Taylor Swift’s Music To Grieve By

Not that I am trying to front run any grief specialists out there, but so far a Google search of Taylor Swift’s reference to the famous Kubler-Ross model for the 5 stages of grief does not yield any yay or nay reaction from said specialists…at least not yet. Last week, Swift compiled and released a playlist for her fans of some of her old songs and divided them into five sections, each related to the 5 stages—namely denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

Since Taylor has everyone’s attention on this topic, what better time than now to tell you as a grief professional myself what I think of the Great Five? Your chief concern may be whether this list gives grievers an accurate map to navigate through what’s ahead. Grief-land is a confusing place and grievers want to be reassured about what to expect and learn which feelings are normal. The answer to how I evaluate this list is: it depends. It depends on how closely one’s grief matches it. The more closely it matches, the more of a comfort it is. The less closely it matches, the more it may add to the griever’s distress. Hmmm. Not a great track record for someone looking for guidance. So the more a person’s grief journey deviates from the list, the more shut out and misunderstood they feel. Any grieving readers who feel this way should ditch the list right away. There’s enough guilt around grieving as it is. See at the end of this post for a book recommendation.

The other day, I heard an ad on the radio from the American Association of Psychics or some such. The ad urged the listeners to contact them, because there is “nothing like the joy of certainty.” But much is indeed uncertain. When I was working for hospice and contacted family members soon after the death of their loved one, the most essential concept I was sure to impart was, “Grief is unique to each mourner. There are no right or wrong feelings and reactions (except of course self harm or harm to others).” I would say this not to confuse them, but to reassure them that their feelings were normal. This was a great comfort for them to know they were not going crazy and losing their minds. There is no list of five states of mind. There is a list of innumerable ones.

I did not bring up the Kubler list during these calls. It would invalidate the feelings of some of the mourners, because what comes up in each griever might not match it. Just think about why grieving is unique to each person. Among many reasons are: how close the griever was to the deceased, how emotionally healthy was the relationship, age of death, cause of death, degree of suddenness of death, location of death, cultural and religious attitudes, and amount of support by others.

Look again at that list. Some people skip some of the stages. Some repeat stages. Stages may overlap. Some people have other “stages” not even on there, like joy (the #$%^ is finally dead), disorientation, relief, guilt, inner peace (my loved one is in heaven) and fill-in-the-blank for what pertains to you if you are grieving now.

Another thing I would tell grievers is that “grief comes in waves”. There is no steady line going from total grief to total recovery. The line goes up and down and loops back and forth and shifts from subdued to intense and never entirely resolves into reaching home plate. No, I could not give them the joy of certainty, but I could give them the joy of honesty and the offer of being one of their companions as they traversed Grief-land.

In closing, I’d like to offer my condolences to Taylor Swift for her many breakups, which are little deaths in themselves. And as promised, I am recommending a book that I think is the best tour guide for Grief-land. It is How to Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies by Dr. Therese A. Rando. This can be found on https://www.thriftbooks.com/ as well as Amazon. Thank you, Taylor, for giving your fans a musical outlet that may offer release to them as well as to yourself.

A Chaplain in Wolf’s Clothing

“Why are you just sitting here, staring at me like one of my cats?”

This is what a patient nearing the end of his life said to Rabbi Susan Landau Moss during one of her visits to him. In this guest post, Rabbi Moss shows both the gripping literary qualities a dialogue between a patient and a chaplain can build, as well as the poignant moments that can lift the interaction to a level out of the ordinary. She calls the patient Dom, and tells us, he had “been an in-demand house painter mere weeks before, and now he could not get to the bathroom without help.  At only 57 he was confined to a hospital bed.” Excerpts from her moving story appear below:

I settled in for another visit with Dom, fully prepared for what had become an established routine.  Dom was annoyed at best, aggravated at worst, driven to madness by his sudden lack of control over everything. 

Why are you just sitting here, staring at me like one of my cats?” 

