My 202nd Post!

A have a weak spot for nostalgia, not the specific past experiences,
but the feeling of nostalgia itself. That is why I love listening to Dreamsicle
by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit, especially the refrains.

Marshmallows, graham crackers, and Hershey chocolate. On their own, I find them bland, unless I am desperate. Yes, I am obsessed with sugar, and I have been known to consume candy corn when nothing else was available. Like an alcoholic resorting to mouth wash. But combine those three items, smoosh them together, and roast them over a fire? Yeah, still not for me. In fact, I consider it worse. Between the effort and the mess, I would rather just sit down with a package of the Hershey chocolate, which I already find barely edible without almonds.

(When you discover quality chocolate, it is difficult to go back to the substandard stuff. Not impossible. Just... difficult.)

There is a metaphor here. Maybe something being more than the sum of it parts? Unless that something is not worth having? Or the parts suck anyway? Then just do not bother with it all? Except when someone else enjoys it? So help them make it anyway? However, if they leave a pile of hardening marshmallow droppings that you struggle to clean up, just as you feel the need to sit down a blog, what then? How does it affect this exercise in symbolism?

Perhaps, instead, there is a life lesson to be gleaned. Some times the messy stuff is necessary in order to get to the end result. The three ingredients, the roasting, and the the s'more itself are not the goal. Rather, it is the two giggling teenage friends who jumped in the pool in order to wash away the marshmallow stickiness from their hands. Shadows of a late July evening mingling with whisps of smoke from a dying fire. The sounds of a Sunday evening in the suburbs muffled by a wooden fence. And plucking a bit of inspiration from darkening sky, like a firefly, placing it in a jar, and having it light your way to blog post. 

Those damn s'mores were just a means to strengthening a habit. 

(The official video for Dreamsicle by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. Love this song. Especially the refrains.)

A Deep Breath (#24)

This painting by Giovanni Segantini sums up
my past nights, especially as I am about to fall asleep
and a thought pops into my head.

Just now, I set my monitor's brightness to max. My eyes were straining to read the text. Another sign that I am getting older. Also, I have not slept well in over a week, perhaps two. Either I struggle to fall asleep, or wake up throughout the night. My mind gets crowded with the same anxieties, and my body cannot find a position it likes. In addition, my garden only contains three pole beans and a dozen tomato plants. The former grew from last year's fallen pods left on the ground. The latter are four-week-old transplants that a rabbit is using for midnight snacking. There will probably be no cucumbers this year, which means no pickles. Very disappointing. Finally, procrastination continues to undermine my blogging. I almost skipped tonight's post. It was not until 6:45 pm when I began writing. And it took me thirty minutes of just sitting at the computer to begin typing my thoughts.

Fifteen minutes later, and what do I have? A lot of whining from a middle-aged man, and no plan for how to continue.

Yet, my life is good. If a lack of homemade pickles, or a long blogging hiatus, is the worst that happens to me this summer, I am fortunate. And while the poor sleeping pattern is worrisome, I am trying out different ways to improve my nights. Finally, reducing daily screen time will help with my eyesight. 

That just leaves my over-analytical mind and procrastination. They have been a part of me for too long.  Unfortunately, they reinforce each other. So, it becomes a feedback loop. I know what I need to do. Write my thoughts down every day! I am just not there, yet. In the meantime, I have this blog post.

That counts for something.

(Sorry, I rushed the ending.)

My 200th Post!

A painting by Edward Hopper that I found here.

"It began with a bang, and is now but a whimper."

That is how I wanted to begin this post. However, upon typing it out, my mind warned me that these words were not my own. Therefore, I did a search, and found T.S. Eliot's poem, The Hollow Men. He ends it with these lines (italics in the original):

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

It is a coincidence that the inspiration for my quote should draw from a famous poem, alongside the fact that I butchered it. You see, I intended to share a poem I wrote back in middle school, a silly one about a lighthouse. Reading it just now has left me embarrassed, and reluctant to share. Poetry was never my forte, despite my deep reverence for the few that I have experienced in a meaningful way.  

