INTO THE LIGHT...

"The Aging Generalist," my beloved blog, went dark (literally and figuratively) four years ago come Wednesday. And  I, pretty much, followed suit. Today, despite the Pandemic, but clinging tightly to the promise of effective vaccines, I'm determined to step out of my comfort zone (wearing a mask, of course) to make sure that everything in this country is still functioning. My 'stepping out' will be virtual of course. I'm not crazy. 

I am very much looking forward to the Biden/Harris Inauguration. I'm planning on an uplifting speech because, right now, I don't know about you, but I badly need an uplifting speech. Actually, from where I sit, the whole country needs an uplifting speech. If I had my choice, it would be a calm uplifting speech. I've missed those over the past few years. If there is one thing  Joe does well, it's using his calm voice to tell us that we will all  be OK. And we will be OK because Joe believes that we are fully able to rise to the occasion. He trusts that we will be helpers both at home and abroad. Joe brings out the best in us. And, we very much need that.

I must admit I don't know Kamala well. I do love that the family children call her Mamala, and that makes her laugh.  She plays the Step Mom part in a blended family--a role I have also owned, which explains the special place in my heart for her. In all honesty she wasn't my first choice for VP, but I'm definitely warming up to her. And, at this point in time, I would call it a perfect choice on many levels.

I'm carefully leaving Donald Trump out of this post. My understanding is that he will fly to Mar A Lago early on Wednesday morning, hours before the Inauguration. In normal times, the out-going President would  already have invited the incoming President and family to the White House for a welcoming tour. That has not happened. It's a breach of etiquette but, I believe, the Biden's will overlook the snub. That's one of the things I like about them. 

So, tomorrow morning, I will be putting on my mask to make a quick trip to the grocery store for a bit of champagne and upscale snacks. That would not be my usual order, but it's been a long four years, and I intend to celebrate.

God bless us, everyone...

DEJA VU, ALL OVER AGAIN

Whereas I have vowed to myself (and my coach) that I would not be taken in by the current happenings in Washington, DC, I have, today, cracked, and will be watching the votes as the Senate does its thing. I cannot help myself.

Nor could I help myself on May 9th of 1974 when the Impeachment Inquiry for Richard M. Nixon began its formal hearings. Those hearings (Democratically Controlled House Judiciary Committee) lasted until July 30, 1974. 

The Committee produced three Articles of Impeachment: Obstruction of Justice, Abuse of Power, and Contempt of Congress. Seven Republicans voted with the 21 Democrats for Impeachment. Ten Republicans voted No. The Articles sound remarkably similar to what we are hearing today in regard to Donald Trump.

A: Richard Nixon was not forthcoming about his knowledge of and approval for the Watergate break-in. (Obstruction of Justice)

B: As early as 1969, Richard Nixon called on Federal agencies--think IRS and FBI--to scare the very bejesus out of anyone who questioned his actions. (Abuse of Power)

C: Richard Nixon refused to reply to a number of congressional subpoenas. (Contempt of Congress)

1974 was an election year just like 2020 is an election year. I've not found any 1974 arguments stating that impeachment is unfair in an election year. "Let the voters decide in November" wasn't the mantra of 1974...or so I believe. In today's world, an attempted break-in of the Democratic National Headquarters seems nearly innocent. The sport of High School kids. But, of course, it wasn't the break-in that got Richard Nixon, it was the cover-up.

So, yes. Basically, Richard Nixon was impeached for lying. For covering up. For threatening.  For being unreasonable. For being Nixon. His impeachment never moved to the Senate because a group of wise statesmen paid him  a visit and explained that he must resign because he would indeed be convicted. And he did. The following afternoon, he gave the TV cameras an awkward wave from the door of his helicopter and flew off to California. He wasn't heard from very much after that. Self destruction is always SAD...   

   

THE "RAISE" ACT

Whereas, I believe that I'm monitoring the White House, Congress and the Justice Department quite carefully, it does appear that I fell down on my self-imposed job. It's been a huge job so I'm going to be relatively kind to myself about this most recent failure and, to make up for it, explain and discuss the RAISE Act with you. This one slipped right by me but, considering it was introduced in the Senate on February 13, 2017, very shortly after Donald Trump's inaugural and, thus, a period of time in which I was hiding under my bed, I remained ignorant of it until this morning.

The RAISE Act sounds fairly inocuous and, one hopes, might even be uplifting, but, sadly, that is not the case. RAISE is the acronym for "Reforming American Immigration for Strong Employment Act." It was sponsored by Republicans Tom Cotton and David Perdue.  The bill was re-introduced in August of 2017 as a revision, and, as we speak, is residing in the Senate Judiciary Committee. Senator Roger Wicker joined Cotton and Perdue as a co-sponsor in November, and the bill is now referred to as S.B. 1720.

S.B. 1720 is designed to reduce the level of legal immigration by 50%; impose a cap of 50,000 refugee admissions per year; and, end the visa diversity lottery. As one can imagine, Donald Trump supports this bill.  One of the methods of lowering legal immigration will be to allow only minor children and spouses of U.S. citizens to apply for permanent lawful residency status. Parents and siblings will no longer qualify. Under this pending legislation, Melania Trump's parents would not have been allowed into our country which, I think, would have made Barron Trump very sad. I've read that he is especially close to his Grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Knavs. And, face it...every kid needs a loving grandparent--especially if that kid lives in the White House.

Donald Trump would tell us that this bill will increase both economic growth and wages. Economists, on the other hand--1,400 of them who range across the political spectrum,  predict a negative impact on GDP growth. The Cato Institute (funded by the Koch brothers) has said, surprisingly,that the legislation will do nothing to boost skilled immigration. "The average American worker is more likely to lose than to gain from immigration restrictions..." per economist Giovanni Peri, Chair of the Department of Economics at the University of California, Davis.

But, let's bring this just a little closer to home, by looking at the point system included in S.B. 1720 which will be the determining factor as to whether or not a person is even allowed to submit an immigrant application. Could you or I qualify? We need at least 30 points each; let's find out:

#1--Age: Considering the allocation of points, a person is most attractive to the U.S. if he/she is between the ages of 26 and 30. Being in your upper 20's gives you 10 points. Above age 51, you receive no points. However, if you happen to be 75, you, at least, don't lose points. The Aging Generalist gets 0 points.

#2--Formal Education: These points range from 1 to 13. A high school degree gives you 1 point while a U.S. Professional Degree or Doctoral STEM yields 13.  My Kansas State University BS degree gives me 6 points. Had I graduated from Oxford in England or the Sorbonne in France, I would only have  earned 5 points. Much to my surprise I'm one-up in this game. Aging Generalist gets 6 points.