I sat quietly while he surveyed his surroundings and dictated what my housekeeping tasks would be.  I needed to earn his trust each time I visited, and I did so by calmly consolidating cups of ginger ale, refilling ice pitchers, and rearranging his clunky furniture just so. I did it humbly, knowing I, too, would be desperate for someone patient and obedient to help me organize my life if I were stuck in a bed.  Once his basic needs were met, Dom’s prickly exterior softened.  He would turn to me and ask, “How are you today?”  Our real conversation could begin. 

Shortly after we first met Dom helped me get to know him by explaining to me: his spirit animal was the wolf, because he felt alone in the world, yet he also craved a sense of closeness and belonging.  He was estranged from his father, not even sure where the man was living, and disconnected from everyone else who might have once been close to him.  Yet later in life, he had finally found the bond he’d yearned for in his friend, Bill, and Bill’s family.  And whether he used those words or not, it was his dying wish to commit his gratitude to writing so he could know that Bill understood. 

Dom had determined that he needed to write a letter to Bill, his best friend (his only friend).  He was also certain he was incapable of writing something good enough.  “How can you capture in writing what is true in blood?” he lamented.  I felt my eyebrows knit together, matching his anguish.  Who knew this ornery wolf was so poetic in his yearning?   

We explored the letter-writing task from every angle.  I have done this dance with patients before.  The temptation to neatly capture heartfelt sentiment in a tidy package to be presented with sincerity on one’s dying breath…it is compelling as to be a nearly impossible feat.  How many times have I spoken to patients who want nothing more than to write such confessions, love notes, legacies, only to end up paralyzed by a new form of terminal writer’s block. 

I checked in with Dom the next day to find that he had agonized over his writing all night.  He had produced a single line.  Actually, he had produced two equally imperfect potential single lines, having gotten stuck on the salutation.  “Should I say, ‘to Bill, my brother and friend, or ‘Dear Bill, the one true friend I ever had’?”  It was even worse than I had anticipated. 

I had wanted to empower Dom to produce something all on his own.  After all, the idea had been entirely his.  I felt conflicted… But as soon as I offered to help him, Dom’s words began to flow.  It was halting at first.  I took dictation, assisted with word selection.  I offered reassurance after reassurance that his sincerity and gratitude radiated through each painstakingly wrought turn of phrase…

Finally, after a couple days, the letter was ready. But composing it had been only the first step.  Dom explained that it needed to be read out loud so Bill could hear it in his voice.  Otherwise, he feared, it would be too impersonal.  The problem was that Dom knew he could not read the letter without crying, and this simply could not happen in front of Bill.  Thus, I received my next assignment: to read Dom’s letter out loud to his friend without Dom present.

The experience brought me back to middle school, the task of passing notes between two classmates who blushed at the thought of confronting their crushes face to face.  In a charting room reserved just for us, I sat facing Bill.  I read him his friend’s letter while Bill fidgeted and averted his eyes.  He nodded stiffly, every bit the former police officer Dom described him as.  “It’s nothing he hasn’t already told me,” he mumbled when I finished.  But when I offered the printout I had read from, he carefully folded it and held on tight.

I said goodbye to Bill and headed back to Dom’s room.  The wolf looked up with wide teary eyes.  “What did he say?  Did he like it?”  Neither grown man could confess their feelings out loud.  But I saw the truth when I left them to watch their last football game together.  Two buddies, who might as well have been wrestling around the den under the mother wolf’s approving gaze.

Dom died a lone wolf.  At the end he was alone in a hospital room, incensed because paint thinners were not allowed in the hospital (even so a dying man could work on his beloved model car), and from knowing he would never be able to paint again anyway.  When he cursed at me about the paint thinners—the latest of many insults– his words retained their sharpness, but I had to sit closer to him to hear.  Dom’s body seemed almost pinned to the bed as it became harder for him to sit up and gesticulate. He fell asleep easily, which made me feel sad.  And it also felt like mercy. 

  Dom used to start our visits with brusque barbs and snarky remarks.  He was also the man who, on multiple occasions, shocked us both by tearfully asking for a “healing hug from someone who really understands.”  Despite his wounds, he was capable of deep friendship forged late in life.  He died alone, but he died knowing that his friend understood what a gift that connection was.  And he gave me the gift of being –ever so briefly – welcomed into their pack.