Yet, I might still follow through. This blog is about vulnerability and understanding. And what better way to expose one's self than through a poorly written, childish poem--a failed attempt at a creative endeavor?

After all, the topic of my old poem also aligned with the content of the image above, which in turn reflected back to one of my earliest posts about lighthouses. Reading it again, just now, reminded me of the start of my blogging. Particularly, the volume and depth of my prose. It was raw, yet tight and focused. And there was plenty of it. I was producing three posts a week during my first year. Now? My content is scattered. Loose ends dangle everywhere. And, worse, my style reflects these inconsistencies. For the past year, I have struggled to create back-to-back Sunday posts.

I feel lost. 

And so, I dove into the past, not once, but twice. Both writings refer to one of my favorite types of buildings. The first plunge, was into the shallow end: an early, but contemporary blog post. The second, a deeper descent: an old, original poem. However, their themes could not be any more different. On the one hand, in the blog post, the scene opens with my standing alone, on a cold, dark evening, before an over-packed storage unit. Then there is a chance meeting with someone, followed by a quote about insanity and doing the same thing too many times. Finally, it wraps up with a reference to teaching. In the end, I blogged about action and hope. (I would write about that storage unit again.) The poem, on the other hand, starts in the present moment, under bright skies and screaming birds. Then it slips into ancient pasts filled with power and victory. Yet, upon returning to the present day, there is now loss and decay. The poem ends on a note of regret.

Perhaps all of this means I am stuck between two worlds: one filled with confidence and progress, the other doubt and regression. It is not the first time, and will not be the last. I refuse to engage this struggle like I did throughout high school, college, and early adulthood. That is, shutting down emotionally, and running away physically. I like to believe I have matured. My first round of blogging was a novel way for me to deal with the end of my first attempt at teaching. It helped, for some time. Then I stopped. When the Pandemic hit, I tried this habit again, with some changes. And it worked. My life was changing, and I adjusted, without shutting off my emotions, or walking away from obligations. Again, blogging played a positive part.

Now, I stand at another crossroads. The paths are shrouded in my ignorance, hesitation, and fear. Blogging may drive away some of the fog. Or, it may further cloud my vision. If I continue to write on this platform, some aspect of it will have to change, otherwise, I am just engaging with insanity. The writing and content need to improve and be consistent. However, if I decide to end this blog, I need to find another creative outlet. There are options: writing those short stories and novels, focusing on my drawing skills, going back to teaching.

I would love to combine it all, but currently I lack the habits and skills to follow through.

Or, perhaps, if I could navigate through this stormy, churning sea of broken thoughts and arrive safely at a harbor, I would discover a clear road across this unchartered land.

Until then, here is that poem I wrote so many decades ago.

The Lighthouse

There stands a lighthouse

All alone

On a beach

That is deserted

And overgrown,

With trees and branches

And wooden oars

That moved the ships

During the old sea wars.

From the deep blue sky

Swoops down a seagull,

As swift as an eagle,

And into the lighthouse

It sits alone.

From the beach runs a boy

Looking at the once mighty lighthouse

That once was bright red

And clean white;

That at a time stood proud

And was a light

That guided sailors and merchants

Through the dark, stormy nights.

Now it lies in shambles

Ready to rot and die

Next to the road

That is once could call its own.        

   

On Dreaming (#20)

This will be my 199th post. It's not surprising that it will be a short one about dreams. It could have been longer, and a review of a film I watched two days ago. Unfortunately, I procrastinated. Also, it is late, and I am bloated from the sushi and peach cobbler. Finally, I am six episodes into an anime series I have not seen before. Since they are only twenty minutes long, I want to complete a few more before bed.

This is a far superior version
of what my students used for a coat rack. 

Revelations (Part 5)

One of many distractions...

