egg altogether, thus missing half the story.
Nevertheless, when we can simply enjoy that there are chickens and there are eggs, and there are eggs and there are chickens, we won’t have to worry about which came first. When we can hear and honor each other’s stories, acknowledge where each other is coming from, we’ll be getting back on track.
It’s a matter of perspective. Winlock’s egg is really much larger than the chicken. – Tim Bryon photo
An update of Rene Descartes’ declaration, “I think therefore I am,” is long overdue. For my generation the existential truth is, “I drive, therefore I am.”
I still vividly recall the freedom and power I felt on May 12, 1960, my sixteenth birthday, when I passed my driver’s license test. As drivers, we not only have the liberty to go wherever, whenever we want, our vehicles become integrated with our persona. Watch any car commercial.The ads are not about the vehicle but about how you’ll feel driving it. We’ll feel forever youthful driving that sleek sports car. Or forever in charge steering that rugged 4×4 pickup through hostile environments. Those vehicles cruising across our TV screens are an elixir of power and eternal youth.
Until we’re too old to drive. And just how old IS too old?
Traffic safety experts sidestep a precise answer. So does AI. When I typed in the question, AI offered a laundry list of primarily subjective guidelines: declining physical or cognitive ability, slow reaction times, getting lost easily, frequent close calls, or loved ones expressing concern. Oftentimes, those “loved ones” will be less loved if they start harping about Grandpa’s driving.
People age seventy and older are more likely to crash than any other age group besides drivers age twenty-five and younger. In other words, driving skills improve with age, then regress. We’re no safer now than when we were air-headed teens, oblivious to our mortality.
Because older drivers are more fragile, they are more likely to get hurt or die from these crashes.
A joint study by the American Society on Aging and National Highway Traffic Safety Administration offers this chilling observation: “Most people drive seven to ten years longer than they should.”
Giving up your car is life changing. I did so two years ago, BUT I had no intention of giving up driving. When I moved to Seattle from rural eastern Washington, my motivations were to save money and reduce my carbon footprint. I gave my 2009 Dodge to public radio. I planned to use mass transit when possible, and rent a car when necessary.
Public transit — busses, light rail, ride shares — are great. Rental cars not so much. I’ve rarely needed them, but when I do, they come equipped with recently developed, high tech amenities that I can’t readily figure out — like how to START the darn thing.
I was delighted when my retirement community, Horizon House, recently introduced a car-sharing plan. For a nominal expense, residents can rent an electric vehicle, fully insured, and be trained to drive it before we hit the road. Because I’m past age eighty, I’d have to take a driving test to participate. I think that’s an excellent idea. I’d like to be assured that I’m as good a driver as I think I am — a veteran, after all, of several solo cross-country road trips.
A no-injury accident last year, just after I turned eighty, sowed a seed of doubt. I was driving a rental car in an unfamiliar town. Looking for a place to pull over to make a phone call, I blew through a stop sign and collided with another car — which had a student driver at the wheel. Both cars required towing.
A more experienced driver might have spotted me and taken defensive action. Several people who gathered round the crunched cars claimed it was a notorious intersection with frequent collisions. Still, I was clearly at fault. I acknowledged as much to the police officer, and readily paid my fine.
And still, there was that traumatized wanna-be driver. I sent her a gift and a note of encouragement. My insurance readily paid for damages to the rental car. I was further grieved to learn that her family’s insurance company stalled for months before paying up.
I’m sure her dad had plenty to say about eighty-year-old drivers. While I waited for the tow truck, he showed up with his work rig to tow away the family car. Grim-faced, he grunted as we were introduced and maintained a glum silence while hooking up the vehicles. It was Memorial Day. I imagine he’d been home, tending the barbecue. I’d ruined their holiday.
That’s the thing about our roadways. Most of us do not work in the realm of public safety. Yet our roads and streets — open to all — are where we are most responsible for the safety and well-being of our fellow citizens. It’s where we have true community, where our very lives depend on the skills and consideration of our fellow travelers.
