Sunday Always Comes

A few Easter thoughts two days after the event. No excuse except that I’ve been busy (just like you) and because I had to think through a lot of things before posting.

On Friday morning as I was nearing the end of my walk, I began to think about the events of that day, the one when Christ had to wear a crown of thorns and carry His cross to Golgotha. Once on the scene, He was nailed to the cross to suffer, bleed, and die. For the first time, the enormity of the sacrifice and the physical and emotional torment He must have endured hit me squarely in the heart. Why do we call it Good Friday? I wondered. I had honestly never given this a thought until Friday morning when I called out, “Happy Good Friday” to a neighbor. He returned the greeting and shared that it was surely going to be a good Friday for him because he had the day off.

About a block away, I got off the beaten path and googled the question: why is Good Friday called Good Friday? There were several possible answers, but the one I’m going with is from al.com: The term “Good” as applied to Good Friday is an Old English expression meaning holy and is often called Holy Friday.

Still, there’s no doubt that Friday wasn’t a good day for Jesus. Yet Sunday came, and we know the rest of the story. The tomb was empty; Christ had been resurrected.

Sometimes, I have to have things pointed out to me before I can see their significance. While listening to a podcast about hope on Friday, I learned that the crucifixion and resurrection can apply to situations in our lives. Whether sickness, loss, pain, loneliness, rejection, disappointment, or some other type of misery, we all have struggles. We all have Fridays. Yet, as the podcast reminded me: Sunday always comes.

Thank you, Babcia

The older I get, the more eager I am to learn, especially about the people of the world and how they lived their lives. Never a history buff, I’m now learning more about historical events and their impact on not only the people who lived through them but also about future generations and how they were influenced by their forbears’ experiences. Kelly Rimmer’s The Things We Cannot Say taught and inspired me, and I’m confident it will do the same for you.

Here’s the Amazon review:

Thank you, Babcia

“There are so many things I like about this novel that I don’t know where to start. It’s educational, engaging, and inspiring.  It’s a story spanning at least four generations and two continents, a story of love, loss, heartache, bravery, and determination.

“I never knew about Poland’s occupation by the Nazis except in a factual way. Now I can see it on an individual level affecting real families. I was reminded of intergenerational relationships and how people from the past affect our lives and our children’s lives…not just with hair and eye color but also with character traits like courage. I was reminded of love and how it’s the strongest, most powerful emotion on the planet. Families have their struggles, but many can be resolved with faith, love, and mercy.

“You think things are going along just dandy and then Wham there’s another incident, setback, or scary scene that keeps you reading. You think you have it all figured out, but about that time, Rimmer surprises you/us with a zinger. The way she alternates the chapters between Alina and Alice, grandmother (aka Babcia) and granddaughter, who lived decades apart on separate continents, is well-done.

“After reading The Things We Cannot Say, I called a friend of Polish ancestry to recommend the novel and to encourage her to find out more about her family. I’m also inspired to find out more about my ancestors…and to read another of Kelly Rimmer’s books.”

Crossing Thresholds

Several months ago, I got hooked on the concept of liminal spaces, an idea I first saw in the work of writer Suleika Jaouad (Between Two Kingdoms). After surviving a particularly aggressive form of leukemia, she spoke of existing in a liminal space between two kingdoms, the sick and the well.

Hmmm. Liminal space. That’s interesting, I thought. But what does it mean? I knew about subliminal stimuli that exist beneath a person’s level of consciousness that could influence his/her thoughts and behavior. A quick and easy to understand example would be seeing footage of the desert while seated in a movie theater and feeling thirsty.

Some might even compare subliminal thoughts to subconscious ones, but they aren’t quite the same. Nor are they akin to Freud’s unconscious or even preconscious feelings. I mention subconscious, preconscious, and unconscious areas of the brain simply because I’ve been familiar with those for years—decades, and yet I had never heard of liminal or liminality. I was intrigued. Still am.

So what is a liminal space? See if these definitions aid in your understanding. I picked all of them up from random online sources and asking questions.