Tonight's post should be a short one, however, I won't know until I am done. There have been many distractions this weekend. Two five-hour car rides with the family. Eating delicious meals with in-laws. Hanging out with out-of-state siblings. Salty air, sandy beaches, and crashing waves. Indeed, it is four in the afternoon on a Sunday, and I need a nap. But, I can't quit now. There is still a restaurant and my brother's pool. While I have a legitimate excuse to skip it, I feel a need to produce something. So, I decided to get started on this post now, before jumping into the shower. 

Fortunately, there is one bathroom in this house, and three people ahead of me. Unfortunately, two have just completed their turns. And the third is on her way. Like I said, this one should be short. 

In an older post, I mentioned how my family enjoy long road trip annually, between five and twelve hours long. My wife does most of driving. I fill in on occasion. Sitting in the front passenger for long stretches of time affords me a great opportunity to be productive. Reading and writing come to mind. Given the number of trips across our adult life times, I could have written at least one novel. Maybe two. Or, I could have finished several books. But, not once have I been able to whip out the laptop or even my Kindle, and start writing down my thoughts, or thumbing through chapters.

Instead, while songs from our favorite playlists fill the car, and help tick away the mile markers, I am daydreaming. With the various landscapes--from decaying strip malls and sprawling warehouses, to  swift rivers and choked forests--whizzing past window, my mind conjures vivid stories and scenarios. One moment I could be leaping from the roof of one car to another, dogging bullets like some superhero movie. In another, I am searching through the rubble of an abandoned store in a post-apocalyptic world. Most of the time, I am creating dialogue with real and imaginary people. Some times the conversations are intellectual; most of the time they play out as mundane misunderstandings. 

In the past, I would have berated myself for not writing any of those musings down. Or for choosing daydreaming over reading a book. This weekend, before leaving home for a five-hour car ride, I let it all go. No laptop. No book. No Kindle. Just me and the family, an iPod full of music, the passing landscapes, and my imaginary chats.

After two decades of fighting it, I have finally accepted that road trips are not places for me to be productive. 

 

On Historical Matters (#1)

I have finished two, started three others, and hoping
to finish the last of them before the end of July.

I skipped two already, and I don't want to make it three. In addition, I am closing in on my two hundredth post. So, here I am. It won't be much. However, like a friend told me, writing about how you are not blogging still counts, as long as you share it on your blog.

The image above is a pile of books. From top to bottom, here are their titles:

• American Revolutions: A Continental History, 1750-1804 by Alan Taylor
• 1774: The Long Year of Revolution by Mary Beth Norton
• Scars of Independence: America's Violent Birth by Holger Hoock
• Fighters in the Shadows: A New History of the French Resistance by Robert Gildea
• The Taste of War: World War II and the Battle for Food by Lizzie Collingham
• Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness by Susan Cahalan

The last two I have finished reading: Brain on Fire back in May, The Taste of War a week or two ago. The former, an easy read on a dark topic, I believe was mentioned on NPR. The latter, an academic approach to a disturbing subject, showed up in a documentary titled Total War. As for Fighters in the Shadows, I cannot recall the source, but it is an interesting and revealing story. Hint, the French Resistance was not really French. Unfortunately, I put it down after only reading 106 of its 481 pages. And not because of boredom. I got distracted. The same could be said for Scars of Independence. Took it out maybe a year ago, or even two. Read a few chapters, before I had to return it. Forgot about it, until this past month, when I discovered the first two books in the list, both of which are about our illustrious war for independence (but "civil war" would be a better term).

My dear readers, I would love to recommend them all to you. Alas, I can only suggest the last one, Brain on Fire. It was written by a journalist in a style enjoyable to most people. The rest by expert historians. That means hundreds of endnote pages, a full bibliography, and, in the case of Fighters in the Shadows, a list of characters and abbreviations. Yet, these books contain a plethora of information and powerful insights. Reading these books, you soon realize that the big players that we are forced to memorize in school are not as influential or central to their contemporary historical periods. There were other characters and ideas making the rounds, frightening and inspiring people to act. The historical myths we draw upon to defend our current thoughts and policies turn out to be oversimplifications, or simply wrong.