*************************

Rabbi Susan Landau Moss, Board Certified Chaplain, is the palliative care chaplain at Yale New Haven Hospital’s Saint Raphael Campus.  Prior to serving in this role she was the first palliative care chaplain at Bridgeport Hospital, in the same system, and integrally involved in establishing their outpatient palliative care program.  In addition to palliative care, she developed an interest and specialty in the growing field of telechaplaincy, an essential tool during and after the pandemic.  She was involved in organizing the first international telechaplaincy conference in 2022.  Susan graduated from Brandeis University and was ordained by Hebrew Union College in New York.  She lives in an adorable small town in Connecticut with her husband, “the other Rabbi Moss,” their son, and cat.

Short Story: Talking Past Each Other One Galaxy At A Time

The three Earthling news reporters from Newark, New Jersey couldn’t imagine what the Perfect Worlders in a galaxy sort of far away did for news. What would they report on if there were no wars, plagues, swindles, political upheavals, discrimination, no other crime of any kind, and not even accidental violent deaths? These newspaperpeople were stationed for a month at Perfect World to find out. Martha, with decades of experience as a reporter, figured at least the answer to that would itself be newsworthy. Tina and Clarence, less experienced, were skeptical about there being no bad news at all and were all set to dig deep for some dirt there.

Flammel, a Perfect World reporter responsible for their orientation to Perfect, welcomed the three into their lodgings. Flam (for short) aiming to make the Earthlings comfortable, asked them to describe what it was like to be reporters on Earth. To Flam’s bafflement, the three were anything but comfortable. They were ashamed to speak of all the evils of the human race and even more embarrassing, the eagerness of readers to learn all about such things. When SheHe coaxed a few examples from them, this made the conversation even more awkward, even though they tried to give relatively less heinous examples, such as a politician spending public money on luxuries. SheHe gasped and also felt a very rare feeling, anxiety, followed by other alien feelings, pity and dismay. Quickly Flam changed the topic to what the Perfect Worlders typically report on, as HerHis job was to make their visit as perfect as possible.

Flam distributed a few copies from various newspapers so that the Earthlings could see what in fact they wrote about. Martha looked at one called The Utopian Daily. Like on Earth, there were sections on sports, the arts, fashion and so on. She turned to the front pages to see what they did for headline news. The top story was, Governor of the North Province expressed grief at having missed shaking the hand of one of HisHer fans at a sporting event; all 456 citizens present had their hands shaken except for that one supremely unfortunate soul. The Governor has vowed to make amends by inviting that fan to a private dinner with HisHer immediate family.

Martha marveled at this, saying, “You think YOU have problems.” Clarence and Tina said, “That poor poor Governor. How will HeShe ever recover from that foul deed? This has to be satire.” Flam did not understand irony and sarcasm, as all language on HerHis planet was taken literally. To Martha Flam said, “Well, yes, we do have problems like that, and unfortunately more frequently than we would care to admit, but we must be honest and strive to improve.” To the others Flam said, “Well, let’s not exaggerate how transgressive the Governor was; after the dinner, all was forgiven as it turned out.”

After the Earthlings left, the Perfect Worlders reported their experience with the three newspeople in The Utopian. The headline read, “Three Guest Reporters from Planet Earth Give the Worst News Ever Heard”. The opening sentences were, “The worst news imaginable is that natives on other planets deliberately do bad things. Strangely, when the three Earthlings read our own newspapers, they seemed to think our own news was bad. We are sure this baffles our readers, who have never heard of anyone deliberately doing wrong, yet these Earthlings were disturbed by unintentional wrong…”

Upon their return to Earth, Martha and Clarence and Rita had the following headline in the opinion page of The Star Ledger: “Perfect World Reporters Indulge in Sarcasm”. And here are their opening sentences: “The top story in their newspaper, The Utopian Daily, featured a governor who did nothing wrong except omit one of his (her? their?) fans from having their hand shaken while all the rest of his fellows got to indulge in that pleasure. Surely this was humor on their part, or possibly code for something the governor did that was truly unseemly. Our host, Flammel, was most deceitful, sticking to the story that was printed there as a thing to take literally. Perhaps when our reporters take their next trip to Perfect Planet, they will find the dirt and expose the truth both to the natives there as well as to the people here on Earth.”