• Pertaining to or situated at the limen, the threshold.
• The sill of a doorway, the threshold of a new position, status, geographical move, or lifestyle.
• The point at which a stimulus is strong enough to produce a physiological, psychological, or behavioral response.
• Transitional state between singlehood and marriage, youth and middle age, employment and unemployment, sickness and health, life and death, and so forth.
• An intermediate place, state, or attitude–becoming a Buddhist, a New Yorker, a transgender person, a widower…the person is at the threshold but hasn’t moved forward and embraced the role.
• Being betwixt and between.

I hope at least one of the definitions helped. While Suleika Jaouad spoke primarily of being in the threshold between sickness and health and all of the emotions, including anxiety, uncertainty, and hope that entails, there are dozens and dozens of liminal changes in all of our lives. As the school year begins across America, hundreds of thousands of school children cross the threshold after waiting in the limens (so to speak). Others graduated in the spring or summer. Parents of college bound children said goodbye, a situation in which two generations experienced being in liminal spaces. In fact, some may still be there as either the student, the parent, or both go through an adjustment period.

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A few weeks ago I read these words spoken to George Saunders by a man in Guatemalan homeless camp: “Everything is always keep changing.” Truer words were never spoken, I thought. We’ve all experienced change, some expected and some unexpected, and we’ve all lived in liminal spaces trying to cross the threshold.

Are you in a liminal space? Tell me about it…or about one you’ve been in. Was crossing the threshold hard or were you Ready with a capital R? Did you recognize the liminal state while you were peeping through the threshold, or did you comprehend it after you’d crossed it?

Then and Now

Two of my three children are November babies, one born when I was thirty and the other five years later. November has always been my favorite month of the year, and having these blessings arrive so near Thanksgiving still thrills me to consider.

I might have been slower, less into pondering than most thirty-year-olds because although I felt reluctant to leave my precious infant at First Baptist Church in Conway, I knew she’d be fine—safe, fed, cuddled. And besides, I picked her up mid-afternoon each day and made sure she knew that I loved her. Her father thought she hung the moon, and her older sister was smitten, too.

Five years passed before our son was born, and by that time, I’d begun to question the wisdom of leaving a child in daycare so soon after birth. I mean, he was only six weeks old when I returned to the workplace! I began to wake in the night dreading the very thought of taking this precious infant into the cold January weather and driving fifteen miles to leave him at FBC in Conway. He was my baby, my responsibility. When a kind neighbor who loved babies offered to let him stay with her for a week or so, I said yes.

Still. I began thinking something ain’t right. Thoughts of going back to work before my body had healed and putting my children in someone else’s care cast a pall over the Christmas holidays.

On the plus side, I was fortunate. I had a job I loved with regular hours and great benefits. The children had an excellent doctor. So did I. And we had insurance. And the daycare at First Baptist was excellent. My daughters still talk about Miss Irene’s beef stew and share fond memories of Mema.

We took down our Christmas tree, packed away the decorations, and at some point during the first week of January, I put on my big girl pants and waltzed back into the classroom. My daughters were in kindergarten and third grade by then, but the baby was with a neighbor. I tried to push the thought out of my mind, not because the neighbor was unsuitable but rather because I was his mother and wanted to be there to watch him breathe.

If I had to describe my mindset and behavior, I’d say I was more like an automaton with lots of energy rather than a thinking, philosophizing person. I knew women who went back to work when their infants were a week or two old, often leaving them with their mothers or a friend. Their choices were more limited than mine. When their children were sick, the moms missed work, and if they missed too many days, their employers found more reliable employees. I was fortunate. I had some sick leave I could use. Once a “friend” was rumored to have said, “And then there’s Jayne, out with a sick child again.” Ouch.

My awakening began the semester I began teaching Human Growth and Development. I recall the instant I realized that most European countries valued babies, children, mothers, and fathers more than we did in the USA. And the Nordic countries were especially generous. Their family leave plans were amazing, and some countries paid mothers AND fathers. When I think of free health care for the families in other countries, I feel sick and relieved at the same time—sick that so many families in America have nothing, nada, zilch and relieved that I have Medicare…and downright gleeful that some places in the world provide childcare, maternity AND paternity leave, and free medical care.