For example, Susan Cahalan's severe symptoms, diagnosis, and eventual rehabilitation reveals that some of the people we lock away and hide from us because of severe psychosis, maybe be suffering from viral and bacterial infections of the brain, and require emergency medical attention. 

However, in the other book I have finished, Lizzie Collingham uncovers how food was weaponized, by all participants in World War II. For the Germans, it was a means to eradicate the Slavic countries of people in order to make way for Aryan settlers. The Japanese sought to toughen up their own soldiers, punish prisoners of war, steal from their occupied territories, and keep their own population satiated. The Soviets,  starved constantly, throughout the war, both as a result of German actions, but also their own internal political and economic policies and mistakes. Unless, of course, you were part of the Communist Party elites. The British civilians fared far better, but partly because Churchill had no problem forcing the Empire's colonial assets to suffer more in order to feed the homeland. Above all, the US citizens suffered least, at the expense of everyone else in the world, allies and enemies alike. 

While the 258-paged Brain on Fire read like a detective novel helping me to finish it in a few days, it did not move or excite me quite like the 634-page The Taste of War. Do not get me wrong, the former made me tear up at times, clench its book in anger and frustration at all that the author endured. It also uncovered shortcomings in our healthcare system and our medical experts. In addition, I learned a lot about the brain and how people and their loved ones experience psychosis. 

Yet, discovering how food became a weapon of total war, the millions of lives lost or ruined by governments making calculated and callous decisions, how starvation ruins the body, and the science behind dietary and nutritional requirements for survival, hit me much harder. It was slow, deliberate reading. On any given day, I may have read two-thirds of a chapter or sections. At times, I had to put it down. Some times it was the sorrow of knowing the pain people experienced from starvation and death. Other times it was disgust at misguided or uncaring leaders whose ideas and actions led to tens of thousands of unnecessary or avoidable deaths.

In the end, it was the actions of the allies that was most disappointing. For the majority of American civilians, the war improved both their dietary circumstances and their economic standing. Heading into the war, many Americans suffered from malnutrition and food scarcity. By the end of the war, the poorest in the country was doing much better than the rest of the world, including countries like Great Britain and Australia. And unlike Great Britain, our government refused to require food rationing in any impactful way. There were moments when we refused to feed our own allies, even though we had surpluses.

It is harsh to learn that the myths surrounding the most noble moments of your country's history, are filled with dark truths. But it is necessary. Unfortunately, most people are unable or refuse to read academic-style books, where the amount of information and logical structure make it difficult to ignore facts.

This is the kind of stuff I find so exciting. That is why I grabbed a bunch of books on the American Revolution, and have begun reading them in earnest. So much misinformation. So many half-truths. So few honest discussions about our past, conversations that would prevent us from making bad policies in the present day.

As much as I would love to see you, my dear readers, diving into the pages of these kinds of books (seriously, at least read Brain on Fire, but avoid The Taste of War), my hope is some day to summarize their content in an exciting, but still informative, style, and share it with you on this blog.

Hopefully this post was a decent start.    

A Deep Breath (#23)

Ugh. It is now nine-thirty at night, the Sunday before Memorial Day. I am tired and bloated. Thirty minutes ago, I began typing away at my one-hundred-ninety-sixth blog post. Eventually, two full, solid paragraphs about my opinions of television series appeared on the screen.  They were a good introduction to a worthwhile discussion on the topic. But soon I realized time was running out. By ten o'clock I would have to hit publish, and share a link on Facebook. 

So, I saved it as a "draft", and clicked on the "create new post" button. Now I am writing this post instead. And what are you ending up with, dear reader? Unfortunately, a short rant, about how corporations suck. Especially the giant ones worth billions of dollars. 

This time it is Disney+. Do not worry, this is not some absurd Fox News hit job about how the streaming service is too woke. Woke is not even a word, and, yes, I should do a post about that fact, too. However, not now.