#3--English Language Proficiency: This appears to be measured in deciles. Frankly, I have no idea what a decile is in this context, but it appears deciles are connected to the required English Proficiency Test. If I do extremely well I will be in the 10th decile (and I'm very confident I will do that) and, thus, rack up 12 points.  Aging Generalist is taking 12 points.

#4--Extraordinary Achievement:  It looks like this is the category that will  separates the men from the boys. It is possible to amass 40 points in this category alone, thus guaranteeing a person's right to submit an immigration application on the spot.  For that, however, you will need both extraordinary achievements: 1--To be a Nobel Laureate (25 points) and/or 2--To be an Olympic Medalist (15 points.) Of course, you could do well with only one of these extraordinary achievements, but why stop there? Go for the Gold. Aging Generalist, sadly, receives 0 points.

#5--Job Offer/Highly Compensated Employment: This section allocates points based on your annual salary. It must be at least 150% above the median household income in your state of employment (5 points) topping out at 300% (13 points). Obviously, that means I would have to make between $84,871 and $169,743 in my state of Arizona in order to receive any points at all. Maybe I could move to Mississippi where I would only need to earn between $65,293 and $130,587. Whatever you do, don't move to Washington DC. (I know...it's not a state but it hands out points) However, you will need an income of $125,073 to receive the low end 5 points. Since the Aging Generalist is retired, she receives 0 points. 

#6--Investment and Active Management of New Enterprise, AKA The Kushner Addendum: If you will be investing at least $1.3 million,  but less than $1.8 million in a U.S. New Commercial Enterprise; and, maintain that investment for three years; and, play an active role in managing the New Commercial Enterprise as your primary occupation, you will receive 6 points. I'm not terribly impressed by that, as you can receive 6 points merely by being between the ages of 18 and 21. But 6 points is 6 points.  However, if you invest at least $1.8 million in a U.S. New Commercial Enterprise; and, maintain that investment for three years; and, play an active role in managing the New Commercial Enterprise as your primary occupation, you will receive 12 points.  And 12 points gets you a lot closer to 30 than 6 points. Once again The Aging Generalist receives 0 points.

#7--Valid Pre-existing Offer of Admission Under Family Preference Category: 2 points. Aging Generalist does not have such an offer. She receives 0 points.

Aging Generalist Total=18 points.

Obviously, there would be no immigration application for me...or those of my ilk. Yes, the requirements of the RAISE Act are an interesting amalgam and, dare I say, favor those among us who already have advantage, money, and education. It's not a surprise but, for me, it is a disappointment. I thought we were better than this. I thought we were kinder than this. I was wrong. I wrote this piece in 2017--the same year the legislation died in Congress. It came to life again in 2019, but must have gotten lost in someone's desk. Perhaps that's just as well. 

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door."  Emma Lazarus in 1883 

PEACE ON EARTH...

Nearly every morning, I listen to a short meditation--part of Unity Church's "Daily Word" that appears in my Mail Box each day. The meditation lasts about five minutes or so, and repeats daily until a new one pops up on the first day of the next month. There are recurring themes: Love, Light, Presence, Grace, Power, Peace...I especially like Peace, but I generally leave it to others to figure out. The United Nations, for example, or Human Rights Watch, or the Global Peace Initiative. They're professionals, and I have great faith in them, although I am terribly discouraged by the current situation of our world.

A few months ago, as I tried to pay attention to the meditation--in a calm and mindful sort of way--I heard: "Peace in the world begins with peace in my heart." I hadn't really thought of it that way, but of course it does. If I am peaceful in my heart this morning, I will act with peace and grace, and everyone I encounter will (maybe) pick up my peaceful vibe and, in turn, spread even more peace. A Kumbaya moment for sure. And it sounds fairly simple: Peace begets peace begets peace... But, let's wait just a minute. What is peace? It sounds like a silly question, but really--is my peace your peace? Or, conversely, is your peace my peace?

In my mind, Peace is the absence of war. The absence of fighting. I remember my mother had a pat answer whenever I asked what she might want for her birthday or for Christmas. "Peace and Quiet wrapped up in a big red ribbon," she would answer. She did not laugh, or even smile when she said that. I may have been a bit challenging for her.

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But, now, as I begin to poke around the internet, I also begin to realize that Peace (wrapped in ribbons or not) might be a bit more complicated than I thought. For example, a young student from St. Mark's Senior Secondary School in New Delhi, India, wrote an essay explaining that Peace was NOT the absence of aggression, violence or hostility, as I obviously had thought. Rather, Peace flowed from the presence of justice. Hmm...the presence of justice. A lofty thought and a positive definition which made me sit up a little straighter and realize that Peace has two faces: Positive Peace and Negative Peace. I had defined an example of Negative Peace while the young man had described Positive Peace. I'm going to suggest that both fulfill our desire for peace, but both are not created equal.

A definition of Positive Peace reads like this: "Attitudes, institutions and structures that create and sustain peaceful societies." Whoa! Now that would require work and planning and preparation and will and openness of heart and mind. Not to mention a great deal of courage and love. A second definition builds on our first: "Absence of war accompanied by particular requirements for the mutual settlement of relations (such as) justice, mutual respect, respect for law and good will."  What a wonderful world Positive Peace could bring to us all. It might sound just a bit like heaven...and, perhaps, prove to be nearly as lasting.

Negative Peace is defined exactly as we've already realized: "The absence of violence or an absence of fear." Both of which are good things, but not necessarily lasting things. The "absence of..." phrase makes me feel as if I'm teetering on the brink...one wrong step, one misspoken phrase, one tweet too many and we plunge over the edge. Peace, as we know it, could disappear instantly, and what takes its place is none too attractive. And, to be honest, keeps me awake at night.

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So? Where do we go from here? I think I'm deciding to live with and be grateful for any Negative Peace we can generate; but, in addition, to hold tight to, and never give up on the concept and the creation and the growth of Positive Peace. To reach for harmony, acceptance, compassion and tolerance. To celebrate and learn from our differences. To nurture our relationships and friendships. To accept what is, but to never stop working toward making what is, better. 

Let me quote Abraham Lincoln here...a sentence or two from his First Inaugural Address: "We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection...The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the Better Angels of our Nature."

Blessings on you all...

PULLING YOURSELF UP...

Over the past few months I've pondered the phrase "Pull yourself up by your bootstraps." It's a common phrase, one I've certainly used from time to time. A phrase I've subscribed to over the years; going so far as to point out two events in my own life in which I "pulled myself up" (quite successfully, thank you very much) by my very own size 6 1/2 bootstraps.  Ah...no wonder that phrase has wound its way through the centuries after appearing in a book titled: "The Surprising Adventures of Baron Munchausen" in which said Baron pulled himself out of a swamp (some versions claim he also saved his horse) by his very own pigtail. On the other hand, that book is described as being a collection of traditional tall tales, and that may be where we need to let it rest.

