I Hope My Children Call Me Stupid One Day

Listening to the presidential candidates after the Iowa Caucus reminded me of my youthful folly supporting past inadequate nominees.  It reminded me that I had heard their rallying cries, had seen their enthusiasm and been crushed by their losses or indiscretions.

I want my young adult children to be politically active (at least knowledgeable) because I know that ALL politics are local and crap eventually rolls downhill wherever one stands.  My advice, "Have a voice in who delivers the crap and perhaps all of it won't land on you!"  Some believe that corruption, inaction, and idiocy go hand in hand with government yet without having some trust in it, this country would disintegrate.  Use that four letter word and VOTE every time it is offered.

Revolutions are messy, usually deadly, and most fall flat.  Arab spring?  It ended up flooding the region with false hopes.  But will the believers stop?  No.  They may be suppressed for a while but their children will observe, learn, and find their own protest strategy.  Energy for freedom always resurfaces. For the sake of humanity, may that generation of children call their parents "stupid" when their own efforts succeed.  May those parents live long enough to accept it laughingly and say, "You're right!  We were stupid when we did it BUT we're happy you kept trying."

Knowing better.  We preach that if a habit goes on long enough, it takes longer to break.  As a country formed by revolt, a people emboldened to rise up again and again when suppressed, I hope my children call me stupid one day for some of my beliefs and actions.  That will mean they KNOW better.

A simple photo inspired my thoughts.  What a great idea!  It's a much better option to give fruit to a child versus a cookie in the grocery store if we're trying to teach them to live healthier.  To my future grandchildren, "Yea, we really used to let our kids eat stale cookies but now they only give fresh fruit!"  :-)

Free the Teachers!

In response to an article that a friend shared on FB, I simply had to rant!

How To Raise a Creative Child

This is EXACTLY what is wrong with standardized testing as a goal...teaching the "rules" over and over doesn't allow a child the space to develop other "rules" that may help mankind push forward to new thinking. How in the world can we expect our kids to be innovative if all we ask of them is to relearn old facts? Instead, letting them have information access via their libraries, etc allows them to expand their thinking from others' creations and experiences. Teaching them how to "teach themselves" will let them delve into topics that may seem inconsequential to us but could change their young lives forever.
Yes, they should be taught reading, writing, arithmetic, civics, the arts but only to a point. Controversial? No, because generations before us were given these tools and did great things. To have access to the world's information via computers and ask kids to memorize miscellaneous facts about an obscure historical event, a rarely used mathematical formula, even my beloved poetry...ridiculous. Memorization is valuable because it can increase the synapses in developing brains...but why aren't we letting them memorize what they're passionate about?
Once they've mastered essential tasks, shouldn't we let them with their parents' input personalize their educational experience? How many "gifted" kids have languished in middle and high school because they can't pursue a passion. Once we have their trust, we can expose them to the intricacies of certain subjects. Engineering, more recent history, music beyond an instrument but via their laptops...if we let them, students will excel at something. And if they excel, they'll trust themselves to EXPLORE other topics that we can facilitate.
I truly sense that we're at a tipping point. Our educators want/need to follow their instincts and let children latch onto to their own talents. They ought to have space in their classrooms to guide these young minds and instead, they're mandated to make their students "learn" what others feel is important, pass tests that huge conglomerates create.
Those days are done. The public education system will continue to languish regardless of the money we pour into it if we follow this path. Home schooling would be hard for the masses...we pay taxes so that our children can come together and develop socially, create with others, and be guided by teachers to discover their own gifts.
Overhaul of the education system? Recreating the education wheel? No, it could be as simple as it once was...teaching students essential skills and giving them tools to hone their own skills. Vocational school? Yes. Technical schools? Yes. Artistic endeavors? Yes. Under one roof? Yes.
Standardized testing? Occasionally to make sure kids leave with the life skills of reading, writing, and calculating what they need including their own finances and civic responsibility so that they understand how the government that works for THEM should be working together.
Sorry, not sorry for the long rant.... I had teachers who were allowed to guide me toward self expression. And what a good job they did!!

Death Squad

 My recent experiences at a nursing/rehab center for the elderly haven't been easy to process.  Although I observed my mother give great care to her parents as they drifted into those situations, I still didn't appreciate the scope of how it takes over one's life.  Her care giving was monumental and without lapse; her sacrifices were never laid at our feet as martyrdom.  Instead, she went about the daily task of caring, worrying, and taking on responsibilities that the rest of the family couldn't imagine.  I couldn't imagine until these last few weeks.