An hour ago, I looked up some stats and was floored to learn that parents in Sweden are entitled to 480 days of paid parental leave when a child is born or adopted. Brace yourself. “The United States is the only industrialized  country that doesn’t offer paid leave….While some companies offer this benefit, only about one-quarter of U.S. workers have access to it.” www.theskimmcom Dec 22, 2021

And lest I forget, maternal and infant mortality rates are still high in America. Despite being one of the wealthiest countries on the planet, children and mothers continue to suffer. Earlier this week, I read an article in The Guardian predicting that maternal mortality rate will rise without Roe.

I don’t have answers to these dilemmas, just thoughts and concerns and questions. Can a person be pro-life and yet turn away from the one of seven Americans who go to bed hungry every night? Can a person be pro-life and anti-immigration? Does pro-life include taking care of the homeless, volunteering in soup kitchens, and donating to organizations like No Kid Hungry?

I’m no longer an energetic automaton but a curious, pondering senior citizen, one with lots of questions, very few answers, and a willingness to learn.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Old Man

When I first saw Dreams from My Father in the local library, I was hiding out in the young adult section—quiet and empty in the early morning hours. I was on a timeline and didn’t want to be interrupted, but each time I looked up from the computer, the photos on the book’s cover seemed to be staring at me from the shelf. When I finally relented and got up to flip through the pages, I was hooked. Yet that evening as I began reading it, I soon realized that I wanted more—the adult version, more complete, detailed, and descriptive. I ordered the Kindle edition and began reading right away.

A Story of Race and Inheritance

Below is my review on Amazon.

“Already an admirer, my respect for Barack Obama grew immensely while reading this book. Not only is he a skilled and gifted writer, he’s also a storyteller with a mind for details and flair for engaging the reader. His descriptions of an African dawn: “To the east, the sky lightens above a black grove of trees, deep blue, then orange, then creamy yellow. The clouds lose their purple tint slowly, then dissipate, leaving behind a single star. As we pull out of camp, we see a caravan of giraffe, their long necks at a common slant, seemingly black before the rising red sun, strange marking against an ancient sky.”

“It’s a book about race, yes, but it’s also about family, inheritance, culture, background and how those factors (and more) combine to make us who we are. While most people know Obama’s father was Kenyan and his mother an American from Kansas, most don’t know that much about how they met and later parted ways, his Indonesian stepfather, his white grandparents, Toot and Gramps, with whom he lived in Hawaii during his youth….I’m no biographer, but I do know that Obama’s life was much more complicated than mine.

“How?” ran like a thread through each chapter I read. How does a person develop the strength, capacity, confidence, and character to serve as the President of the United States? It’s an office available to only one person at a time and one that had never been open to a person of color. Learning about his experiences with his family of orientation, especially his grandparents, his time in Indonesia, his college years, the devoted years as a community organizer, and his time spent in Kenya becoming acquainted with brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and a grandparent added additional pieces to the puzzle.

“What the book did was remind me once again of how many ways there are to live, love, and serve as we navigate our ways through life. There are no shortcuts to excellence.”

Liminal Places

I’ve been doing more reading than writing for the past several months. Journal entries, largely about Covid, social injustice, and the “craziness” of the world are updated a few times a week.

Today I’m sharing a review of Suleika Jaoaud’s Between Two Kingdoms. The writing is smooth, descriptive, honest, instructive–in a word, amazing. When flipping through the book, I came across a passage near the end in which she describes Pine Ridge Reservation in such a detailed picturesque way that her words took me back to our drive through there a few years ago. What I remembered were cows, cows, and more cows grazing beside the road. I felt depressed at the sparseness of the landscape, and my attempts to describe it are embarrassing compared to Jaoaud’s.

A brilliant and brave writer, Suleika Jaoaud takes takes her readers along several journeys: from wellness to sickness, from cancer to health, from love to loss, and a literal road trip (solitary) across the United States. The writing is honest and sometimes brutal, especially those about her hospital experiences that describe pain, nausea, fear, and isolation. There’s no “feel sorry for me” message, but rather an effort to tell the truth—no candy coating.