Instead, this is a short diatribe about how corporate desires to cut expenses by refusing to compensate those who actually create the work ruined my weekend.

You see, on Thursday of last week, I discovered in my Google newsfeed a new show on Disney+ that some stranger highly recommended. They said it was a cross between Netflix's A Series of Unfortunate Events, and Wes Anderson's Fantastic Mr. Fox. I thoroughly enjoyed both, going so far as to rewatch them both. I was interested. But the article also warned the powers that be at the illustrious streaming service were going to remove the series. It never mentioned when it would happen. Nor that it would be permanent. 

Unfortunately, I would learn the answer to both by Saturday afternoon, when I tried to finish the last two episodes of the first season (there was as second season, but the third one was cancelled, which did not bother me). 

You see, I had binged the first six fifty-five minute long episodes the day before. First, the color. It was just like a Wes Anderson movie. Second, the characters. They were intriguing. Just enough absurdity to make it funny, but not so much that I did not believe them. And, more importantly, the child actors were not annoying. Then there was the plot. It sounded strangely apropos of current political events, but not in a preachy, in-your-face kind of way. Finally, there were only eight episodes in a season, and just two seasons to binge. Win-win in my opinion. 

So, I committed myself to a weekend of binging this series. By eleven-thirty on Friday night, I sat through six episodes. I was fully invested in the finale, but I needed to go to bed. The conclusion would have to wait until the next day.

I woke, and spent all of Saturday morning well into the afternoon doing laundry, taking care of the pool, and power washing the fence. Then I took a shower, and prepared dinner. With those chores completed, I sat down to finish up season one. Comfy in my couch recliner, a bottle of diet root beer on one side, and the pile of remotes on the other, I turned on the Roku, and my way to Disney+. Finally, I scrolled down to the "Recently Watched" list.

And the show was not there.

Although I went through the motions of doing a search, I knew the truth. Disney had pulled it from its streaming service. Soon after, I found an article stating that on May 26th the streaming service would be removing a bunch of shows. My newfound, but not fully watched, series was one of them.

The worse part? The article revealed that Disney has no intention of returning the show to the lineup. Ever. Or releasing it anywhere else. They will not even sell a copy via DVD. The reason? They do not want to continue to compensate the writers and actors of the series for their hard work. It is too much of an expense.

Anyway, I am out of a show. Well, two. They also removed Life Below Zero: Next Generation. I am done investing my time in these series. Instead, I am going to go back to reading books.

Except, a part of me fears with this AI stuff, the book market will be flooded with formulaic drivel. I mean, exponentially so. Far beyond what already exists. And I find that depressing.

I think it is time to wrap this up and head to bed. 

Sigh.   

On Dreaming (#19)

"Monk Praying in the Church" by Alfred Jacques Van Muyden. 
The answer to why I never became a priest is in this painting.
And it is not the priest's haircut or outfit.

I began drafting this while sitting in my bedroom recliner. After typing out the first paragraph, my wife arrived. She had decided to watch the Mets' game in the room. So, I grabbed the laptop and the charger,  and made my way downstairs to the family room. There I discovered my eldest daughter, in my spot on the couch, watching a movie. Anna Karena with Keira Knightly and Jude Law. Desperate for a space without distractions, I lugged my laptop and charger to the basement. Upon sitting down at plastic folding table on top of a cheap stool that once was a dance prop, I began typing. That is when my other daughter stormed down the stairs, tore open the freezer, and grabbed a frozen ice cream cone. She made some attempt at conversation, but I snapped my fingers several times. That sent her bounding up the stairs, slamming the door behind her.

Finally, with peace, quiet, and solitude, I focused on finishing this post. 

Last night I experienced two vivid dreams. As of now, most details of the first one elude my memory. I can only recall that it felt like a pleasant nostalgia rooted in road trips to sandy beaches. Glimpses of family, mostly siblings and cousins, interlaced with passing roadside landscapes. But the images were fleeting, and I now wonder if my current opaque memory has more to do with the nature of the dream than my poor recollection of it. Either way, the first one faded to black, as the second came into sharp focus.