Why is it, then, that I’m struggling with the question: do I keep driving? I enjoy walking and using public transit. I’ve needed to rent a car only a handful of times over the past two years, and maybe those trips weren’t all that essential. Could it be — and here, dear reader, I’ll reveal the naked truth — that my ego still clings to that steering wheel? Could it be that my ego — my false self — is deflecting any suggestion that I’m “too old” to drive?
For now, I’m side-stepping the issue. I have no immediate need to drive anywhere. The car-share program will wait. My driver’s license is still in my wallet, valid until May 12, 2031. It is merely a plastic ID card. I’m working on making it not who I am.
Election Day November 4, 2025, will mark my sixtieth anniversary as a registered USA voter. I have a perfect record, having cast my ballot in every election over those six decades, from presidential to school levies. Nonetheless, it’s not getting any easier.
I came of legal age (in those days, twenty-one) in 1965. That year President Lyndon Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act, part of the Civil Rights Movement. It was a significant achievement, meant to eliminate restrictions on who can vote. Even so, the act of voting can feel like a feat of survival. First we have to endure weeks, months, of political campaigns that have become increasingly hostile and decreasingly informative.
Election 2025 is all about local positions — mayor, city council, school board, etc. In my mind, these are the most important. Even though I moved to Seattle two years ago, I got a phone call from Cindy Gagne, longtime mayor of Omak, Washington (population around 5,000), the small town where I previously lived for forty years. Cindy was appointed mayor to fill a vacancy in 2008. After being re-elected unopposed four times, she’s running again, for the first time with opposition. Would I endorse her, she asked. Happy to! Not that it’ll mean much.
Cindy and I first met when I was on the city Parks Commission, and she was a soccer mom, volunteering long hours to raise money for decent fields. From there she moved on to the city council, ultimately the mayor’s office. Her service to the community has been even-handed and selfless.
My endorsement may not be much help because my tiny corner of the blogosphere is followed by only a few of her constituents. But the problems she and I face — as candidate and as voter — are universal. Many citizens fear that our nation’s progress toward full democracy has shifted into reverse. How does Cindy reach a fragmented, polarized citizenry that relies overly much on social media, replete with falsehoods? How do I, just one voter, sort through the propaganda and well-financed smear attacks to make an intelligent choice?
I miss my days as a news reporter, when I interviewed candidates personally. I tried my best to write objectively while inwardly concluding how I’d vote. There’s no more significant way to size up a candidate than to meet them in person. I’ve been attending voter forums for the past couple weeks and will continue until the election. That puts me in the minority. Cindy had called after a voters’ forum drew a disappointingly paltry turnout.
Well, if the voters won’t come to you, the candidate’s next-best choice is door-belling. I door-belled on behalf of a school levy many years ago. It was exhausting, discouraging, and I swore I’d never do it again. I’ve kept that promise. Sometimes it’s easier to follow Jesus’ commandment to love my neighbor when I’ve not MET my neighbor. The New York Times carried a story last week about a Democrat in Texas who walked the 25-mile length of his Republican-leaning legislative district. He ended up in hospital, exhausted, but won the election.
“Endorsements matter to me,” a neighbor observed as we were riding the elevator after a voters’ forum. I agree, if you know that the person or organization making the endorsement shares your viewpoints and values.
My late husband, with whom I owned and published a weekly newspaper, scoffed at so-called “endorsements” by small papers like ours. “It’s only one person’s opinion,” he’d say. Instead, he published a pre-election column called “One Man’s Vote,” listing his choices and reasoning. People appreciated it. Some trusted John and followed his recommendations. Others knew that if John was for something, they were automatically agin-it. Helpful in both directions.
Maybe the good news is that Cindy has an opponent. Too often non-opposition reflects a lack of interest or participation from the electorate. That’s not healthy, not if we really believe in democracy. A survey by the Washington League of Women Voters a couple years ago recorded a distressing lack of candidates for local offices. Incumbents (not Cindy) can get to feeling entitled.