Last April, a young man named Jason Ford, described as a millionaire tech entrepreneur, stepped in front of the PBS Newshour cameras to present his "Humble Opinion" regarding our revered "self-made" success stories. At a quick glance, Mr. Ford appeared to be just such an example. The first in his family to become a millionaire, he had built a software business, then sold it for (in his words) a fortune. Exactly the fellow you'd love to introduce to one of your gorgeous single grand-daughters.

Then he continued, but not in the way I had expected. Not at all. With barely a pause, Mr. Ford told us that if we looked, "just a little deeper" that version of his success story would be a lie. I listened closer.

Step by step, Mr. Ford explained that although his parents were teachers, and sometimes took on temporary jobs to make ends meet, they were homeowners in a safe neighborhood that boasted good schools. You see, his grandparents had helped his parents make the down payment on that house. And the simple fact of home ownership and educated parents and safety and security assured that Mr. Ford had a pretty strong leg up on attending college.

Which he did, on a scholarship. While he was in college his grandmother passed away leaving an inheritance that was divided among her children and grandchildren. In Mr. Ford's case, his share of the inheritance assured that he could finish college debt free.

As his story continues, we learn he had encouraging mentors; family members who could introduce him to successful business owners; an unexpected loan from the sale of property his wife's grandmother had purchased decades before; supportive co-workers; personal self-confidence; and, an engaging personality. And...he was white. And his ancestors were white.

Like it or not, race plays a significant role in this story. Yes, race. And class. And community. And privilege. That is the reality. One that most of us don't want to recognize and even more, don't want to talk about. You see, if his wife's grandparents had been black, they would not have been allowed to purchase the land that eventually financed Mr. Ford's start-up. His wife's grandmother would not have been promoted to the position of School Superintendent. His own parents would not have been able to buy the house in which he grew up...the one in the safe neighborhood close to the good schools.

As Mr. Ford tells us, not everyone is qualified to be an entrepreneur. Or an astronaut. Or whatever you choose. Each endeavor requires a specific set of innate skills and personality; those traits (including gender and race) with which you're born. But, as he describes, we also need help and support. Encouragement, mentoring, financial aid, a sense of security. None of us succeeds alone. The help we receive may be visible or invisible. It may be money or encouragement. We may be born with it or we may acquire it. But it's there.

When Mr. Ford finished his story, I realized with a start that I didn't really write my own story...the one I've told with a fair-sized modicum of pride. My story is really about group effort and has encompassed decades of  help and support  and encouragement and love, and a little loan one summer to tide me over. I didn't pull myself up by my bootstraps, a lot of other people were pulling right along with me. I'm one of the lucky people. As Jason Ford wrote: "I attribute a majority of my success to the generational privilege that comes from being a middle-class White American..."

Amen.

Jason Ford appeared on PBS Newshour on April 28, 2017. He also published "The Real Reason My Startup Was Successful: Privilege" on the website medium.com.   

  

UNTIL THIS MORNING...

Tuesday Morning, 8:00 a.m. Arizona Non-Daylight Savings Time. I turn on the TV...

"Good morning. I am here today to announce that the program known as DACA that was effectuated under the Obama Administration is being rescinded." Thus spoke Jeff Sessions, Attorney General of the United States of America.

The same Jeff Sessions who, in 1986, was rejected by the Senate Judiciary Committee for the position of  U.S. Attorney because of accusations from colleagues and co-workers about his perceived racism. The same Jeff Sessions who was known as a "hard line anti-immigrant lawmaker," and who, over the years, opposed various parts of the 1965 Voting Rights Act. That Jeff Sessions.

One might have expected President Trump to make the announcement himself. After all, he is the President and is expected to shoulder the hard work that entails but, instead, he delegated his Attorney General to stand before the cameras and read the statement.

Mr. Sessions presented his case: President Obama's Executive Order was illegal and unconstitutional. President Obama had circumvented the legislative branch with an unconstitutional exercise of authority.

(President Obama had reviewed what Ronald Reagan in 1986, Bill Clinton in 1996 and 2000, and George Bush in 2007 tried to do and failed. Those three presidents had "lawfully" involved the legislative branch in their efforts to achieve immigration reform, but the legislative branch refused every overture, every time. President Obama decided on another tack.)

Let's look a little closer at DACA or its formal title: The Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals. In listening to Jeff Sessions this morning, and then reading the transcript of his statement, I'm afraid he might have left out a few points and veered just a bit off course.

Here is the official list of requirements to apply for and maintain DACA status:
1: The applicant must have been under 31 years old as of June 15, 2012.
2: The applicant must have come to the United States before his/her 16th birthday.
3: The applicant must have lived continuously in the United States from June 15, 2007, until the present.
4: The applicant must have been physically present in the United States on June 15, 2012, and at the time of application.
5: The applicant must have come to the United States without documents before June 15, 2012, or his/her lawful status expired as of June 15, 2012.
6: The applicant must be currently studying, or graduated from high school or earned a certificate of completion of high school or GED, or have been honorably discharged from the Coast Guard or the U.S. military. (Technical and trade school completion also qualifies); AND
7: The applicant must NOT have been convicted of a felony, certain significant misdemeanors (including a single DUI), or three or more misdemeanors of any kind.

In addition, an applicant should consult an attorney, and collect the required documents:
G-29--Notice of Entry of Appearance as Attorney
G-1145--E-Notification
Form I-821-D--Consideration of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals
Form I-765--Application for a Work Permit, AND
Form I-765WS--Worksheet explaining your economic need to work.

Now, simply collect those documents, two photos and a $495.00 fee (check or money order) and mail to a Phoenix area Lockbox.  Repeat every 24 months. Well, until today anyway.

Please be aware that DACA does not include a path to citizenship, but it does provide a temporary legal status as long as all requirements are met.

Now THIS is important because it is often misunderstood: DACA recipients CAN NOT receive federal benefits. That means NO welfare and NO Food Stamps. Please read that twice. Then pass it on. Because it is true.

DACA recipients, once qualified, can apply for a Drivers License and a Work Permit. In some states they may also qualify for In-State College Tuition. That has been very on and off in Arizona and, right now, is wending its way through court. Once a DACA recipient has found a job and received his/her Temporary Employment Authorization Card, he may apply for a Social Security Number and report wages and pay taxes. A DACA recipient will NOT and does NOT receive Social Security benefits. (But I do and a small portion is because of the taxes they pay. Today that makes me very sad.)

And that is pretty much DACA in a nutshell. That is what the shouting is all about:

An opportunity to remain in the only country and home you've ever known. An opportunity to attend school and learn a trade...if you qualify academically. An opportunity to support the country you've adopted with your tax dollars. An opportunity to live in peace. An opportunity to live without fear. An opportunity to provide your children with a brighter future than you ever had.