A day later, an editor’s note appeared in The Star Ledger: “Upon our return to Earth, we found another article from The Utopian that we had mistakenly taken back with us. It was all about a doctor’s office where a patient had to wait a whole five minutes before being seen. The article concludes, ‘An absolutely unheard of wait time. Readers can only hope that will be the longest wait ever witnessed in their lifetime.’ And all we can say to that is they have a very active imagination.”

Yep, This Author Qualifies: Offbeat Yet Compassionate

If I’m feeling compelled to look into an author, usually the title is what pulls me in. This time, it was Leaf Seligman’s bio, and of course her first name. The bio reads,

“Leaf Seligman considers herself a daughter of the trees, grateful to live in Maple Nation and be close enough to spend time among beloved copper beeches. She has taught in colleges, prisons. and community settings since 1985. As a restorative practitioner, Leaf draws on her experience as a jail chaplain, prisoner educator, congregational minister, college instructor, and human being. She facilitates peacekeeping circles, immersive learning experiences, and restorative processes of accountability, healing, and transformation. Leaf delights in bringing tenderness everywhere. Her previous books include Opening the Window: Sabbath Meditations, A Pocket Book of Prompts, and From the Midway: Unfolding Stories of Redemption and Belonging.”

I thought, aha! I’ve found that rare combination, offbeat yet compassionate. A daughter of the trees? Wikipedia says that restorative practices “ include the use of informal and formal processes that precede (sic) wrongdoing, those that proactively build relationships and a sense of community to prevent conflict and wrongdoing.” These circles give people a safe place to express their opinions and feelings. Oh yes, the title: Being Restorative, which will be out in late March. If you are so inclined and want a link to the book, it’s https://bauhanpublishing.com/shop/being-restorative/

Here is an excerpt about creating a safe space with a community circle in a spiritual setting:

“On a frigid Sunday in January, I led worship for a dozen hearty souls who lovingly labor to keep their lay-led congregation afloat…After the service and some time for fellowship, eight of us gathered near a window as the sunshine streamed in, to practice what I had just preached. We arranged our chairs in a circle and I pulled out a talking piece, a handmade metal key ring with lavender macramé. [ My note: which the author assures me looks something like this: https://www.etsy.com/listing/1042589522/lavender-macrame-keychain-boho-macrame ], and invited folks to speak about whatever felt pressing. Because we have done this several times, folks knew the guidelines: no interruptions, no cross talk, always the option to pass, speaking from our lived experience in the first person, replacing judgment with curiosity and extending compassion. The talking piece traveled clockwise around the circle. As each person spoke, the rest of us listened. In that hour, we provided a refuge from all that was not genuine and gave voice to questions and on-the-spot reflections. [Such as, battling mental illness, expressing grief, and dissatisfaction with religion]We acknowledged our true nature and worth and met our wholeness with tenderness. Not surprisingly, some people find the circle the most worshipful part of the morning because the act of circle allows us to experience unadulterated connection and belonging.”

Just by looking over this one paragraph and doing a little research into circles and restorative practices, this reminds me, as one of Leaf’s reviewers said, “how reckoning with compassion can yield lasting repair.” Anything that leads us there gets a spotlight here, on offbeatcompassion.

The Innards Of A Conversation

While I was in the waiting room of my gynecologist, I wanted to distract myself from the impending discomfort of the doc’s examination. So I initiated some superficial banter with another patient who was there who I will call Lenore. She seemed glad I did, not looking displeased at all with my ultra safe conversation opener: “Pretty good weather to be getting things like this done, isn’t it?.” Just several seconds later, she leapt past the small talk and got to something of concern. I couldn’t help it; my chaplain radar went up and off I went to give her some space to air her feelings.