Here in Seattle, the top-two primary election was a shocker. The seemingly shoo-in incumbent tallied a weak second behind an upstart, a previously unknown challenger. I’m still undecided. I’m attending every forum I can, both in-person and on-line. Big money is being spent and the race is getting heated. I don’t watch TV, so I can ignore the ads. But my mailbox will be filled with glossy, printed B.S.
You can’t get away from it. Navigating political campaigns is like slogging through the swamp in an effort to reach high ground. This is no time for despair, but determination. These final pre-election weeks are when we put on our hip boots, study our options, and examine the facts — the “true” facts, not “alternative” facts. We’re heading for the high ground of democracy, insisting on a government that is of and for us, the people.
“Cast in concrete” is a metaphor for something permanent, unchangeable. And yet, “nothing is forever,” my late husband John once observed.
Cast aluminum, not concrete, was a favored medium for sculptor Richard Beyer. At least one time, however, he did make his mark in concrete. It was a fond gesture, a gift beyond value honoring John, me, and the community newspaper we published in Washington state’s spacious Okanogan County. John’s observation became all too true. Not even art cast in concrete is safe from willful destruction.
The Seattle Times recently published a retrospective of Beyer and his work. Reading it, I nearly drowned in a tsunami of memory and emotion. The piece by veteran journalist Erik Lacitis described Beyer as controversial and largely unrecognized. I have to agree. A recent show at the Seattle Art Museum celebrating contemporary West Coast artists omitted Beyer, even though there are more Richard Beyer public sculptures in Greater Seattle than by any other artist, Lacitis notes. That includes “Waiting for the Interurban” in the Fremont District, which after it was installed took on a life of its own. Many would claim it to be Seattle’s most popular piece of public art. Lacitis tallied more than ninety Beyer art works scattered throughout the Northwest and as far as Uzbekistan in Central Asia.
Beyer expressed his outsized humor in satirical creations that were met with consternation and adoration, fury and fun. He was either amused or indifferent when art snobs or critics spurned his folksy work. Since he died in 2012, his sculptures have not only endured but become even more endeared.
A Beyer fan long before we met, I was excited when he and his wife Margaret moved to Okanogan County in the late 1980s. I eagerly attended a show featuring some of Beyer’s smaller pieces at Sun Mountain resort in the Methow Valley. As I studied an eighteen-inch high, cast aluminum figure entitled, “Man Throwing Newspapers into Garbage Can,” I became aware of someone standing next to me. I looked up and instantly recognized Rich. My first words blurted to this man whose work I so admired were: “You could at least have him recycle them!”
Rich was momentarily taken aback before releasing his characteristic guffaw. We became friends, and I bought the sculpture for my husband. John proudly displayed it on the front counter of our newspaper office. Rich, who had so often been skewered in print, was no fan of newspapers. He made an exception in our case, frequently complimenting our paper’s brand of community journalism.
In late 1993, my husband suffered a brainstem stroke. Unable to speak, he was diagnosed as “Locked-In,” a syndrome described as a fully functioning brain locked inside a totally paralyzed body. Despite the gloomy medical prognosis, I was convinced John could and would recover. To accommodate John’s wheelchair, I had a ramp built to the front door of our newspaper office.
The contractor was Gary Headlee, also an artist and Rich’s friend. He convinced Rich to etch and paint a mural onto the side of our concrete ramp. Rich dreamed up a whimsical story that, as he worked, changed with every telling. He titled it “The Precious Jewel.”
By 1996, I had to face reality. Trying to do both John and my jobs, largely from home, while providing twenty-four/seven care for him, was not sustainable. We sold the paper, careful to put on a happy face in public. In private, I wept. I’d sold a chunk of my soul and pretty much all of my identity.