Well, until This Morning.

LOOKING FOR THE HELPERS

June 1, 2017: We awakened to a beautiful morning. In our part of the world, the earliest hours of the day still carry a tinge of coolness and, if we concentrate, we can sense a hint of moisture in the air. These mornings are numbered, however. They will not last more than another week or two. We live in a desert after all, and according to recent records and heat maps, our temps have risen over 1.5 degrees in the past 22 years. I live here. I believe it.

A little after noon today, the White House rolled out a modicum of pomp and circumstance related to President Trump's announced speech on the Paris Climate Accords. Would we stay in? Would we leave? The President enjoys creating a certain amount of suspense and uncertainty, but today he ran late, and by the time the wayward teleprompter cables were fully functioning, word was out. He was withdrawing the United States from the climate accord. We would join Syria (as someone said, they're rather busy right now) and Nicaragua (who felt the accords were not strict enough) as the only three countries not participating.

A bit of history: 198 "Parties" participated in the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change which was adopted in 1992 and entered into force in 1994. The ultimate goal at the time was "to prevent dangerous human interference with the climate system...including greenhouse gas concentration."

In December 2015, the original parties to the UNFCCC met in Paris to update the 1992 agreement. The resultant Paris Agreement sought to strengthen the global response to the threat of climate change. The objective now was to hold the increase in global average temperature well below 2 degrees Celsius above its pre-industrial levels.

Per a Scientific American repost of a Climate Central article dated 04-20-2016, the pre-industrial temperature data from 1881 to 1910 is considered the most reliable. It is those baseline temperatures we reference as NASA and NOAA monitor today's temps. Whereas the Paris Agreement specified a rise of 2 degree Celsius, scientists are working to limit the increase to 1.5 degrees. At that level, they feel a relatively stable climate, to which humans and other species can adapt, can be maintained. The 1.5 degree goal should also minimize the worst impacts of climate change such as drought, heat waves, heavy rain, flooding and sea level rise.

If current trends continue, scientists believe the world will cross that 1.5 degree threshold in ten to fifteen years. Around 2025-2030. Whereas, I may have shuffled off this mortal coil before then, I expect that my children and their children, not to mention those adorable great-grand babies just now beginning touch their toes to the ground, will still be calling this planet "home."

I hope.

I wish I were more optimistic. I wish even more that President Trump was optimistic and positive and innovative and had written his 30 minute speech to encourage us all to join hands and hearts and minds across borders and seas and cultures and, together, address our climate issue. I know it's an extremely complicated one, but why did we throw up our hands, walk away, and decide to go it alone?  If we're not in the room, we're not in the discussion. If we're not in the discussion, we're shortchanging all those who follow. And if we're shortchanging all who follow, we've failed.

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

June 2, 2017: Yesterday was not a happy day at our house. We both were disappointed with President Trump's decision and declaration on the Paris Accords and the questionable facts and figures he threw out so easily. Politifact  has published numerous tweets in which he uses the word "hoax" to describe climate change, but he contends those are jokes. His exact words in a November 16, 2012, tweet are: "The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive." I don't believe he was joking that time. And certainly not joking yesterday when manufacturing, mining and coal seemed to be writ large. Wind and sun and forward thinking had been left behind.

I hope you all remember Mr. Rogers and his calm and peaceful neighborhood filled with love and kindness. I loved Mr. Rogers, and often watched with my small daughter. I needed Mr. Rogers yesterday. And then I remembered a recent PBS Newshour segment in which we were reminded of Mr. Rogers' advice for times when we were frightened or worried. We were to "Always Look for the Helpers." That phrase had come from Mr. Rogers' mother. I told my Babboo, "We'll look for the helpers."

And, this morning? When I began to read the newspaper and, later, follow up with NPR morning news, I found them. The Helpers. They were all around us. Our Phoenix mayor, Greg Stanton, announced the city would continue to honor the Paris Climate Agreement. Soon, Tucson, Tempe and Flagstaff followed suit. By noon, 30 mayors, 3 governors, 80 university presidents and 100 businesses had announced their continued support of the Agreement. More followed. I learned that the northeastern states had already reduced their carbon emissions by 37% since 2008. There were helpers all across the country.

And then, the absolute highlight when it came to helpers:  Dale Ross, mayor of Georgetown, TX, population 50,000. I might describe him as quintessential Texas. Unassuming, genuine, and good-old-boy (in the best sense of the phrase.) And...for purposes of this post, a Republican who proudly wears his lapel pin from President Trump's inauguration. His interview was all about the fact that Georgetown, TX, located an easy distance from Austin (but conservative to the core) is powered 100% by renewable energy. Ross is fairly blase about that, considering it simply an economic decision. In his words, "...sign today and know what the bill will be in 25 years," as opposed to oil and gas. Although Texas is rich in fossil fuels, Ross looked to its other natural resources, wind and sun. He describes it as a "no-brainer." He contends the wind always blows in the Panhandle and  the sun always shines in West Texas. Why waste that? He also praises our Secretary of Energy, Rick Perry who, as Texas Governor, vastly improved the state's electrical grid, thus making Georgetown's independence possible.

I think I'm beginning to feel a bit better. Still disappointed in our president, of course, but sensing a certain optimism. A budding certainty that our imaginations don't have to be stifled just because President Trump's seems to be. A firm certainty that our world is one, and together we can keep this beautiful blue ball alive and healthy and circling our far away sun. As long as we look for The Helpers and join hands with them, we'll be all right.        

LIFE IS NOW. SEIZE IT & MAKE IT AMAZING

One doesn't have to live in an Arizona retirement community to fully grasp that Life Is Now, but the nature of that choice brings a great deal of reality to that somewhat poetic thought. Years ago, when we were virtual newcomers here and living on the Main Street of SCG, we became inured to the flashing lights and screaming sirens of emergency vehicles racing past nearly every morning. We generally spotted them sometime between 9:00 a.m. and noon.

Did you know, it's a fact that older people die most often in the morning? When we wake, our body temperature rises, our respiration picks up, our heart rates and blood pressures rise and digestion begins. That is a lot of systems coming back on line, and the stress of those activities can be enough to set off an "acute health event." More specifically, we are most likely to die at 11:00 a.m. If we somehow  make it to noon, the next most popular time of death is 6:00 p.m. Per The Atlantic, it's a matter of genetics and statistics. In other words, every day is a crap shoot.

2017 has not turned out to be one of my better years. January, February and now, a third of March, have simply come and gone and I have no sense of when they were here nor where they went. I used to live like that and wasted complete decades worrying about tomorrow, regretting yesterday, and letting today slip out the back door when I wasn't paying attention. I blame Donald Trump for it, but I think I'm giving him much more credit than he is due.