After her a successful bone marrow transplant, Suleika was okayed by her doctors to go on a one hundred day road trip as long as she was back in by a certain date. Having lived in New York City, she’d never driven and didn’t have a drivers’ license or car. She got the license, learned to drive, and a friend let her borrow an automobile. Off she went to visit people she’d “met” through letters. This trip followed preparatory pilgrimages to India to leave a friend’s ashes and to Vermont to think through reentering the land of the well.

She quotes Susan Sontag from Illness as Metaphor: “Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick.” To me, the crux of the whole book is that metaphor. Whether going from sickness to health, single to married, married to divorced or widowhood, student to graduate, we all stand at a threshold, longing to cross over yet feeling uncertain and perhaps a bit afraid of the unknown. In a podcast shortly before the paperback edition was published, I listened to an interview in which Jaoaud referred to those in-between spots, the thresholds, as liminal spaces, and immediately I saw applications to everyone’s life. We all change, and to get to the other side, we have to step over the threshold(s).

The book doesn’t have a happy ending in the traditional sense, yet the author appears to be grateful that she’s learned to move forward taking her experiences, good and bad, with her. Moving forward is different from moving on, and thanks to Suleika Jaoaud, I now see that.

Wintering the Cycles of Life

One advantage of the pandemic was the near cessation of the sometimes harried coming and going and getting and spending of my heretofore adult life. Home more often, I turned to books for entertainment, enlightenment, companionship, and sheer pleasure. On the recommendation of friend, I ordered Wintering for my Kindle and have referred to one thing or another in it on a near daily basis since late December. It’s that good.

Here’s the review on Amazon.

“A year and a half into a worldwide pandemic that showed no end in sight was wearing me down. As “the season” approached, I found myself floundering about for a way to express what I was feeling AND offer suggestions on how to embrace a dark, cold winter made even more secluded and solitary than usual. When I came across a review of Wintering, I immediately bought three copies, a Kindle version for yours truly and hard copies for friends who speak the same language.

“Originally, I was attracted by its name and premise. Wintering is more than surviving a cold, sometimes brutally brumal, season of the year when the days are short and the trees are bare. It’s a time of year both humans and animals experience. The latter do it much better than we; they prepare ahead of time and accept it as a season of inactivity and hibernation that offers transformation. We, on the other hand, are often caught off guard by plunging temperatures, icy roads, and solitary pursuits.

“But Kathryn May shows the reader another way of looking at wintering. She describes it as a time of going inward, of using introspection, solitude, self-care, and hygge to weather the season of doubt, angst, disillusionment, SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), chaos, loss…..and all the other negative emotions. She cooks, adds fairy lights and candles, explores nature, plunges into icy water, visits the sauna, reads…and eventually leaves her job at a university.

“What I like best about Wintering is the beautiful way Kathryn May uses language to describe what so many feel at what (I/they) hope is the tail end of the pandemic. Plus, I always love a book in which I learn something, and in Wintering, I learned not only new vocabulary words but also more about history, books, animals, insects, different cultures, and festivals—to name a few. Because of May, I finally understand Stonehenge and know what dormice are.

“Wintering is a book I’ll return to again and again, especially when I need reminding that life is not linear, but cyclical and ever changing

Go in Peace

I was introduced to Louise Erdrich’s work in an interesting way. One of my brothers told me about The Night Watchman, so I downloaded a sample and was immediately drawn into the story. But there were already several books in my queue, so I procrastinated adding another.

But the universe had other plans for me. The next morning I recognized Erdrich’s name on a book already on one of my bookshelves. Curious, I took the book down and looked inside. Out fell a business card belonging to the son of someone in my writing group. Strange, I thought. He’d never been in my home. His mom had, though, and unbeknownst to me, she’d left the book for me a few weeks prior. It was LaRose.

What could I do but read the first chapter? With a scene so well written, intriguing, and almost beyond belief, Erdrich had my attention right away. Little did I know what a fan I would become after meeting LaRose and the lives of two families intertwined with each other and with the larger community…and with many who’d come before.

After reading LaRose, I read several other of Erdrich’s books, the most recent being The Sentence. Different in tone from the other novels, I think it might be my favorite. It was easier to follow, humorous in many sections, and filled with fascinating, well-described characters whose lives intersect with meaning…even a ghost name Flora.