Not long after, Margaret got in touch with me. She wanted to write Rich’s biography and asked for my help. She arrived at our house with a shopping bag full of notes, photos, and a title for her imagined book: “The Art People Love.” I went to work on the opening chapters, but time was not on our side. I had too little of it, and Margaret wanted the book published ASAP. She ultimately retrieved the unfinished manuscript, the rest of her notes, completed the book, and found donors to fund its publication in 1999.
“Mary: you showed me the way!” she graciously wrote in my copy. One beautiful May morning in 2004, Rich called. Margaret was nearing the end of her journey with cancer. Would I come visit?
I’ve always described spring in the Okanogan as the five minutes when snowmelt colors our brown hills a delicate green. That day, throughout my forty-five minute drive to Margaret’s bedside, the green shone more brilliantly than I’d ever seen, before or since.
I don’t know if Margaret was aware of my presence. I prayed, seeking forgiveness for not having done more for her. She’d been the rock, the firm foundation that allowed Rich freedom to create. She was equally as brilliant and creative, yet self-effacing. I treasure a small watercolor that Rich gave to me. Margaret had painted it. I also treasure “Man Throwing Newspapers into Garbage Can,” which stands at my apartment door.
But “The Precious Jewel?” The new owners of the newspaper decided to remodel the building. The Beyer mural didn’t fit into their plans. They brought in heavy equipment, turning a work of art into a heap of rubble. I was shocked and horrified. Gary retrieved some of the larger chunks of brightly painted concrete and piled them next to a building he owned on Main Street. Every time I drove by, they reminded me that my dreams and expectations had also been shattered. Even the legacy of art I thought we were leaving to the community was destroyed.
After reading the Lacitis article, I had a sleepless night. Why, I wondered, had such a beautiful tribute left me so troubled? A hundred-or-so tosses and turns later I realized: some wounds never heal. We must tend to them, care for them and avoid infection. Bitterness will only contaminate ourselves and others.
The capacity to destroy is within us all. Some feel empowered by envy, greed or fear to rationalize acts of destruction. Others counter the darkness of destruction through love, creativity and compassion.
We are experiencing an epic era of destruction. Mouths agape, stunned, we daily witness attempts to demolish essential institutions — art, science, public education, and — this especially hurts — venomous attacks on freedom of speech and ethical journalism. We grieve as people’s lives are ruined. We gasp at the erasure of values we thought were cast in concrete in the U.S. Constitution. People are marching in the streets, yet in our hearts, how do we confront this darkness?
Spiritual writer Rabbi Brian Zachary Mayer recently offered advice in one of his emails: “Forgive and forget. And if you can’t, pick one.” I can forgive. I long ago forgave the destruction of “Precious Jewel.” Empathy for another paves the path toward forgiveness. Maybe I can forget the pile of concrete rubble, but no amount of heavy equipment can smash my memories of the artists’ generosity, joy, and love.
I realize now that those memories nurture a confidence that is cast in something more solid than concrete. It is a confidence in Martin Luther King Jr.’s “long arc” toward justice. It is a confidence to resist, to seek truth, perhaps even to hope. It is vital not to forget.
Richard Beyer with a portion of “The Precious Jewel” mural — Al Camp photo
An old man tells a story: A man mines the sky and finds a beautiful blue gem. Holding it to the light he sees the world anew, in 4 dimensions The governor is asleep, The banks are closed, Cattle have moons in their horns, Children ride flying horses, Angels fill the trees, Rocks speak, Coyotes dress in Wal-mart suits, The snake pipes and the rabbits dance, Fish and the wapato dance too. He gives the stone to his wife to look through, To see what he is seeing.
Once again I’ve become a statistic. Like it or not, we’re all numbers in various data banks. This time being a number makes me happy. In fact, makes me more joyful. At last count (it increases daily) I’m one of 109,048 worldwide participants in the Big Joy project. Devised by the Greater Good Science Center of the University of California, Berkeley, the online exercise claims to be the “largest-ever citizen science project on JOY.”
