Seven Days to a More Joyful You

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

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

Two Powerful Words

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

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?

What if?

In A Word

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized2 Comments

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.

One point of view …
… one other

After The Burn

On By Mary KochIn Creation, Uncategorized, Urban Life3 Comments

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.

Some Things Endure: Like Joy

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized1 Comment

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. 

EMCEE FULLY 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.”

What’s With the Three Wise Gals?

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During my many decades as a church musician, I’d take a deep breath of gratitude at the arrival of Twelfth Night, either January 5 or 6, depending on who’s counting. Having plowed my way through the annual blizzard of Christmas pageants, carol sing-alongs, renditions of Handle’s “Messiah” and midnight masses, I welcomed the church’s Epiphany — official end of the Christmas season.

In the secular world, Christmas has long since been forgotten by now, buried under New Year’s Eve revelry and (resulting?) “Dry January” resolutions. Meanwhile, in churches Epiphany marks the arrival of the Three Kings. Now a new tradition is taking hold, designating January 6 as “Women’s Christmas.” 

Methodist minister Jan Richardson explains that Women’s Christmas originated in Ireland as Nollaig na mBan, a day when the women, “who often carried the domestic responsibilities all year, took Epiphany as an occasion to celebrate together at the end of the holidays, leaving hearth and home to the men for a few hours.”

A prolific artist and writer, Richardson issues an annual collection of meditations, poetry and illustrations for Women’s Christmas. Her art includes Three Wise Women en route to the manger. (You can see it here.) As I struggle with Christianity’s two millennia of patriarchal oppression, I’m only too happy to see the women gently nudge the old guys aside with their own presence and gifts. For sure, the Kings’ gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh are highly symbolic and precious. In her poem, “Wise Women Also Came,” Richardson notes the equally essential aspect of women’s giving:

“Wise women also came,
and they brought
useful gifts:
water for labor’s washing,
fire for warm illumination,
a blanket for swaddling.”

This past Christmas I received an unusual, unsought gift: a head cold. I’d decided already to spend the day mostly in quiet solitude. December 25 is my late husband’s birthday. I choose to devote at least part of the day in the presence of his spirit and memories of his life. This year his spirit was having to put up with my sniffles and sneezes. Had he been here in person, he’d have made me his curative hot drink of whiskey, honey and lemon. I settled for diluting my coffee with a little brandy. 

I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for myself. I live between two beautiful cathedrals, St. Mark’s and St. James. The previous Sunday — the Fourth Sunday of Advent — I’d managed to visit both. That last Sunday before Christmas, the church pays close attention to two women: Mary and her cousin Elizabeth. In the morning I heard a woman Episcopal priest sermonize on Elizabeth’s wisdom as counselor to her younger cousin. In the evening, at Catholic Vespers, I was immersed in candlelight and incense while contemplating, “Lo! How a rose e’er blooming … with Mary we behold it … ”

I was well prepared for a Christmas that was as quiet as any “Silent Night,” a Christmas that was healing and empowering. I always smile during December days when people ask the standard question: “Are you ready for Christmas?” I inevitably answer, “I’m always ready for Christmas.” Of course we’re probably talking about two very different states of readiness.

Merry Women’s Christmas. 

(Whether you’re female or male, I recommend Richardson’s free Women’s Christmas guide: https://sanctuaryofwomen.com/womenschristmas.html.  And please note, to not infringe on Jan Richardson’s copyrighted art, I’m using clip art to illustrate this post. You can see her Wise Women here.

Going the extra mile: Kindness drives a city bus

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized, Urban Life1 Comment

If I had to choose one word to describe Seattle’s Metro bus drivers, it would be “kind.” I could add other words: patient, professional, pleasant, helpful, knowledgeable. Recent events add the word “grieving.” Drivers and passengers alike are mourning last week’s fatal stabbing of a veteran driver. A homeless man has been charged with first-degree murder.

The tragedy felt personal to me and I’m sure to many Metro passengers. We trust and appreciate the drivers who skillfully navigate the clogged byways of densely populated King County. It’s common practice for passengers exiting the bus, even from the back door, to call out, “THANK YOU!”