I reviewed it on on Amazon and am sharing it here. Meanwhile, I’m pondering the many themes of social injustice, socio-cultural differences, and the world of spirits.

“Here’s how much I enjoyed The Sentence: I found myself thinking so much about Tookie, Pollux, Hetta, Jarvis, Asema, Flora, jingle dresses, and fry bread that I downloaded the Audible version too. Read by the author, the “spoken word” was particularly meaningful, even fun at times, because of Erdrich’s voice inflection, speech rhythm, and emphasis she placed on certain passages. After listening, I often went back to the Kindle version to reread entire sections, especially those relating to the George Floyd protests, bookstore experiences with Flora, and several about nature, Pollux, and Jarvis.

“Because of having read several of Erdrich’s books, I was prepared for the first chapter. Like the others, it was a bit unsettling and set the reader up for what was to follow.  Tookie, the main character, agreed to do a favor for a friend (big mistake) and ended up serving time in prison. She’s released early and marries the man who arrested her, Pollux. They’re Native Americans living in Minnesota who seem to be living somewhat ordinary lives and then Wham! There’s Covid, a Presidential election, the murder of George Floyd, and protests relating to his death. About this time, Pollux’s daughter Hetta and her newborn come to live with them for a while. Life happens.

“Here are a few of the things I particularly liked about The Sentence:

• Experiencing these major events through the perspective of Tookie and others increased my insight about other people’s struggles especially those of color. “Indian after Indian and Black after Black and brown after brown person….”

• There’s some backstory, but for the most part, the action of the novel takes place within a year’s time. Plus, every reader could identify with one or all of the major themes and/or  happenings. Is there anyone who hasn’t been touched by COVID-19 in some way?

• I learned some new words and terms, i.e., deliquesce and the difference between All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day. I also learned more about Native American culture.

• Her description of people, places, and things: “I’m a little sad when the shapes of the trees are revealed.” And how about another short phrase: “There was the residue of joy in their tattered yard.” I’ve seen yards like that.

• My consciousness was raised. I love reading novels in which I learn something. I’d heard of Philando Castile, but not Zachary Bearheels, Bad River Ojibwe, Charles Lone Eagle, or Jason Pero (among others).

• The relationships and ties that bind people to one another, both past and present, the material world and the spirit world. There’s even a ghost involved, Flora. Or was she a spirit–as Pollux might think?

“Things I dislike about The Sentence: 0, nada, nothing. I liked everything. I hope you will, too.” Until I get my muse mojo going, I’m re-reading and other people’s work and feeling inspired and edified by their words and ability.”

Connections, Past and Present

While the title might sound like a sweet post about loved ones gathering for a family reunion complete with hugs, memories of beloved grandmothers and crotchety uncles, and a plethora of calorie-laden casseroles and rich desserts, it’s not. It’s a review of another one of Louise Erdrich’s novels, The Plague of Doves. Though different in format and tone, some of the characters are the same, and so is Erdrich’s brilliant prose. The quotation marks are there because I copied and pasted the review from Amazon (couldn’t get the link to copy).

“If you want to feel every emotion known to man, read this book. The opening section, “Solo,” is absolutely harrowing. I gasped.

“If you’re looking for something light with an uncomplicated plot, don’t read this. At first, I thought it was a book of short stories, but then I made myself pay closer attention to names and timelines and discovered connecting threads, not only within the novel but also between at least one other Erdrich book, The Round House. I wondered for the umpteenth time how something like this work could come from someone’s mind.

“Although confusing at times, The Plague of Doves is guaranteed to make the reader think and feel. No doubt about it—he or she will learn about life among a group of indigenous people whose lives are related, past and present, while pondering the mysterious “whodunit” aspects of a murder that takes place at beginning of the book. Four people were believed to be responsible for the murder of a family, but only three were hanged. Why is that? And who really did it?

“What I liked about the the novel is what I admire in all of Erdrich’s books: her writing. It’s rich in the sense that so much detailed information about people, events, and places seems to flow so naturally and easily onto the page. Plus, I got to meet some characters from other books (like Mooshum, Clemence, and Geraldine).