An inspiration is the film, “Mission: JOY,” which features a meeting between the Dalai Lama and the late Archbishop Desmond Tutu. The documentary (available for streaming online) is contagiously joy-filled.
Happiness, resilience, connection and kindness are skills that can be taught and practiced through “micro-acts of JOY,” says the Big Joy website. All it takes is seven minutes a day for seven days. On Day One you establish a well-being baseline. Each day you record your feelings before and after engaging in a micro-act of joy. That may be sharing a laugh, doing something kind, celebrating someone else’s joy, etc. On Day Seven, you get a report measuring how your sense of well-being (or joy) may have improved.
I guess you could call it your JQ — joy quotient. At week’s end, mine had shot up all of 4.3 percent. Not much, but every little bit helps. I’d started out with a relatively high JQ. On a scale from one to ten, I measured in the high sevens to begin with. At week’s end, I made it all the way to eight.
I probably could’ve gone higher, but I blew it on Day Two, during the seven minutes in which I was supposed to experience awe. The project invited me to sit back, relax and “immerse” myself in an “awe-inspiring video.” Then came four minutes of drone-captured scenes from California’s Yosemite Park, all of it at rocket-forward speed. From sunrise to sunset took fifty-nine seconds. (Some days are like that.) We were treated to thirty-four seconds of heavenly splendor until dawn broke. Myriad stars in a bejeweled night sky sparkled and disappeared faster than a flash bulb. A full moon sped past like a helium balloon caught in a gale wind.
I was impressed by the skill of the film makers, but awed by the sights? Hardly.
Awe takes time. My late husband and I visited Yosemite years ago. I well remember the awe we shared as we slowed our pace, lingered to absorb sights, sounds, scents. I am frequently awed by what Creation offers on just about any day, just about any place. One of the gifts of aging is a willingness — a need! — to slow down, even stop. To pay attention. To drink it all in. To open ourselves to awe. To not cover the spectacular 1,170 square miles of Yosemite Park in four minutes or less.
Even if I wasn’t happy with the awe portion, I don’t regret devoting seven minutes daily to joy for a week. As the website points out, there’s a big difference between happiness and joy. Happiness tends to be fleeting, based on temporary emotions — feelings that we think of as positive. Joy is deeper, able to embrace sadness, anger, loneliness. Aristotle described it as “eudaimonic” happiness rather than hedonistic happiness — living a meaningful life as opposed to merely pursuing pleasure. Joy, said the Greeks, is a spiritual high.
Much of the time, I’m not happy. I’m unhappy over global and national events. I’m unhappy as I walk past the silent young woman who spends night after night on the bench in the park by my apartment.
I suspect you’re unhappy, too. It’s joy that empowers us when we’re unhappy. Joy allows space for hope and counters futility. In joy we recognize those daily opportunities, small and large, that allow us to address our unhappiness. Send that email, make that phone call, give that donation, carry that picket sign, deliver that hot meal to someone who’s ailing, listen patiently to someone who’s hurting, sing that song — even/especially if it’s the blues.
Micro-actions promise joy. Maybe even awe, when we take the time.
A moment in Yosemite Park captured by “fancycrave1” on pixabay
A commonly used two-word phrase can make you either despondent or hopeful, depending on how you use it. The two words are “what” and “if.” What if … ? And we speculate.
“I got caught up in ‘what-ifs,’” a friend recently moaned. Just a few days earlier she’d made a life-changing decision. She was heading toward an exciting new future until the “what-ifs” attacked. By the time I returned her phone call, she’d recovered, her initial decision intact. That was a close one.
Another friend, confronted with protracted legal issues, nervously asked, “What if I go bankrupt?” I’m confident that’s not going to happen, but the specter haunts him.
These days it can feel as if we’re well beyond any nightmarish what-if. Events in our nation and around the world are more appalling than we could ever have imagined. It’s hard to find hope when the meanness quotient increases on a daily basis.