Now I stood with my wife in either a Walmart or Target. Our shopping complete, we headed with our cart to the nearest cash register. It was located away from the main entrance, however, there were no lines. Yet, as we approached, the cashier appeared occupied, and motioned us to the next register, which was across an aisle. Turning towards it, we noticed a crowd of people, intent on checking out, begin to gather around us. So, we raced towards the new register, managing to arrive first. But, no one was there, just a frozen monitor. We looked about us, and flagged down an employee. They mentioned that the systems were down, and refused to say or do anything else.

I was growing impatient, but also anxious. We were done shopping, and ready to pay, but there appeared no way of finishing up. Then I decided to make a run to the registers at the front of the store. There are always a bunch of them located there. My wife and I, now on a mission, darted up the aisle and around a corner. In front of us stood several cash register lanes, each one manned by an employee, but void of customers. Proud of myself, I pushed the cart towards the nearest one, my wife close behind. Chaos ensued. People began appearing, pushing their way to the registers. We arrived first, but became dismayed when the cashier said she could not check us out. Something was wrong with her station. Refusing to wait in line, I immediately turned from her, and moved on to the next one. The crowd of people had grown, and I found myself weaving around other customers, blazing a path for my wife to follow.

In the dream, a part of me knew I was being aggressive, bordering on rude. I asked myself if I should just wait in a line. But I wanted out, so I continued onward. That is when I determined, in my mind, that the self-checkout lines were probably empty, or at least more accessible. It seemed like a brilliant idea. So much so, that I smirked in the dream. Arrogantly, and with cart in hand, I leapt towards the shopping oasis of empty self-checkout registers I knew awaited me beyond the crowds. Sure enough, there they were. With a big smile on my face, proud of my clever insight, I led my wife up to an empty register. We began scanning our items. 

The system froze. The lights flickered.

Like a fool, I twisted the item around twenty different ways, running across the scanner twenty different times. Nothing. At some point, an employee walked by and explained that the systems were down. And, again, said and did nothing else. Now I was frustrated and felt an urge to just leave the store without my items. No one was willing to explain anything. No manager approached the customers. No announcements informed us of the next step. They did not deserve my business. Finally, I had decided to go. But first, I had to check my pockets for my phone and wallet, a habit I had learned the hard way.

Nothing. I began to worry. Perhaps the pile of clothes on the conveyor belt? Nothing. In the cart? Nothing. The cart had disappeared. Worse, so had my wife. Then the lights dimmed. Low. Enough that I could barely make out the floor.

Panic. But also dejection. And exhaustion. For some reason, the whole experience had sapped the energy out of me. It was time to exit the building.

In a final attempt to look for my wife, I turned toward the aisle leading up to the self checkout lane. It was brightly lit, while I stood in nightly shadows. And there he walked by, stopped, and turned to look at me. In the real world, he had been dead at least a year, maybe more—how sad that I cannot remember—and in the dream, I knew, for that reason, he should not have been standing there. But alas, there was no mistaking his face, shining in such vivid detail, as if my dream did not want me to doubt it. Indeed, in my mind, within the dream, I had a clear thought, “What is Father O'Brien doing here, he should be dead?”

For some reason, the revelation broke me. Perhaps the fear, anxiety, and desperation of leaving that store had overwhelmed my immunity to sudden shocks. Maybe it was the memory of this priest's role throughout my family's lives, especially my father's. Or, possibly it had something to do with Father Bill's presence during my own flirtation with the priesthood, nearly forty decades ago. 

All these things. None of them. I still do not know.

Truth be told, a part of me does not want to find out.

(Yet, a stronger part of me does, hence tonight's blog post.)

In the end, I fell to my knees and curled up into the fetal position beneath a nearby folding table. I closed my eyes. Darkness came.