If someone needs a caretaker from the family, it tends to fall on the ones who live nearest.  With today's mobile society, traditional family units have fractured.  Our belief that the internet helps us to closely monitor the lives of our loved ones is a misnomer.  It doesn't.  Without physical presence, it is impossible to know what is actually happening.  The nuances of body language, intuitive listening, and the simple act of observation are lost in cyber translation.  For the caretaker left behind, it's a struggle to convey how troublesome some events can be to those looking beyond.  Do they feel taken advantage of?  I'm sure it feels that way at times.  Do they feel unappreciated?  How could they not...the duties are often menial and appear thankless.  Instead, the far away family members get to preserve their own memories of the loved one.  They won't see them as weak or scared, angry and grouchy, or downright depressed at times.  Instead, they might see the grateful and happy patient who is thankful to have an infrequent visitor.  But the caretaker left behind deals with the daily struggles of their loved one.

I'm the last year of the Baby Boomer generation.  The Greatest Generation has mostly passed on and now we have a huge generation of aging individuals who aren't as closely connected physically with their loved ones.  Seeing Florida's large population of boomer retirees who are seemingly active and happy makes me wonder who will take care of them when their bodies and minds become weak.  As our society cobbles together government programs to protect the homeless, the elderly, those disadvantaged by illness or socioeconomic circumstances, it becomes ever clearer that we aren't having the conversations we need to have.

Not long ago, inflammatory pundits decried the efforts of healthcare initiatives wanting to begin the discussion of what the process of dying and DEATH means to each person.  Yes, I'm saying it loudly...DEATH!  By speaking up, I'm speaking forward.

Political harpies did not want to discuss it because they felt it would be the beginning of Death Squads.  Their definition...purposefully ending the life of someone for the good of caretakers.
What caretakers?  The government?  The conglomerate health care industry?  Themselves?

When I had young children, I set about learning as much as possible so that I could make informed decisions for their physical, social, and mental well being.  No need to call me a helicopter parent...I was a "space shuttle" parent.  Knowledge is power and I wanted to give them the tools available.  By asking if they wanted me to intervene on their behalf and then hearing an adamant "NO," my two wonderful children have taken on their own struggles and are learning their own lessons.  Yet I know in their upbringing, their father and I have instilled the value of KNOWLEDGE.

Now at this new stage of my life, seeing my contemporaries deal with the illness and subsequent death of loved ones, I seek knowledge.  I seek power behind the facts, strength in the steps of transition, a commitment of peace after doing all that can be done to slow the drumbeat of death...if that is what the person wants.  And if I hear an adamant "NO," then I'll step aside.

Death squad?  Yes...a squad of helpers to assist patients in making their own decisions.  Yes, a cadre of friends to help each other as events spiral out of our earthly control because I'm learning that DYING is as out of control as giving birth...nothing goes as planned.  I can be a "space shuttle" parent, friend, child, and partner.

Refraction

My generation is experiencing loss.  We are mostly at the midpoint of a centenarian life; I like to think we'll live another healthy 50 years if we want.  Unfortunately, that means our parents and other family members are growing older too, passing away in greater numbers as life's cycle continues.

Watching my dear friends go through this in 2015 has been heartrending.  The roller coaster of illness, hospitalizations, disability, relocation and for some, death foretells a future that I don't want to consider for my own family and yet, I know it must come to pass.

Writing helps me process what I see and feel when confronted with these painful passages.  Because I've been an onlooker rather than a participant, I've observed a commonality between the ill/dying loved ones and their grief stricken family members.  Each exists in an emotional/physical fog as they struggle to find a safe path through this passage.

I'm imagining the intimate connection of how two loved ones must say goodbye.  Each is on their own journey...one processing their own demise, one processing the demise of their loved one.  Regardless of who is around to support them, no one but themselves can walk the path and understand the passage.

They are each other's light passing through a fog, a refraction of love and a reflection of life and death.

refraction:  the fact or phenomenon of light, radio waves, etc., being deflected in passing obliquely through the interface between one medium and another or through a medium of varying density 
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REFRACTION

I sit alone

A chair of hard wood and straight back

I sit alone

Time rushing, unchecked

Others see life, a purpose not lost,

Harder for me, adrift more than most

I gaze alone

A cavern of dark thoughts and cold moments

I gaze alone

Thoughts seizing, now frozen

Others feel warmth, flames newly lit

Harder for me, scared I still sit

I rise alone

A rock of limestone and sand

I rise alone

Legs trembling, knees stiff

Others walk forward, time still unspent

Harder for me, not knowing my strength

I step alone

A foot dropped in great pain

I step alone

Heart broken, life stained

Others flee sadness, but it fills me whole

Harder for me, chasing dreams then my soul

I float alone

A welcome thick fog

I float alone

Grief stricken, but calm

Others call to me, beloved on each side

Harder for me, I’m saying goodbye

When I Can't Tell You So

It's very difficult to hold back unsolicited advice to others dealing with the mentally ill.  In the past, while coping with individuals whose minds took vacations from reality, I experienced great pain.  Trying to have patience, empathy, and understanding while being subjected to their radical thoughts tested my limits of forgiveness.  Giving up, I stepped away to preserve my own peace and health.