When I read about the homicide, I immediately thought of the driver I’d ridden with just days before. I don’t know his name, and it’s unlikely I’ll ride with him again — he’s one of nearly 2,500 Metro drivers. He’d been exceptionally helpful, and I hated to think of him grieving, much less worrying about his own security.

King County Council member Peter von Reichbauer issued a statement asking, “If our bus drivers are not safe on Metro buses, then how can we convince our public that it is safe for them to ride?”

I’ve been riding buses for a year now after giving my car away. I’ve never felt endangered, insecure, or even uncomfortable. I know I’m safer climbing onto a bus than into a car. In the United States, the fatality rate for car occupants is twenty-three times higher than those for bus occupants.

The recent ride I mentioned was on a rainy, blustery day. A friend and I had tickets for a concert on the other side of town. We knew we’d have to transfer along the way, but the route schedule was confusing. When a No. 2 bus pulled up, I asked the driver about connecting with the No. 13. It became clear to him that I wasn’t understanding his directions. To save time he simply said, “Just get on.” 

This is where trust enters the picture.

The bus quickly fills with holiday shoppers, including a young family. As one child sleeps in his stroller, his slightly older brother wails about some perceived injustice that his parents can’t seem to resolve. His cries persist above the murmured conversations among passengers on the crowded bus.

We head up breathtakingly steep Queen Anne Avenue. Coming on board is an elderly woman — possibly around my age but with mobility issues. She has trouble navigating her walker across the lowered ramp. The driver gets out of his seat to guide her into place. The sleeping child’s stroller is repositioned to make room for her walker.

Upward we climb. At the next stop, the elderly woman slowly maneuvers her way off the bus. “Oh,” we hear her exclaim over the drumbeat of rain as the door begins to close. “This is the wrong stop!” 

The ramp is lowered again, the driver steers her back onto the bus. “I want you safe” he tells her. “If anything happens to you, it’s on me.” Further up the hill she disembarks, presumably at the correct stop. When we reach the hilltop, the driver sets the brake, stands up and motions to my companion and me to follow him off the bus. I can’t believe he even remembers us among the stream of passengers who’ve been boarding and exiting.

He shows us where to shelter from the rain while we wait for the No. 13. He’s back in his bus, preparing to drive onward when No. 13 pulls up next to him. Our driver once again exits No. 2, tells the No. 13 driver where we’re headed and shepherds us onto that bus. He shrugs off our exclamations of appreciation. My companion, who is always prepared for any occasion, hands him a large, carefully wrapped cookie. He accepts, possibly because he’s not inclined to argue with her. I sure hope cookie handouts aren’t contrary to Metro policy.

May we all be safe during this sacred season, and may we all be kind, just like city bus drivers.

Pro-Active Aging: Mapping a path toward the inevitable

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November 5 marked one year since I moved to an “old folks’ home,” as a friend patronizingly describes it. I neglected to observe the anniversary. Apparently other events on November 5 distracted me.

Now I’m taking a breath, reflecting on that decision to turn my life upside down one year plus one month ago. I exchanged a rural riverside home that I loved for a city studio apartment in — NOT an old folks’ home — but what the industry prefers to call a CCRC — Continuing Care Retirement Community. I live independently in my own apartment until, until … I no longer can. Then I’ll be appropriately cared for.

Do I miss my previous life, the people and place I left behind? Every moment of every day. Did I do the right thing? Absolutely.

I carry this paradoxical load of joy and sorrow by embracing both present and past with gratitude. I’m thrilled to be where I am: in a vibrant community, soaking up the energy and culture of a large metropolis. All the while, I revel in memories of rich relationships and events that once were and can be no more.

During the final hectic weeks of preparing to move last year, seeds of doubt threatened to erupt into full-blown angst. To ward off inner explosions, I kept a list in my journal under the heading,“Reasons For Moving.” No. 1 on that list was “Pro-Active Aging.” More than anything else, I wanted to make my own decisions while I still had the capacity to make them. Above all, I didn’t want to reach the point when family and friends would debate, “What should we do with/for/about dear old Mary?”