My notes of the conversation follow, but with some unusual annotations. The actual speech is in quotes. In my part of the interaction, I put my thoughts about what Lenore was saying in parenthesis. In hers, I imagine her supposed thoughts and put them in brackets. Of course I couldn’t know what she thought but it might be revealing to guess. Chaplains and social workers reading this know this is called a verbatim; a learning tool where student chaplains transcribe interactions with patients with comments about what we were feeling and what we were trying to do for the patient and what might have gone wrong. Then it is shown to other chaplains for critique. Anyway, what we actually say out loud is but the topmost layer of all the thinking and weighing of options that leads up to it. As I said, I use parentheses for my own thoughts, andI use brackets for Lenore’s part of the conversation about what she might have been thinking as she spoke.

After I bring up the weather Lenore says,

“It’s a little chilly to walk, so I took a two-minute drive to get here.” [Yippee; I have someone to talk to to give me something else to think about than my appointment.]

Karen: (Lenore is smiling, so she’s glad I started talking.) “Two minutes sure is quick. Even though it’s cold, I decided to walk anyway.” (I wondered why she drove such a short distance since it was sunny and a nice chance at some exercise and to enjoy the sun. I hope she didn’t think I was guilting her though about getting exercise.)

Lenore: [I don’t want Karen to think I am lazy so I’ll explain a little about why.] “I don’t walk much these days….I used to walk though, but I don’t like to walk alone. I used to walk when I had my dog, so I got out of the habit when he passed.”

Me: (People often don’t acknowledge grief over a pet, or even do worse by saying things like get a new pet. Not me!) “Oh gee, you lost your pet. So sad.”

Lenore: [Karen might want to hear a bit more about this. So I’ll go a little deeper. Cool.] “Yeah. So I don’t like to walk alone because it reminds me of my dog.”

Karen: (She is signaling that she wants to talk about it more. Here I go) ”How long ago did your pet pass away?”

Lenore: “Last June.” (She pauses, and shrugs, as if to say it was so long ago that maybe she was afraid I would think she should be over it by now. I would make sure to show the opposite. Onward I march against disenfranchised –i.e. not-seen-as-legit– grief.)

Karen: “Did you have your dog for a long time?”

Lenore: “Yes, for many many years. He was such a big part of my life.”

Karen: “That’s why you miss him so much of course.” (I wanted to reinforce the idea that this is real and legitimate grieving even though it’s been several months.)

Lenore: “Yep.”[Thank God Karen isn’t saying anything irritating and insensitive like why don’t you get another dog. I wonder how she knows this. Maybe she had a pet she lost too]. “It’s been five years since I’ve seen a gynecologist…” (the conversation with Lenore continues on that note until I’m called in to see the doctor. I wonder why she hesitated to ask me anything more personal than where I lived during our whole interaction. How is it that people sense I am more a listener than a talker?)

As people converse with each other, we are continually and instantly gauging what we should or could or would like to or not like to say next. It is fascinating to examine a given dialogue and see it yield so much detail. I think increased awareness of what we say to each other raises the quality and sensitivity of our discourse.

Why It’s So Damn Hard To Be In The Moment

If you were to find a way to ask any animal besides humans to stop and live in the moment, to savor all the beauty they see in the forest and the sea, and the food they eat and all that, I bet a land mammal would answer: “What, are you nuts? When I go to the watering hole to get a drink, I have to watch out for predators who might take advantage of my vulnerable moment to make me be the thing being consumed not the refreshing water. But I have to take that risk or I’ll die of dehydration.” As for sleeping, a whale for instance would say, “even when sleeping I have to be on guard, with one eye open, which is how I have to handle it or die from sleep deprivation. Some deal. Sweet dreams indeed!”

Maybe our personal experience or our evolutionary history makes our species skittish too about reveling in the sensations of the moment. We are frequently on alert. Just about anything can make living in the moment take second place: anything as benign as an anticipated interruption, to serious issues such as finding enough food for the day. In other words, living in the moment is a great luxury, only possible when one feels safe. And so the dilemma for all those sages who talk about ways to be in the moment such as breathing peace in and breathing negative thoughts out, is that they are up against eons of how organisms have functioned since life began. I do read about breathing to relax. I do read poetic prayers. But I am battling all of human and pre-human history.