 Letting someone go who exists physically but has disappeared mentally is a grief filled undertaking.  Moments of connection cause hope but without medical intervention, it's a lost cause.  No one can truly come back without help.  But getting help means giving up control and I've come to accept that the need for control is all that the sick can rely on.  If they control their environment and those who step in and out of their circle, they're able to convince themselves that sickness isn't within them.

Watching others encounter ill family or friends for the first time is equally frustrating.  No matter our experience, our advice is useless because hope springs eternal for those newly exposed...exposed to seeing their loved ones drift away or create havoc within the relationship.

That moment of "I told you so" will never pass from my lips as I watch the destruction take place for others.  Sadness instead as we see them struggle to comprehend their loved one's unhealthy mind and realizing that helping our friends manage their pain is more important than understanding another's madness.

What We Permit, We Promote

It's the simplest of sayings and the hardest of truths.  Our courage is challenged daily by its premise.  When do we step in to protest, initiate action against injustice, or state our opinion loudly?

I was reared in the submissive culture of passive aggression.  Unruly discontent was frowned upon; many in my Appalachian/Southern society learned to be disagreeable without being insufferable.  In other words, if we chose to stab you in the back, we did so with a butter knife to extend the misery...much more polite that way....

The desire to keep confrontation neat and civilized, maintaining our courteous Southern facades has always smacked me as hypocritical.  Why can't we be passionate and messy when we disagree?  And yet, it is hard to break free of one's upbringing.  I pride myself on being independent and equally castigate myself for not being more blunt when I observe appalling behavior or hear inane comments.  Pride goeth before the fall....

All those ignorant or inappropriate social media posts?  I don't always comment; people dig their own holes and I let them.  But I don't hide others' messiness from myself by unfriending or deleting them.  It's good to know where folks stand on issues and to see their how their psyches are incompatible with mine.  Plus my inner psychoanalyst knows it props up my own self esteem.  We humans are insufferably egotistical.

Enemies.  Frenemies.  We have them regardless of our good intentions to keep the peace.  And so then I look at the saying and ponder:

What we permit, we promote...

Is it enough to sit behind a keyboard expressing opinions?  Do my protestations fall on deaf ears during friendly debates as I encounter fixed thinkers versus fluid thinkers like myself?  And in today's hyper cyber society, does it matter?  The news cycle is so frenetic that absorption seems impossible.  We move from tragedy to ecstasy, entertained in a hamster ball mentality that moves quickly without getting anywhere.

Philosophy versus reality tends to be my motivator.  If an actual outcome can be altered by my oft unwelcome comments, then I open my mouth or tap my fingers to cry out an opinion.  But I'm learning to stay quiet upon hearing a philosophical rant from someone who never alters their view.  Their need to reinforce themselves doesn't translate into wasting my breath or usage of my gray matter if they're not open to hearing other ideas.

What we ponder then, can we eventually solve?
Perhaps.

Post Traumatic Fog Syndrome

Luxuriating in one's stable state of mind is a curious way of finding out that "stable" is practically impossible.  What kind of balance is achieved?

It's easy to wax and wane away one's days believing that past hurts have disappeared.  Faint scars may still be visible but we don't want to believe that scar tissue underneath can still cause problems.  Yet when pressure is applied, pain reappears and so it is with the trickiness of our mind fog.

Most days, the brightness of the path before me pushes away the fog.  I don't allow pessimism to steal days from my journey...most days.  And then a tiny niggle of pain works it way through a crack in my joy, seeping quietly into my dreams.  No rest for the weary, nor answer to why one feels adrift...just a quiet thief reminding me that scar tissue can hurt.

I suppose that I no longer believe in lifelong balance, happiness, fog free existence.  It's a strange fairy tale to give up as we're told so often by "experts" that we can prepare ourselves for pain...past, present, future pain.  My only preparation is recognition now.  I can at least suck in and ready myself for the punch of pain when it arrives.  A small gift.  Preparation.  Sight.  Acceptance.  Resolution. And then patience for it to pass.

Perhaps that stable state of mind is just what we need for the next round of fog to come upon us.  It is easy to fall prey to its tempting calm...peaceful stability.  Turning over during our rest, our souls pressing down on the scar tissue awakens us, pains us, reminds us that we are simply waiting to make our way through another fog.