I’m not interested in denying the effects of aging. There’s no debate. Our bodies and our mental capacities change. I’m interested in acknowledging those changes, accommodating them, even savoring them. Age is a convenient avenue for setting boundaries: No thank you. Not interested in going there. Not doing that. And the world shrugs its shoulders. What d’ya expect? She’s old!

Even as my own Earth-bound future grows shorter, I care about the future of our world. No. 3 on my “Reasons” list (after No. 2 — financial) was “Lower My Carbon Footprint.” That could’ve been a sub-head under No. 1. One of the most vexing issues for families with aging members is convincing them to stop driving. For too many, losing the freedom to drive is the death of independence. 

I recall a friend at age 90 gleefully maneuvering England’s country roads, one leather gloved hand on the wheel, the other briskly shifting gears as we sped from curve to corner. “They’re going to have to pry my cold, dead fingers from around the steering wheel,” she declared. They didn’t have to. A paralyzing stroke ended her driving days.

I gave away my car before it became an issue. I revel in the true independence offered by mass transit. No hassles with parking, gas prices, insurance, maintenance and repair bills. And, oh my, the interesting people one can engage with on the bus.

“Want little: you’ll have everything,” advises Portuguese poet Ricardo Reis. He continues, “Want nothing: you’ll be free.”

I’m not suggesting everyone should follow my path of aging. We each find our own route, which is why some folks call it (s)aging. We don’t have a choice. Aging begins with that first breath and continues throughout our lives. I’ll not quote that old saw — the one that says growing old beats the alternative. 

Oh. I guess I just did. A sign of age?

Naming Names: A list you wouldn’t want to be on

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We stood in the cathedral courtyard, some hundred or more of us holding small lighted candles  that flickered in the November night. The bell above rang a solemn funeral toll. One by one the names were read of 410 homeless people who have died in Seattle over the past year.

“Clifford … David … William … Roberto … Fernando … Brian … Melissa … Matthew … Nabil … Shawna … Sukhwinder … Isaias … Edward … Hyshyn … Sirisopha …”

We were observing the annual “Mass in Remembrance of the Deceased Homeless of Seattle,” offered by St. James Cathedral. Inside the cathedral, we had sung, prayed, heard scripture and sermon, communed, and prayed some more. Finally the mournful tones of a bagpipe led us outside. We processed along the street and into the courtyard, where a sculpture of Madonna, cuddling the Child, presides.

“Santos … Noel … Sonny … Timothy … Thomas … Sean … Liem … Hector … Tracy … Jesse … Pedro … Mark … Arnold … Gustavo … Michelle … Nathan … Carlos … Sharleen …”

The rumble of planes overhead made us strain a bit to hear the names. Only a few hours earlier, I’d been aboard one of those planes, flying across the state after a brief visit to Spokane. Officials in Washington’s second largest city report a decline in homelessness, but that is of little comfort to the two thousand-or-so folks sleeping on or under cardboard while I nestled in my hotel bed.

“Martin … Isaac … Kathy … Gary … Tina … Logan … Martha … Phetsamone … Nimo …”

It’d been a gloriously clear day to fly. The fertile fields of eastern Washington spread quilt-like below. The Columbia River and its tributaries embroidered meandering designs in brilliant blue threads. 

“Wayne … Brad … Adam … Earl … Kim … Paul … Randy … Esteban … Steven … Matthew … Alexia … Cassandra … Ross … Henry … Leslie … Christopher … Katherine … Ernest …”

The Columbia River defines the southern border of Okanogan County, where I lived for forty-five years before returning to Seattle last year. I recalled the homeless individuals I’d met while volunteering at a shelter in Okanogan. Each was unique, their stories fascinating, more often than not carrying a common thread: the struggle to stay “clean and sober.” Homeless people died on the streets and under the bridges in the Okanogan Valley, too. There was no mass to honor their lives, but we spoke their names regretfully, in sorrow. What more could we’ve done?

“Vuong … Violet … Collin … Teo … James … Gary … Charles … Kebereseb … Mohammed … William … Patrick … Maria … Justin … Cheryl … Jennifer … Jameelah … Larry …”

The wail of a passing ambulance sounded as a counterpoint to the tolling bell. The reading of names had become a chant, a rhythm that matched my breathing. A dozen names, a dozen breaths, each minute. I list only first names here but full names were intoned, including middle names, if known. A few of the names stopped my breath.