And so to attain these wonderful moments at all we have to go against the grain to gain this luxury. I do try, as I said, but often the alarm bells intrude. However, the times I can achieve it, no matter how incompletely, is still worth it. Merely being aware that being at peace in the here and now involves swimming against a mighty stream might make us less dismayed at how very elusive it is. When those tiny interludes of moment-savoring do come our way, we can recognize them as the astonishing luxury that they are, and be grateful over our persistence in realizing these spiritual treasures.

To see my microblogging, see me at https://spoutible.com/KarenBKaplan  

Post Script, February 8, 2024: Unlike most of my posts, a few friends and associates responded in detailed emails about this one. Ironically, they said this post helped them to experience being in the moment. Spiritual practice is full of paradoxes, so this is a most satisfying result.

What Color is Dying? (Hint: It’s a Trick Question)

Guest blogger Dia Osborn fits the bill of guest posts that are offbeat or quirky, yet compassionate. Here is one she wrote years ago from her blog, The Odd and Unmentionable:

During a chat over coffee this morning a colleague asked me the above-mentioned question and…I admit it…the first color that came to mind was black.

He smiled and said that was the first color that came to his mind, too, and during the following discussion we agreed that black would probably be the first color springing to mind for the majority of Americans and possibly other western cultures, too. (It would probably be white for many of those from eastern cultures.)

So why is this a trick question? Because black (and white in some cultures) is the color associated with death. But dying people aren’t dead yet. They’re still very much alive. This question reveals how we tend to subconsciously view the dying as close-enough-to-dead-to-count, an unfortunate tendency that does a lot of harm to everybody.

This prejudice is deeply ingrained as evidenced by the fact that even my colleague and I (who have worked extensively with the dying in hospice) still defaulted to black as our first association. Like any solid prejudice I believe it’ll take work to examine, uproot, and then change it, but it’s worth the effort because if we don’t, we’ll all wind up as one of “those people” while we are dying and suffer the stigma and exile that currently goes along with it.

Once my colleague and I recognized and talked about our conditioned response, we then asked the question again and came up with completely different responses. He said that, for him, dying is actually quite purple, a color that he loves and relates to on a deep level. I on the other hand kept seeing a prism in my mind, shattering a sunbeam into a thousand different colors.

And here’s what I found most interesting about the difference. When I saw dying as black I felt like I’d just pulled a plastic bag over my head. But when I let that go and suddenly saw it as a prism full of rainbows instead, that feeling of suffocation turned into curiosity and wonder and a delightful sense of mystery which honestly was the experience I tended to actually have when I worked with hospice. It was really, really magical hanging out with dying people, not black at all.

+++++

In her blog, The Odd and Unmentionable, Dia Osborn says that she once worked with hospice as a Home Health Aide and then a Certified Nursing Assistant for almost six years. While there she “found…sprinkled amongst all the expected hardships and heartbreak…some of the most beautiful, strange, moving, transformational, and mysterious things”she had ever experienced.” To see more of her blog, go to https://acuriouscure.com/

Edna Ferber’s Fervor in So Big

It’s as if Edna Ferber had pried open my brain and learned of my thoughts and sensations before she created her Pulitzer-Prize-winning novel So Big. I read on, wondering what else I might learn about myself and about what to strive for and what dead ends to let go of.

Here’s a modest example of this as well as how worthwhile she is to devote time to: (I immediately re-read the whole story.) One of her main characters is Selena, a girl who at 19 years of age goes to teach children of Dutch descent in a rural area near Chicago when cars were just starting to compete with horses. As she unpacks her modest belongings on her first day, Ferber writes, “There was about her trunk, even though closed but this very day, the element of surprise that gilds familiar objects when disclosed for the first time in unfamiliar surroundings.”

Perhaps this is a universal sensation, but the way the author describes it, I feel as if I were thinking this out loud as I see the young lady try to bridge what is relatable and comforting as she plunges into such an alien setting.