Because it's me. It's really all  me. I let the election take over my world and began to view each day as one more to live through. One more campaign speech to parse. One more outrageous statement to criticize. One more TV editorial to fact check. And then? It was over. And I was on the losing end, not handling it well. Yesterday, I looked up--just above my desk--and read: "Your Life is Now. Seize It and Make It Amazing." I always imagine that God will sound exactly like James Earl Jones. I'm not sure which one of them spoke yesterday afternoon at about 4:00 p.m., but whoever it was caught my attention.

And so, as with all my crises, it's simply time to: A--Begin to meditate again, and B--Work my way through the appropriate quote. I call it "tapping away" on my laptop, but my Coach describes it as "unfolding my narrative." Isn't that a wonderful image? Unfolding my narrative. That's why everyone needs a Coach. To help us unfold our narrative. I just can't say that enough!

Here we go: I know that I spent the months of 2015 and 2016 concentrating on Mindfulness, and those months moved forward day by day with stately grace. I realized the differences between one day and the next, and remembered those days. Sometimes in detail. I didn't feel rushed and I didn't feel lost. Time wasn't wasted. Time, as a matter of fact, was often wrapped with silk ribbons and treasured. It was never ignored.

Now, right this minute I'm glancing at my watch. It's 3:51 p.m. It's one of those days that makes me remember why we moved to Arizona. BC is fishing with his friends somewhere near Reno, Nevada. He calls daily to let me know he's fine and the fishing is wonderful. They've had a bit of snow, but more of sun. He will bring home stories that will not end, and he'll grin that fishing grin of his that tells me life just couldn't be any better.

And, I'll reciprocate. I love sitting on our patio as the evening sun dips below what we call McMicken Dam--a relatively low earthen dam designed to collect run-off water from the desert that stretches to our northwest. It was built in 1956 and protects Luke Air Force Base (and us) from a catastrophic flood. When the sun finally disappears just below the dam, our palm trees and fencepost cactus become silhouetted against the night sky which, itself, has just begun to bloom with stars and the brighter planets. The breeze cools the slightest bit and, sometimes, even carries the tiniest scent of moisture with it. I'll tell BC what it looked like and felt like and sounded like. And we'll be happy, and mindful for this minute and this hour and this day. For Life and Love and Now.  

MY QUEST FOR COURAGE

Just when I began to feel that I could sleep again; that, perhaps, the world wouldn't end sometime next week; and, that someone...anyone, would finally shout "NO" to Donald Trump (and mean it), my hopes and dreams were crushed because I discovered that Courage has been banned in Washington, DC.

Yes, I believe Courage has been outlawed. Probably erased from the dictionary and ripped from the Thesaurus. And, most alarming of all, I fear it is missing from the souls of all 100 U.S. Senators and 435 Representatives. Missing. Gone. Disappeared. And just when we are in the midst of accepting or rejecting Cabinet Nominees. The very people who will have the greatest effect on our day to day lives and those of our children and grandchildren as they grow older.

Now, I would be the first to say that I, myself, am not very Courageous. It is easy for me to simply remain silent when someone makes a statement I disagree with or don't believe is true. It's easy for me to remain silent during an entire discussion because I want people to like me, and people will like me if I remain quiet and let them assume I'm in agreement with them. Every single one of them.

But all of that carefully crafted non-courageous  passivity kicked me smack in the face a few weeks ago. I attended a gathering of friends...I assumed. But, the friends weren't really friends and, I discovered, neither was I. We weren't each other's people. I had tried to be their people, but I wasn't their people. Actually, not even close. I hadn't been true to them and I hadn't been true to me. But, my feelings were hurt, and I felt lost. I whined a little to my coach, told him my story, and waited for him to pat me on the head. But he didn't. Not even close. I think that's how coaches are supposed to be.

He assigned me a project. It's called inquiry, and it means I had to begin digging into this whole years-long situation. Digging deep with excruciating honesty dripping from every pore. And I did. I started slowly, but gained a bit of strength and speed as my thoughts grew and matured. And, the end result? I realized how I honestly believed and felt and I suddenly was empowered. Really! Frankly, if you want to meet someone who has spent most of her rather long life terrified to disagree or question, or wander from the norm of the moment, it would be me. Yes, me. I found courage this past Friday and it felt good. It felt really good. I was energized all day yesterday, and I'm still doing pretty darned well this afternoon.

My discovery wasn't  Big Courage--Not the kind I'm hoping our Senators will exhibit as each Cabinet Nominee's name comes before the full Senate. But, for me, it was just as scary. The stakes were high and the quality of my life was in question. But today? Today, I could conquer the world. But I don't really need to do that. Today, I just need to be true to myself and everyone I'm around. Today, I will hope that someone else discovers that bit of courage. That empowerment that proves it's OK to disagree. The empowerment that demonstrates this is who I am. This is what I believe. This is what I must do to be true to us all. That, my friends, is so much better in the long run. Amen.

"COURAGE IS A KIND OF SALVATION"
Plato  

WATCHING...AFTER ALL

On Friday morning, January 20th, 2017, I decided that I would not watch the Inauguration. My mental health has been a little shaky since November 8th, and I had some concerns that Donald Trump's hand on two bibles (one of which had belonged to Abraham Lincoln) might be just enough to pull me right over the edge. I was a little afraid to risk it.

As consolation, I planned to listen to the Inauguration on NPR. You see, I have never missed watching an Inauguration--either as grainy newsreel footage on TV or more recently, actual live minute by minute coverage. And that statement dates back to 1957...Dwight Eisenhower's Second Inauguration. I was twelve years old.

As Americans, I believe we have a very real responsibility to pay attention to all governmental activities that might take place on any given day. So, I tuned into KJZZ, our local NPR affiliate at exactly 10:00 a.m. our time. That, in itself was a break in tradition, because I always start an Inauguration at the very beginning. The oath would be administered at 10:00 a.m., our time, and I felt strong enough to handle that, but I would turn it off as soon as Donald Trump returned to his seat.

Listening rather than watching really isn't too bad. I was surprised, actually, at the fullness of the experience. This time, Chief Justice Roberts administered the oath perfectly (in contrast to 2008--his first time--when he muffed his lines so badly, he and President Obama repeated it at the White House the next day.) Despite my intentions, when President Trump began his Inaugural Address, and as he continued to speak, I knew I needed a 55 inch screen to be sure I was hearing exactly what he was saying. I wondered if he'd picked up one of his old campaign speeches as he rushed out the door of Blair House that morning? But, no. He was saying exactly what he intended to say. He was reading intently from his teleprompters. He was earnest. He was real.

In only 17 minutes and 17 seconds, President Trump had created the picture of a bleak and despairing America. Not only were the inner cities "trapped in poverty," but wealth had been "ripped from the middle class" only to be "redistributed across the entire world."  We had "made other countries rich while the wealth, strength, and confidence of our country had disappeared over the horizon."  We had "subsidized the armies of other countries," "depleted our military," "spent trillions overseas... while America's infrastructure had fallen into disrepair and decay."