“Baby Boy Smith … Baby Boy Green … Unidentified Remains … Male Unidentified …”

I focussed on the Madonna sculpture, pondering the miracle of birth that she represents. At birth, all of us were “created equal.” That’s what our nation’s founders proclaimed. With hands over heart, we pledge that we are a nation with “liberty and justice for all.” Both statements are more aspirational than reality. The signs of inequality, beginning from birth, are all around us, when we care to look. 

“Ivan … Anthony … Jason … Travis … Jennifer … Terry … Cynthia … Sean … Sompheth … Doreen … Krista … Eric … Faisal … Randolph … Sandra …”

Our candles burned to nubbins, then sputtered out. Still the names continued. I recalled the verse from John’s Gospel: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.”

“Olivia … Michael … Charles … Shannon.” At last we’d heard all 408 names and two Unknowns. The bell stopped tolling; the bagpipe played “Taps.” A reception followed, but I couldn’t do that. I walked home in silence, oblivious to the noise of city traffic. As a student, I strived to be on the honor roll, the dean’s list. My name likely won’t appear on this list of homelessness. I’m grateful, humbled. For this list, the roll has been “called up yonder.” These too are names, people, lives to be honored.

A 50-50 Split? Hey! It’s Only Fair

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Every once in a while a random thought presents itself: Why do I have it so good? The thought occurs not when I’m in church or at times like Thanksgiving, but on more mundane occasions, like this morning. It’s rainy, chilly outside. I’m dry and warm in my small, snug apartment as I contemplate my refrigerator and its variety of breakfast options. I consider not only what I feel like eating but what will fit nutritionally with my lunch and dinner plans. I happen to know where my next meal is coming from, and the next, and the next.

Who gets to live this sumptuously? Most of the people I know — family, friends, neighbors, probably you, dear reader. In fact, most Americans. So why are so many of us so angry — especially when we consider the plight of innocents around the globe. Or do we consider them?

I can’t ignore the plight of those who do not share my abundant lifestyle. They’re huddled on sidewalks not far from my building. Worldwide, the gap between “haves” and “have nots” is so deep and broad it seems unbridgeable. How can the average American shopping for groceries complain about prices for an abundance and variety of food my Depression era grandparents could never imagine?

Especially in this election season, this time when we’re offered choices, I’m mystified by the depth of cynicism and resentment among those of us who are free and economically secure. 

How can citizens sneer that only scoundrels, egomaniacs, and incompetents run for public office? I look at my ballot, especially further down, and marvel at local, well-qualified candidates in both parties. How incredible that they’re willing to go to work for me, willing to put in long hours for pay that doesn’t come close to what they could get in the private sector.

I ponder the ballot measures that would tax me and others. I see not financial burden but opportunity to join my neighbors building better infrastructure, schools, social programs. Or, I may see an inadequate proposal, a boondoggle. I have the freedom to say no. 

Is it — as the late, great journalist Molly Ivins described — that for many people, “too much is not enough?” Are we so brainwashed by our materialistic culture, by commercials that declare we “deserve” more and better, that we feel cheated?

Many people are anxious, even fearful, as election day draws near. My own retirement community issued a memo discounting the likelihood of civil disturbance. But just in case, be prepared to … etc., etc. 

One religious leader noted that no matter the election results, half the population will be celebrating and the other half distressed. If we really are as equally divided as polls suggest, I challenge the word pundits use: “polarization.” I think back to my childhood when a 50-50 split had a different meaning. It represented fairness. We shared fairly. One cookie, two kids. One kid would break the cookie as evenly as possible, giving the other kid first choice. 

I’m not naive. I recognize the stakes in this election are higher than ever in my lifetime. The cookie we’re splitting is giant. Yet no matter on which side my — and your — vote lands, we’ll still have a share. May we savor our share of the cookie, protect its deliciousness, allow its sweetness to energize us, and not begrudge others their share. 

Cookie look good enough to eat? Sorry, it was “baked” by AI. Thanks to Ray Shrewsberry for serving it up on Pixabay