Yet “what if” can lead to hope, when it’s aspirational. Not ridiculously so, such as “what if I win the lottery” or “what if I lose 20 pounds so I can wear that outfit again.” I’m talking about realistic aspirations, like “what if I take a break from the news (or Facebook, or whatever) one day a week, because it depresses/angers me so much” or, “what if I find a way to be kind to my neighbor/in-law/co-worker whose politics make me crazy.”
In fact, what if we all found a way to be kind to our neighbors, family members, strangers whose politics — or other choices — annoy us. We may think they have bricks for brains; all the more reason to be kind. What if instead of polarized, we were simply polite? What if our whole country abandoned our culture of consumerism? (I’ve never recovered from the counsel President Bush offered to the American people after 9/11: “Go shopping.”) What if instead of consumerism we opted for a culture of kindness?
While some dispute the science behind vaccines and climate change, I’ve heard no one question the abundance of science measuring the very real, positive effects of kindness. Several studies tell us that when we witness or participate in acts of kindness our brain produces oxytocin (the “love” hormone), serotonin (a “feel-good” chemical), and endorphins that naturally relieve discomfort, while cortisol (the stress hormone) decreases. Overall results are lowered blood pressure, healthier hearts, increased energy and extended life expectancy.
All that just by — for example — when in heavy traffic, allowing another vehicle to move into your lane instead of stubbornly hugging the bumper ahead of you!
We don’t have to rely on government policies, programs or grants to increase our level of kindness. Kindness doesn’t have to trickle down from above. It’s most powerful at the grassroots. You don’t have to be authorized, licensed, documented, diploma’d, or even rich, to be kind.
Moreover, scientists at the University of Wisconsin-Madison have established that compassion, aka kindness, can be taught! Rogers and Hammerstein figured out years ago that the opposite was true. The song “You’ve Got to be Carefully Taught” in their musical “South Pacific” insisted people aren’t born to be racist — or hateful. They learn it. Science has caught up with common sense. We can learn and teach kindness. Teach by example, in fact.
A pandemic can begin with just one obscure virus unleashed from one obscure place. What if kindness became viral? What if our world experienced a pandemic of kindness? What if it took only you and me to unleash the power of kindness, right here, right now?
My mother often used the word “queer.” She wasn’t referring to sexual orientation. She used the word in the same way Lewis Carroll’s Alice did while meandering “Through the Looking Glass” and in Wonderland. For Alice and my mother, “queer” meant odd, strange, weird, curious.
As the meaning of “queer” evolved in our culture, I became uncomfortable when my aging parent (she died at 92 in 2009) commented that something was queer. I worried she might be misunderstood. Yet I was hesitant to tell her the word no longer meant what she meant it to mean. Mother was a writer and educator. She objected when words and language differed from what she’d been taught as a Depression-era honors student.
She would’ve objected to the change in meaning — not the people who in this era proudly identify as LGBTQ+, or queer. While I don’t recall ever discussing gender issues with my parents, I do remember an episode in my teens involving a friend, Ann. It was around 1960. Ann was homeless after revealing she was a lesbian. It was an especially courageous revelation for a teen — for anyone! — in those years. My parents opened our home to her.
Ann had scars on her wrist from a suicide attempt. She’d spent some time in a mental institution. Keep in mind that homosexuality wasn’t depathologized (no longer viewed as a mental illness) until 1973. Mother became a mentor to Ann, who wanted to be a writer. After Ann left our home, she’d write letters to Mother, who lovingly used her red pen to correct errors and sent the letters back. I’ve no idea how long that exchange continued. Ann eventually disappeared from our lives.
The memory of my parents’ nonjudgmental hospitality remains, especially in this era when religious fundamentalists have their knickers knotted over gender issues. To be clear, my dad was a Lutheran minister and Mother wrote Christian educational materials — Bible studies, Sunday School lessons, etc.