And then he announced: "From this day forward, it's going to be America First*." And, yes, "First" was capitalized in the transcript of his speech. Sometimes, a presidential candidate really should read an American history primer before jumping into the ring.

I believe we're all rooting for America. It's our home and our heritage and, at its best, it's the greatest country in the world, but the tone (at this point in the speech) began to harden: "protect our borders from the ravages of other countries making our products, stealing our companies and destroying our jobs...unite the civilized world against...at the bedrock of our politics will be a total allegiance to the United States of America..."

Then, "...most importantly, we are protected by God." I'm actually OK with being protected, and I like to feel protected. But I do not want to be so bold as to suggest that God protects the United States just a little bit more than other countries because we are a favored nation. I'd rather believe that God is watching over all of our world, our solar system and the universe--continually hoping and praying that we learn to live with one another in peace and harmony. We are not alone on this beautiful blue ball we call the earth. There are 7.5 billion of us breathing the same air, drinking the same water, and harvesting the same foods. I believe God's love and protection is given to all, we just have to reach out and accept it.

Actually, as I began to examine the transcript of his speech this afternoon, some of it could have been uplifting. A sentence here and there: "We must think big and dream even bigger...When America is united, America is...unstoppable..." And there are more. But, sadly, not enough. Both tenor and tone denote anger, hatred, fear and distrust. Long time themes of Donald Trump. None of which gives me much hope. SAD.

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

*America First: The"America First" Committee was founded in 1940 by prominent Americans, many of whom, years later, served in government. Those associated with America First were opponents of the United States entering World War II. America First was seen as an anti-Semitic group. Charles Lindbergh may be the person most closely associated with the Committee. He "expressed sympathy for the persecution Jews faced in Germany but suggested that they were advocating for the United States to enter a war that was not in our own national interest." In a speech dated September 11, 1941, he threatened that Jews would be the first to suffer the consequences of the U.S. going into war. "Tolerance," he said "could not survive war and devastation." Lindbergh also noted that the Jews had too much influence because of their significant ownership of the motion picture industry, the press and their presence in the government. Three months later, our ships were hit at Pearl Harbor and, within days, the America First Committee disbanded. Pat Buchanan briefly revived  "America First" during his abbreviated run for President in 2000.

HELLO GOD...

"Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret." Really...it's Margaret.  I know I call myself Margie now, but you might remember me as Margaret. Margaret Elizabeth Catherine. Yes, the Dodge City girl. The Dodge City Sacred Heart Cathedral Grade School Margaret.

For those of you who may not be of the Catholic faith, let me explain that extra name tacked on behind Margaret Elizabeth. Good Catholic children choose an additional name when they are confirmed in the Catholic Church. In my era, we were in the Fourth Grade when we were confirmed. The name we chose must be a Saint's name. In my school, a Very Saintly Saint's name. I chose Catherine, partly because my Mother was named Catherine and partly because I was rather taken with St. Catherine of Sienna. I always connected her with St. Francis, a person full of goodness, but in reality she lived a century later than he. They are, however, Co-Patron Saints of Italy. Practically speaking, Confirmation is a means of having one more Saint in your arsenal to call on in times of trouble, because you can never have too many saints. Especially now.

I've been writing in a Gratitude Journal for fourteen months now. It's a good exercise during my early morning quiet time. I've loved my Gratitude Journal, and I'm more than a bit pleased that I've stayed with it this long. But, lately, I've been running into a Gratitude Drought.

It was still dark on the morning of January 7th, 2017, when I settled myself into my  early-morning soft and cozy chair. I had read my Personal Development chapter, read and absorbed my "Daily Word" message, and it was time to record a bit of gratitude:

"Dear Lord," I wrote. "Today it is hard for me to muster up heartfelt sincere gratitude. I know I owe you more gratitude than I have room for in this little book, but I can't seem to find it because of my worries about Donald Trump..."

On January 10: "Dear Lord, I should probably be reading Pam Grout's new book right now and learning how to live gratefully, because I am not waking up with gratitude in my heart...just worry. And, this is a year in which love and gratitude will be sorely needed. I don't feel charged with leading the way, but I do feel I need to find some positive among all the negative. That will be a worthy search. Thank you for the idea..."

On January 13: "I think, Dear Lord, that I might have been drinking decaf coffee yesterday morning and that was the reason everything was so blah and discouraging. Today, I double-checked, and I have caffeine. I feel much better. I hate to sound like a broken record, but I hope you understand that it is very hard for me to deal with Donald Trump being in charge of this country. Please, St. Margaret, St. Elizabeth, St. Catherine and you too, God, please try to override the worst of his instincts, and help me as I search for my Highest and Best Self. Amen."

P.S. Sooner might be better than later. Thank you..

EXTREME SELF CARE

It was recently suggested that I look into (or examine) the concept of Extreme Self Care.  Actually, the first assignment called for me to exercise Extreme Self Care on a daily basis.  Although I had good intentions, the entire concept of Self Care was an uncomfortable one for me, so I kind of, sort of, just let it go.

Since I didn't perform that assignment, it was reassigned two weeks later.  And, finally, reassigned two weeks after that.  But, because of my shirking, that third assignment became a strong suggestion to examine why the thought of Extreme Self Care was so distasteful to me.  My coach calls this "Baby Stepping." Since I didn't manage the assignment either the first or second time, it was obviously a problematic one for me, and I needed to find out why. Only then could I begin the actual process of Self Care...or Wanton Hedonism, as I was imagining it.

In two days, it will be six weeks since the original assignment and, only this morning did I finally approach Extreme Self Care.  Up until now, I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole...but, time is flying and I need a solution. Perhaps, more than a solution, I need a scapegoat, and the perfect one has just come to mind.  Twelve years of Catholic School under a small community of St. Joseph sisters.  The real ones who wore full black flowing habits, which included a veiled, tightly fitted headdress.  When I think about it...not unlike today's controversial burkas.

I don't want to get carried away, but it is important to note that I was and, in many ways, still am a "Capital 'C' Catholic" versus an ordinary "small 'c' catholic."  That means I absorbed every word of every sentence those well-meaning women uttered.  Pulled them into my very being until they became part of me.  I'm sure, today, they show up in my DNA.

And, so, being a Good Catholic Girl, I learned that my wishes, desires, wants and needs were less important than those of the people around me. It was my duty to assure that their lives were running well and, it was probably my fault if they weren't. If I performed those duties with a genuine smile and a joyous tone, I would be blessed.  If I was a grouchy facilitator, it was all for nought. No blessings for me.  More likely, condemnation was near, because anything less was selfishness, and selfishness was a shortcoming and a shortcoming could lead to a sin, and we all know where that takes us. So I tried. For years, I tried.  I still do from time to time. It's not for nothing that I'm known as the person who never selects the dining spot.