Also the sensation that someone was gently holding me.

It was him. 

I did not have to see. I just knew.

Then I trembled and wept, until I awoke with eyes full of tears.

And a weight off my shoulders.

That was last night's dream. 

Revelations (Part 4)

British suffragette fighting for her rights.
Seriously, they were fearless.
Click on the image to find out.
 

I am not an historian. Not even an amateur one. Although I graduated with a BA in history (along with a minor in philosophy, and another in classical studies), I failed to pursue it at a graduate level. A masters and PhD in history demands an academic discipline and an intellectual will that I lack. In addition, post graduate work requires narrowing down one's area of interest. If you have been reading my blog, you know that I am incapable of focusing on a single subject matter for too long.

Unfortunately, I desire to know everything about anything, which means I end up learning far less than I want or need. It is frustrating and debilitating. And I still don't know what to do about it. 

I bring this up now, on Mother's Day, because the history of today is quite fascinating. It did not begin as a commercial endeavor, nor as a celebration of motherhood. It roots lie in pacifism and activism. I discovered this through an actual historian (be wary of those who speak about history, and never formally studied it, including me). Her name is Heather Cox Richardson and she wrote a piece about the founding of this holiday. Do not worry, it is short and non-academic; therefore, well worth the time and effort. 

For some time now, Ms. Richardson has been sharing this information every Mother's Day. But this year, she changed it up. Instead, she shared her memories of a motherly figure from her life. This part stood out to me (bold emphasis mine):

"When I once asked her what was the most important historical event in her lifetime, this woman who had lived through the Depression and both world wars answered without hesitation: 'the washing machine.' It had freed her and her mother from constant laundry. She could finally have some leisure time, which she spent listening to the radio and driving in cars with boys. Because her mother always needed her at home, it was not she, but all her younger siblings, who went to college. By the time Mrs. A. was an adult, she was certain she wanted no part of motherhood."

The bolded parts above struck me hard, because I have a pet peeve. Well, I have many, but when it comes to history, I have one in particular that really irks me. People, especially those peddling ideologies, want to reduce complex historical experiences into a handful of broad memes, or sell single simple big events, people, and ideas over the everyday lives of everyday people going navigating complexities of reality.

But here is evidence that ideas and laws and movements alone did not free this woman (and I would argue millions of others). It was the washing machine, among so many other inventions, that provided this woman, and many others, the opportunity to do more. In her case, she had time to have fun. Also notice how being the oldest daughter in such a large family prevented this woman from attending college. She was expected to care for her siblings. I doubt the eldest son would be forced to do the same. Finally, these events, among other things, led her down a path in which she decided not to have children.

And that is what I find so fascinating about history. Not the overblown generalizations and myths found in textbooks, or vomited from the mouths of politicians and pundits. Instead, the everyday thoughts and activities of ordinary people who end up being a part of extraordinary events, or whose memories shed light on the consequences of seemingly simple ideas and inventions. It is in the ugly and complex details that we discovery humanity. 

But, I can understand why people shun the messiness of history, besides the need to choose only those facts that reinforce their ideological assumptions. Getting in the weeds forces you to see otherwise sacred things as profane. Household chores did not always build character, especially for women. It prevented them from pursuing personal goals, or even contemplating the possibility. Inventions can make those chores easier, creating opportunities, but they can also reinforce stereotypes. For some reason, having washing machines did not inspire men in the household to start doing the laundry. Large traditional families are not always ideal, especially when burdens are placed on the older children. Finally, even the celebration of motherhood can have political roots. The early proponents became suffragists because they realized direct political power was necessary to affect change.

Confronted with historical experiences outside the narratives we have been fed so far, we are forced to ask difficult questions. What does it mean to be a mother? And a good one at that? Who can be considered a mother? How do we support mothers? And not just once a year? Can celebrating motherhood in the current way be harmful to women? And do men suffer, too? What happens when women are no longer allowed the choice of motherhood? Or even to define its meaning?