I wonder how they would’ve reacted to the documentary “1946: The Mistranslation That Shifted Culture.” Again, it’s an issue of words and how we understand them. Or don’t. I watched the movie (available on Amazon) in June, as part of “Pride” month. It explores what happened when the word “homosexual” appeared for the first time in an English-language Bible — the Revised Standard Version, issued in 1946.
Academics ultimately agreed it was a mistranslation and a misinterpretation of the scriptural text. The documentary notes that the mistranslation was ultimately corrected in later versions, but the misuse has been repeated and is used by literalists to condemn queer love. Raised in a Lutheran parsonage, my Christian education was summed up by Jesus’ two simple and direct commandments (Matthew 22:36-40). Love God. Love others.
June 29 was my first opportunity to attend Seattle’s annual Pride Parade. The city’s biggest event of the year, it’s said to have drawn some 300,000 people. I was astounded by the crowd, the noise, the joy, the creative and oft-times bizarre apparel — or lack thereof.
I stopped to take a photo of a fellow (with his permission) who was hunkered down in a patch of shade behind the spectators.
“But you can’t see the parade,” I said. “It’s not my priority,” he answered.
I assume his small sign proclaiming “JESUS IS THE ONLY WAY TO HEAVEN” was intended as a protest. Well, that’s one in 300,000. We’re each, in our uniquely queer way, one in 300,000, one in a million, one in a billion, quadrillion … one.
Having lived in wildfire country for decades, I’ve hiked many miles through burned-out forests. I grieved over fallen giants whose blackened bark served as shrouds. Now an urban dweller, I was recently meandering through a very different environment, a contemporary art gallery dominated by concrete and glass. Until … I turned a corner and was unexpectedly back in the burned forest, or a towering representative of it.
The sculpture, created from the twenty-two foot base and roots of a charred and hollowed western red cedar, is a compelling statement of destruction and resurrection. Tori Karpenko, an artist from Twisp, WA., salvaged the tree’s remains in cooperation with the U.S. Forest Service. Karpenko rubbed oil onto every inch of the massive corpse, giving it an ethereal glow, an essence of life after death.
Karpenko titled the work “Invitation.” It tells a story, Karpenko writes: “Of loss … Of fragility and the delicacy of this moment we are in … Of hope in the promise of renewal … Of community, holding everything from the bottom up.”
I’ve long marveled at the self-healing powers of Creation. Almost immediately after a forest fire, there’s a resurgence of life. Ferns emerge, burying thick ash on the forest floor beneath a lush, green carpet. Myriad seeds spring to life. Reporting on fires for our rural, weekly newspaper was inevitably a bitter-sweet experience for my husband and me. We and our staff would photograph and write about the destruction, the drama of firefighters battling to save homes, lives, property.
John and I would also give each other knowing looks. We would return to the scene the following spring to hunt for the tantalizing morel mushroom. Several species of “burn morels” hide underground for years until fire prompts them to bloom, often en masse.
It’s well known by now that practices and policies over the past century led to needless destruction of forests and wildlands. Fire is not the enemy. Human conceit is. Not that many years ago, I attended a presentation on wildfire and, for the first time, heard a government forester admit, “The Indians had it right.” For centuries, Native Americans skillfully used fire as a tool to keep the forests healthy and productive.
I’m not into romanticizing any culture over another. I’m not going to delve into whether any economic system or religious dogma is better than any other. Yet we Americans are obsessed with consumerism, materialism and status. If we were to adopt the spiritual relationship indigenous people of this continent had with Creation — understanding all lifeforms as sacred — that WOULD make America great again.
“Invitation” demonstrates the beauty that results when humans collaborate with nature, when we work in community with nature instead of exploiting or attempting to dominate. Native American writer and scientist Robin Wall Kimmerer calls this reciprocity. The word is threaded through her best-seller, “Braiding Sweetgrass.”
“One of our responsibilities as human people,” she writes, “is to find ways to enter into reciprocity with the more-than-human world. We can do it through gratitude, through ceremony, through land stewardship, science, art, and in everyday acts of practical reverence.”