And now, I'm 72 years old. I still can't help but look at Self-Care (not to mention Extreme Self-Care) as basically wrong. At worst, sinful. My joy (such as it is) must come from serving others. It will not come from plopping myself down for an hour with a good book.  I am not a "Good Person" if I am not making sure that everyone else is happy and fulfilled and free to choose where we all have lunch. It's just what I do.

THE BUCKET LIST

I sat down at my cluttered desk this afternoon with the intention of sharing a few thoughts on "Bucket Lists."  I've heard of Bucket Lists for years, but I've never considered one for myself.  For the past few months, BC has been driving and flying to fishing locations he never dreamed existed...and having a wonderful time in the process.  He's marking items off his Bucket List.  As I was telling his story last week to my coach, Jay asked if I had a Bucket List.  "No," I had to answer. I'd encouraged BC with his, but, no, I'd never followed suit.  "What," continued Jay, "would you include on your Bucket List?" and I was struck dumb. I couldn't think of a thing. Not one thing.  So, I thought I'd better mention family in one way or another, so I didn't seem totally self-centered. I mentioned a family get-together, or the possibility of a summer home closer to the Midwest. But, no.  Bucket lists aren't about family, per my coach. A bucket list is about me. Me, me, me. Which, despite my original hesitation, isn't all bad once you get used to it.

For the past few days, I've spent time now and then thinking about the bucket list. My bucket list. And, I've had no luck.  How weird is that?  Personally, I think it's because we women have spent so darned much time facilitating everyone else's wants, needs and bucket lists, we lose the ability to think thoughts for ourselves. (I do believe that was more prevalent in our generation than the current one, but that insight doesn't help me take ownership of the mindset that, in turn, could  spew out a bucket list.)

So, it has been eight days since the subject was raised, and I still have no bucket list.  On Tuesday, it occurred to me that I should Google "Bucket List" but, really, how pathetic is that?  It's my bucket list, filled with my hopes and dreams and long-held desires. It seems wrong to Google someone else's list for ideas.  It does smack of stealing, or maybe just borrowing, but, really, who wants to live someone else's bucket list?  

Nonetheless, this morning (it's Friday, now), I caved and quietly Googled "Bucket List," slightly embarrassed, a little ashamed, and not really expecting positive results.  Ha! Much to my surprise, Google handed me hundreds of sites for "Bucket Lists."  Well, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but there are a lot of "Bucket List" choices. Apparently, I am not alone in my lack of imagination and daring. Surprisingly, the Number One Bucket List Wish--per a few sites--was: "Seeing the Northern Lights". I know.  I think it's kind of anti-climactic.  Not what I was expecting at all.  Whereas, I believe it would be wonderful to see them, it does mean hiking to the northern reaches of Canada, finding a comfortable hotel with windows facing north and then...waiting. Perhaps for days or weeks. And, most likely, in the dead of winter when the Lights are more easily seen.

And, therein, lies the rub, as my mother was fond of quoting.  One should not wait until her eighth decade to begin a bucket list because, at that age, one really doesn't have time to wait for anything, much less the Northern Lights. We elders have to act, and we have to act now. Our bucket list must be written in the present.

You should know that, at this point, I had planned to rant about Most Popular Bucket List Wishes #2, 3, 4, and 5, which were--Get a Tattoo, Skydive, Swim with Dolphins, and Scuba Dive but, on my way to the rant I ran across a sweet website titled: fullylived.com, that has restored my faith in Bucket Lists.  Divided into a number of categories, Fully Lived has created hundreds of Bucket List wishes that fit my needs so much more than a tattoo. I am totally re-energized.

I do love travel, so I homed in on:  "Go for a Walk in Central Park," "Hike in Ireland," "Hike the Appalachian Trail," "Eat a croissant in a Paris cafe."  I love those! Under the Personal Development heading I decided to add "Be Myself," and "Buy a Stranger's Groceries."  I did skip the Fitness part and the Adventure suggestions, but I paused at the Business and Career section long enough to circle all ideas related to writing.  Under education, I added "Finish an Online Course."  I have two that are in limbo, so I'll attack them tomorrow.  I believe there were 1,000 Bucket List Wishes in total, but I'm happy with the few I have at the moment and, now that I know where to find more, I'll finish my list.

So, yes...of course I have a Bucket List, thank-you very much--and I intend to begin marking off items this afternoon.

CONTINUOUS TREATS

My calendar is opened to June but, quite literally as well as emotionally, it has already been a long, hot summer. Our temperature topped out at 120 degrees day before yesterday and, no matter how dry the air, 120 degrees is intolerable within a very short period of time.  In addition, the vagaries of the current political campaign, as well as the horrors produced by misguided fanatics with instant access to guns, continue to dominate our news.  I ignore the newspapers and turn off the television, but there is still no place to run nor hide.

This morning, in an effort to find a little positivity in my day, I began searching the internet for something--anything--that might bring relief to this dark state of affairs.  As is my wont, I began a search of quotes under the general heading of "joy,"  but quickly realized that joy was too boisterous for the subject at hand.  I moved down a notch to "happiness." "Happiness" seemed more appropriate and offered the possibility of success.  And this effort, in a nutshell, is how Iris Murdoch came into my life. I had always heard of Murdoch, but was surprised to realize I'd never read any of her writings.

Among the list of quotes on "goodreads.com" was this: "One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats...and if some of these can be inexpensive and quickly procured, so much the better."  This gem was credited to one of Murdoch's later novels, "The Sea, The Sea."

I must admit that I'm a fan of continuous small treats.  For example, I am, at this exact moment while the outside temp is pegged at 109 degrees, happily sipping an exceptionally good cup of hot chocolate, topped with a perfect, sticky marshmallow which is slowly contributing just the right amount of sugary sweetness to this tasty concoction.  For thirty minutes now it has been a continuous small treat.

Whereas, continuous treats, for some, may begin and end with food, I decided to extend the concept to my next favorite thing--reading.  I do love to read but, for some reason I still don't understand, plopping down to read makes me feel guilty. I'm constantly fighting the thought that I should be up and doing something productive. Productive, I say!  For example...dusting the shelves (even the highest ones); vacuuming the floor; organizing the desk drawers; cleaning the produce drawers of the refrigerator.  Ugh.  So...whenever I schedule and complete one of these little productivity spurts, I find a soft seat, put my feet up and read for that exact same length of time. I don't know if that's really a continuous treat, or simply a way to salve my conscience but, quirky as it may be, I'm sticking with it.