“What I didn’t like about the novel was its complexity. But deliberate engagement with the “story” and links between people and their history clarified just about everything. Amazing book!”

Confession: I still don’t know who killed the family. If you’ve read the book and know who the murderers are, let me know.

Liminal Spaces

Do you feel it? A bit of anxiety about what the next chapter in the Corona Saga holds in store for you? I’m ready to step forward, sometimes tiptoeing and sometimes stomping across an imagined line in the sand threshold. Thresholds, those liminal spaces between what is and what will be, can be intimidating.

I sense change and awakenings all around me. But can I say goodbye to all that’s been the way of life for the past eighteen months? When sheltering in place began, I leapt into it, mainly because of necessity and fear. A high school friend was one of the first casualties, a man with resources to provide any and every medical treatment needed to survive.  When I read that his doctors planned to try proning in the hope of helping his lungs better function, I needed no other evidence to know the virus was a serious one.

That same month, March, I missed my grandson’s baptism. Rephrase: I missed the up-close-and-personal event, but because of Zoom technology, I was able to look, listen and even interact with everyone present, including people in other states. Soon thereafter, I attended conferences and meetings virtually. A close group of friends who’d met once a month for years was hesitant about meeting in person. Being senior citizens, we opted to skip lunch and keep the meeting—virtually. Church was different, too. No meetings except at-home ones and then gradually, doors were opened, and masked people were ushered to their seats in ensure social distancing.  Now people sing using hymnals instead of electronic devices. Sunday I sat in a chapel and felt a different vibe around me. What’s that noise? I wondered and realized it was the sound of people greeting each other and chatting a bit.

When I look back over the past eighteen months, I realize how different life became in a relatively short period of time. Many restaurants went out of business, some because of lack of sufficient staff, other because of so few customers, and still others because of unknown (to me) reasons. We tried Chili’s pickup option, and although the process worked well, it felt weird to walk in a side door and huddle there in near darkness with other masked and distanced diners, especially when glancing at a quiet, empty space that in earlier days would have been filled with sounds of laugher and conversation. One of my brothers had a hip replacement—and no visitors. His sweet wife, a retired nurse, left clothes and toiletries with a security guard. Schools and their routines were upended, leaving many children behind in the process.

By the time May, 2021 arrived, people began feeling safer. Until the Delta Variant arrived, that is. Still, knowing that the vaccine offered a certain layer of protection, we began venturing out beyond our comfort zone. In July, we went to three days of a weeklong national barrel racing competition with thousands of others, and truthfully, I felt as safe there as I did on the afternoon we got away for a few hours in quiet, sleepy Plains, GA. Was I getting careless…or just more at ease? We even stayed in a motel and ate out in restaurants, crowded ones.

Now it’s mid-November, and the holiday season is upon us. We’re hosting Thanksgiving dinner for seventeen at our home, ages ranging from six to ninety-seven. Despite vaccinations, I’m still a little worried, anxiously excited or excitedly anxious. At some point, we have to take tentative steps toward the future, yet I find myself more timid about walking forward than I was in early summer. I’m peeking out from behind a door, trying to figure out how to navigate the threshold.

In a recent Life Kit podcast, Suleika Jaouad, writer and motivational speaker, provided a novel way of approaching reentry into society. No stranger to isolation, Jaouad spoke of her complete isolation while suffering from leukemia. Once cured, she was released with no one to tell her which meds to take or when to take them, what foods she could or could not eat, when she was to rest or sleep. She was on her own and floundering. She decided to do go on a yearlong road trip as a way to move forward while keeping what lingers.

Jaouad knows existing in the in-between state where many live isn’t easy and advises people to ask what they want to carry forward from the experience—not just COVID but any kind of loss, trauma, or upheaval. People can’t just automatically dust themselves off and say, “Wow, that wasn’t fun. Sure glad it’s over.” They need time and space to imagine what life will look like going forward.

Right now I’m in a liminal space, right at the threshold of what’s next, feeling antsy and anxious and more than a little unsettled. Jaouad feels we’ll forever be marked by Covid-19, just as we’re forever marked by other unsettling life events. How will we handle it?

Knowing that you can’t go back, only forward, how will you manage a successful reentry into life after COVID?