As co-creator with nature, Karpenko writes: “The tree, once connected to a family of cedars, was also a community of itself. Interwoven roots growing together, strengthening in response to what was needed. The communities we build are our greatest hope of solving the problems of our time. Perhaps this has always been true, the story of human evolution. How can we forget such things?”
Not everyone has forgotten, and we continue to learn — too often the hard way, as with wildfire. Humanity is on a steep learning curve now, discovering how vitally interdependent we are, on each other, on all of Creation. Karpenko, who once had a fire burn within six feet of his bedroom, observes that we all must own it:
“Somebody else started those fires
but we are all a part of this mess
The smoke belongs to everyone
Regardless of where it came from . . .”
PHOTOS: My photo of “Invitation” does not do it justice, other than to give a sense of dimension. To appreciate its beauty, go to Karpenko’s website, https://www.torikarpenko.com/, or even better, visit the Traver Gallery, 1100 E. Ewing Street, Seattle, where the sculpture is on loan by the artist. The bottom photo was taken after a fire near Holden Village, in the North Cascade mountains of Washington state.
Every once in a while, to borrow from C.S. Lewis, I’m surprised by joy.
Saturday morning another Horizon House resident and I attended the GSBA (Greater Seattle Business Association) “Scholars Celebration.” My companion and I were representing Horizon House’s Community Relations and Diversity Committee. DEI is alive and well in our retirement community.
EMCEEFULLY IN COMMAND OF JOY
GSBA lays claim to being the nation’s largest LGBTQ+ chamber of commerce. Counting affiliates, there are more than 1,300 members. Given our national emotional chaos, I anticipated a crowd of fearful, angry people. Surprise! The emcee — a flamboyant and outrageously funny drag queen — set the tone. We were a crowd diverse in age, ethnicity and sundry other varieties, but uniformly joyful.
The program highlighted GSBA’s impressive record of handing out scholarships: $7 million during thirty-four years of operation. Of six hundred or so recipients, 49 percent lived with a disability, 51 percent had experienced housing insecurity, 45 percent are from rural areas, and 49 percent are first generation college students. Their graduation rate exceeds the national average.
It’s not just about the numbers. This year’s graduates lined up before us and told us their post-college plans. All of them will make impressive contributions. One of the grads was chosen to tell her story. Older than the average college student and a single mom with an autistic son, she was determined to be the first in her family to attend college. She said she repeatedly bumped into closed doors, “no” after “no,” until she found GBSA’s program and finally heard a “yes.” GBSA scholars not only receive financial assistance, but ongoing encouragement and emotional support. Armed with her bachelor’s degree, this mom is headed to graduate school and a career in public health policy. Sounds dry? Our country desperately needs intelligent, dedicated people setting health care policy. When she finished speaking, there may have been a few dry eyes in the room, but there were none at our table.
Only one GSBA leader briefly addressed the current political situation, not naming names but referring to “that little weasel.” Nonetheless, she said, “They can’t take our joy away.”
I was reminded of Jesus calling Herod “that fox.” In both cases, I think the critters were maligned. Weasels and foxes simply live as they were created to live. We humans manufacture our own brand of meanness and evil.
We’re also responsible for nurturing our joy, which is not the same as happiness. Happiness comes and goes. Joy is a state of being.
I haven’t written in this space since the new administration took over. I’ve been too dumbstruck. Besides, there’s been a torrent of words: in print, online, over the air. More than enough analyses, assessments, judgments and predictions. One commentator’s observation stuck with me: “If you think you know what’s going to happen in the future, you’re wrong.” Absorbing what is happening in the present is agitating enough.
Last weekend I sat at a friend’s kitchen table while she put felt marker to butcher paper, fashioning a protest sign for a demonstration she would attend that afternoon. She wanted a pithy but meaningful statement. I don’t recall what she ended up with, but I finally have the six words that will help me navigate this challenging time: “They can’t take our joy away.”
Every New Season 
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