Before she had commenced this adventure, Ferber characterizes Selena’s philosophy of life that I myself have aspired to: “She extracted from life the double enjoyment that comes usually only to the creative mind: ‘Now I’m doing this. Now I’m doing that,’ she told herself while she was doing it. Her father said, Living is ‘a fine show. The trick is to play in it and look at it at the same time.'” I experience this in a way when I am reading. I am conscious of her craft of writing as I savor her nimble choice of words and her complex patient building of personalities through interactions and changes of circumstances, all the while enjoying the story as any reader might who is settling down to the entertainment of a real page turner. I also experienced this “doubleness” when I was a chaplain, conscious of how I was leading the conversation yet deeply involved in the conversation itself.

As the story unfolds, Selena undergoes many hardships, sometimes due to her curiosity leading her “to a trackless waste from which she had to retrace her steps painfully.” But her “gay adventuresome spirit was never to die.” Ferber then has Selena flash back to her first day journeying with one of the farmers to her new home when she saw rows and rows of cabbages. She said they were beautiful, and the farmer, who just viewed tending them as hours and hours of back-breaking work, just laughed and dismissed such a sentiment. But, Ferber reassures us, “always to her, red and green cabbages were to her jade and Burgundy.” For me, too, curiosity has gotten me into trouble. And I like to think for me, too, I will retain a zest for adventure while risking what my curiosity might cost me.

Towards the end of the book, Selena issues a dramatic warning to her son Dirk, who pooh-pooed his mother’s savoring of cabbages or of anything else. She knows Dirk is involved with superficial and spiritually empty pursuits, and so she exclaims of a sudden on one of his visits to her at the farm, “Dirk, you can’t desert her like that.” He says, “Desert who?”

“Beauty! Self-expression. You wait! She’ll turn on you some day. Some day you’ll want her and she won’t be there.”

I trust this is a warning we all should take to heart. May we be more like Selena and less like Dirk. May we savor this book as Selena savored her life, which even in her old age “was still so fresh to her.”

Addendum: I have one more quote from Ferber that I like very much, but it doesn’t fit anywhere in the above essay. I present it here for its own sake. It’s about Selena doing a brave thing, bringing her food to sell at the market. What was brave about that? She was the first woman to do so. The customers, however, did not stop at her stall. “It was not unkindness that prompted them, but a fear of the unaccustomed…Her wares were tempting but they passed her by with the instinct that the ignorant have against that which is unusual.” Ah, the lot of a contrarian!

For my micro blog, see me at https://spoutible.com/KarenBKaplan

Horror of Horrors: Halloween Poem

The local New Jersey poet Lillian Washington could not shake off a disturbing dream she had, even hours and days afterwards, until she locked it up into a poem and thereby banished it for good. For us readers on Halloween, however, the scary feelings are just beginning. Note how she uses repetition to reflect feeling stuck. She can’t break free from the same patterns of words, and can’t break free from her inner demons. The words seem simple, but the rhythm and rhymes somehow intensify her predicament. But as she writes the last word, rolling her whole experience into it, I believe she finds her way out by naming it at last.

Stuck in My Dream

I’m awake now,

but still stuck in my dream

And can’t break free.

It’s another night now

And I’m trying to see

If I’m out of my mind

And trying to find

my way out.

Why am I

being kept away

from who I am

from who I used to be?

I’m trying to remember

who I did see.

I’m in this dream

And I don’t want to be in it

no mo for sho.

That is not a place I want

to see, again.

Am I stuck in my dream?

And I can’t break free

I don’t know how long

I’m going to be

Stuck in my dream

and not be my me

because

I’m stuck in my dream

And it’s a nightmare.

—————-

Lillian wanted to balance things out on a lighter note, thus we have,

He Shows You

Let God show you

Just begin,

and He’ll be with you

while doing what you have to

You

just

begin.

Amen!!

For a former post of Lillian’s poetry, see https://offbeatcompassion.wordpress.com/2022/08/30/my-mind-walks-in-my-sleep/

Announcement: I have left the third-to-the-last letter-of-the-alphabet micro blogging place and am now on Spoutible at https://spoutible.com/KarenBKaplan

An Hour in the Life of The Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina

In speaking of a woman selling fruits and vegetables at a farmers’ market at a time when only men were doing so, Edna Ferber in her novel So Big observed that the farmer didn’t get many customers because the ignorant “veer away from the unusual.” When my husband and I go on a vacation, we seek adventure in terms of exposing ourselves to cultures unlike ours and to people whose assumptions are at variance with our own. As we browsed through the various predictable pickings for tourists going to Charleston, a notice stood out as exceptionally unusual and which Ferber would have liked to write about: “The Citadel dress parades consist of about 2,000 cadets while the regimental band and pipes perform and cannons are fired.”