I just wish I was an actual historian, so that I could attempt to provide you informed answers, or educated guesses. At the very least, I wish I had the focus and will to find answers from people more intelligent than I am, and share them with you. Alas, this is best I can do. 

  

A Deep Breath (#22)

I made these (with a little help from my daughter).
Now I need to fill them.

On the first anniversary of this blog, I reached one hundred posts. Two years and a month  since that milestone, and I  am still shy of two hundred. After tonight, it will be seven posts short. This recent stretch of blogging has been a struggle. Too many insightful topics passed over.  Too many Sundays skipped. 

It would be easy to blame it all on a busy schedule. However, I accomplished more creatively when I was teaching full time and driving my young children to and from daycare. Both jobs required constant problem solving and improvisation. And during the first year of the pandemic, when I began this blog, my days were filled volunteering at the studio. I was on call, answering to the whims of a struggling dance studio director. In fact my worst, most demanding Nutcracker experience occurred that year. Despite the stress, I still produced regular blog posts. The demands of my current life are nothing like those of my past.

During those years, I was creating, but not for myself, and never to completion. While teaching, projects would draw initial excitement, like lighting a match--a brilliant illuminating display. Then it would move along and eventually smolder, until it became a fleeting trail of smoke. There were only so many days to achieve anything. And distractions would arise. The demands of students, parents, and headmasters became obstacles to work around. Or just throw your hands up and surrender. My teaching career began with full box of matches, some times it would light a great fire. But the years turned over on themselves, and the supply of matches dwindled. Then it became like starting a fire in the rain. By the end of my career, it was pouring, and the wind was blowing. Each day became another challenge. And the next day a reminder that nothing was solved the day before.

Then the fire went out. 

The dance studio became a second chance. Between stage managing the Nutcracker performances and annual recitals, and building props, I had returned to a period of creativity and problem solving. But when you answer to a perfectionist who does not listen to criticisms and critiques, and you watch your work constantly questioned and redesigned, no matter how well you started that fire, the elements will smother it, and put it out. My last Nutcracker experience happened during the first year of this blog. And I said not to the recital that followed. I said no to all of it. Finally, last summer, I yelled "no", over and over, on the phone.

I needed to say it, and he needed to hear it. 

Yet, it would be wrong of me not to take a moment to recognize the good, the beautiful, and the extraordinary that occurred throughout those careers. With regards to teaching, I  miss my co-workers. Our conversations were full of comedy and wit, wisdom and intelligence. Whether sitting around the teacher's table at lunch, or standing about the picnic tables at recess, I never tired of talking with them. As for stage managing, between the dance teachers and the other parent volunteers, my days were filled with insights and jokes, inspirations and lively chitchat. Together, we cheered on the dancers, and complained about everything else. Then came in the next day to do it all over again. I had made friends, again. 

Finally, through both roles, the teacher and the stage manager, I met so many young people. Oh, how they loved to try my patience, test my will, and accelerate my hearing loss with their constant yammering all at once. But I would endure it all in a heartbeat--though I would not do it all the same way--just to see them stand before the class and deliver a poem they had written, or watch them take the stage in costume and dance before a full house. 

To this day, these people have remained deep in my thoughts.

So, where does this all leave me? What is the point of blogging for three years, or even the purpose of tonight's post? Is all this nostalgia good for me? It is a puzzle that I need to solve, but I have no light, so I need to start a fire. However, I cannot recall how to ignite the kindling in front of me. Or maybe I do not want to remember? Solving the puzzle would help me. Yet, I am unable to see the pieces, or the photo on the box. 

(Sorry for mixing up these two metaphors. This is what happens when you binge watch two seasons of Only Murders in the Building, finish Life Below Zero: Next Generation, and start a season of Alone. Yes, in my mind, all three are connected and inspired that last paragraph.)

Hey, at least my raised beds are built, and the laundry is all done.

Oh, and I finished my one-hundred-and-ninety-third blog post before dinner.