For me, anything having to do with the military is novel ground for me, and the anticipation of a bit of ritual, decoration and music appealed to me as insurance against potential boredom. Before the parade, we took a breather on a bench near one of the school’s administrative buildings. It just so happened that the campus was open that week to prospective students and their parents. A cadet dressed in a smart white uniform graced with a crimson sash giving the tour to one such family stopped right near us. He did not take notice of us or ponder why we were there but just went on with his planned remarks at that point of the tour: “There is something very serious I need to say to you. We have an honor code that says there are four things you must not do or you will get expelled. Immediately. Those four things are, and I mean this very seriously, are: Number one: lying. Number two: cheating. Number three: stealing, and number four, anyone who tolerates the first three. Why just this morning, there was a senior caught cheating, and this same day, he was expelled. That was a senior! Now come follow me as we walk to…”

When it was time to walk closer to the parade, we overheard a young teenager on another family tour longingly glance around at the grand white and austere buildings on campus and burst out with, “O I really really want to go to this school!” I wonder if he had heard about the four rules yet. Kidding aside, he might be part of a family who has many members in the military and who therefore take pride in the challenges of strict discipline and the prospect of earning military honors.

We went on, and within fine viewing distance of the event, we shared a bench with a couple from Puerto Rico. They told us they had several family members who have served, and that they come regularly to this parade. After we revealed that this was our first time, they filled us in with details like, “you know, the rifles they are using for this ceremony go back to the Civil War, and the uniforms, not the original ones of course, but their design goes back to the Civil War as well.”

Then, what I first thought was an effort to make themselves interesting and sociable, they asked, “Did you know that Kamala Harris is going to speak near here tomorrow?” I confessed that I did not, and said only, “wow, that’s very interesting.” As I reflected on this conversation afterwards during the parade when the band was playing and the cadets were marching exactly in step and simultaneously shifting their rifles from side to side, I think they had been trying to gauge our politics. Maybe because our response was vague and noncommittal, they felt comfortable enough to share their own politics: “We were at a Trump rally yesterday, and our buddy was there.” She fondly drew forth a photo and with great pride and affection said, “Look at that, that’s my buddy posing there with Donald Trump.” As if reading my shall I say internal wonderment at this, the wife went on to explain, “We are unhappy with the Democrats; look what they did in Puerto Rico when Hurricane Maria struck.”

As the parade continued, we got to hear the promised cannon blast—yes, sufficiently loud thank you very much —and I thought some more about what the couple had imparted to us. I think all politicians have a lesson to learn: as in other areas of life, whether medical, religious or occupational, that above all, people want to feel cared about. Why, just yesterday, our little town of Kearny (near New York City) had its first virtual mayoral debate. There were three candidates and I was potentially set on a Mrs. Carol Jean Doyle but was open to hearing the other two. What clinched it though for me after they all talked about the hottest topic, which was how to deal with scarce parking, is when they turned to how COVID had been handled here. Jean said, “Yes, our town had the vaccines ready and got out information and kept people safe, but what we did not take into account was the suffering and after-affects of how isolated our seniors were.” Once she said that, I knew she cared about us Kearnysonians (a term I first heard at that debate after living here since1997).

Upon returning to our Charleston Airbnb, we told our host about the parade. She, a therapist,said, “Oh, we get many students coming to us for our services.” I then commented, “Such a strict environment must make for a lot of pressure.” “Oh yes indeed,” she replied.

By the way, if you like that old show Columbo, one of the 1974 episodes is set at The Citadel. It’s called “By Dawn’s Early Light”and shows the grounds and the barracks as well as the inside of an administration building. Great plot, too, and a magnificent preparation for our trip.