Speaking of treats, not continuous this time, I got a nice little e-mail from Amazon yesterday telling me they had credited my account for $28.64 as a settlement in the lawsuit against Apple, dating back to Apple's entry into the e-book business when prices jumped up overnight.  I love Apple, but I'm still ticked with them about their part in destroying the $9.99 best-sellers.  The $28.64 helps.

So, please join me in the quest for inexpensive continuous treats.  I have a feeling they exist everywhere, we're just not looking hard enough.  I know I missed one a few hours ago--a rare cool early morning on our patio.  I won't be so careless again.
    

NOT DONE YET...

This morning's question of the day was:  Which, of all the places you've been, would you visit again? For most of my lifetime I would have answered without much thought, "All of them." But, since I'm now of a "certain age," I believe that I should project a degree of decorum, so I'm working on measured and thoughtful answers. Hmm, favorite places...

For starters, I must include Colorado in a "Favorites" list.  Now, that would be Colorado straight north and south of  Denver and then west.  I'm pretty picky about Colorado, because its eastern half looks very much like the area of southwest Kansas where I was born, raised and lived nearly forever...and that scenery is just one step up from desert. I think I love the Colorado mountains because when I was very young, our family began spending a week in Evergreen every summer.  We stayed at Davidson's Lodge which consisted of five or six cabins facing onto Bear Creek.  It was heaven, and I knew I belonged there but, sadly, at the end of our cool, green week we loaded our un-air-conditioned car for the long drive home. The road from Denver up into Evergreen was always much more exciting than the exact same road leading out of Evergreen down onto the flatland.

I would take a Mediterranean cruise again...in a heartbeat.  I might even visit every place we stopped the first time.  I would spend extra days in Venice and take a full day tour of Ephesus instead of just half a day.  I'd want to go back to the little village near Ephesus, high on the hill, where St. John took Mary, Jesus' mother, to live after the crucifixion.  Raised as a good Catholic Girl means you never get enough of Mary. Legend or Fact...the stories are charming.  Oh--Pompeii.  Definitely another tour of Pompeii.  And, just one more glass of chilled white wine on the sweet, sandy beach of Mykonos.  I'd spend more time in the Pantheon and not skip the Coliseum.  And, this time I'd visit the catacombs. What were we thinking when we missed them the first time?

I still haven't walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, nor spent nearly enough time in Central Park.  I'd walk the Highline again, but detour over to the Whitney.  And, then, back to Times Square where I'd twirl like Mary Tyler Moore in Minneapolis, throw my hat in the air and dissolve into the lights and colors and honking horns of New York City.

The United Kingdom?  Every square inch.  I'd put on my hiking shoes and never take them off.

Vermont.  Ah...Vermont.  I grew up pretending I lived in Vermont...and that's hard to pull off in western Kansas. I don't know how, when or why the essence of Vermont captured me, but it did.  It took nearly sixty years before I finally visited Vermont, when we rented a tiny cottage among the trees above Lake Champlain. Our little love nest, as it had been advertised, should have been condemned long before our arrival. But, redemption was at hand every evening when we sat on the rickety front porch and watched the sun, in all its glory, dip behind the Adirondacks across the lake in New York.  One sees the edges of heaven from that porch.

Are there more?  Probably. But these are the special ones.  The magical ones that deserve including when we look ahead and begin to construct our Five- and Ten-Year Plans. I recently read that we all need Five and Ten Year Plans. Actually, the author suggested adding a Twenty-Year Plan, even at our age. So, planning was the subject matter of this post when I began, but it quickly took off on its own. If that was a "Wink from the Universe," I'll take it.  I'd love to have more travel in our lives.
   

HAPPY ENDINGS

My Sweet Baboo and I have been Netflix-ing recently--sometimes watching two episodes back to back.  I draw the line at three.  We're not binge-ing, but it's close enough for my taste.  The object of this near-obsession is a series called "Longmire."  Walt Longmire, tall, rugged, blondish, is the sheriff of an isolated county tucked somewhere in rural Wyoming.  Which, frankly, means it could be anywhere. To locate it more specifically, it's next door to a fictional Cheyenne Indian Reservation or, "The Rez" as it's referred to by everyone, including the residents of The Rez.  Personally, I think that's a little disrespectful, but then again I grew up with Democrats.

I watched "Longmire" primarily because my Baboo is a fan of western movies, television series and books.  You could add leather vests, cowboy boots and cattle to that list.  Each of those things played a role sometime in the first two or three episodes, and he was hooked.  I was more taken with Walt Longmire himself.  He exhibited an extremely high degree of integrity, kindness and practicality which, for me are all good things.  Walt did something exceptionally thoughtful at least once during each episode, thus satisfying my need for high-mindedness during this current political season.

Unfortunately, despite the rural-ness of the area, there were an inordinate number of felonies committed during each episode.  Murders were commonplace, kidnappings frequent, fraud, corruption, robbery...everyday happenings.  I most enjoyed, though, the glimpse of Cheyenne life at the Reservation...the old ways in such conflict with the new.  Eye-opening, instructive and depressing...all in the same episode.

After five seasons, we think Longmire ended last night, but we're not sure.  One does not find neat ribbons tying up loose ends in Longmire's world. Maybe a little rustic bow here or there, but much is left to fester and question. And, I don't like that.  I want neat endings.  I want "An Affair to Remember" (Cary Grant version) endings.  And not just with movies and television series.  What about life?  There are a lot of messy endings in life.  I've had a couple of those myself, but eventually you dust yourself off and, against your better judgement, go out and try again.

I hope Longmire has had time to dust himself off by now.  He was such a nice, ethical guy and I miss him. I'd like to know for sure that he's walking happily into that great big Wyoming sunset.    

THE LOVE LETTERS

Somewhere in a cute little chest of drawers, right around the corner from where I'm writing, is a stack of old letters held together by a rubber band.  Once, they were wrapped with a pink ribbon, but that ribbon, a victim of the years, is long gone.  The letters were written in the early '30s...from my father to my mother, and my mother to my father.  For a time during their courtship, they lived 90 miles from each other...a long distance in a 1920's era automobile.  There was no train service and, I would guess, no buses were available.

The letters--I'd always known they existed--came home with me in 2004, after I cleared out my Mother's room at the retirement facility she lived in for so many years.  They were some of the few treasures I moved from Kansas to Arizona after her death.  I put them in a box under the guest room bed, then nearly forgot about them.  Some years later, when my sister visited, I sent them home with her to read.  And she did.  "Marg," she wrote, "you need to read these letters.  They're wonderful, and I have such a different impression of Daddy now."  (Daddy was quiet, reserved, even tempered, and very hard of hearing.  Communication was never easy.)  I assured Mary that I would indeed sit down immediately and read them.  That was 2008.

Today, in 2016, I will be putting that cute little chest of drawers into storage as part of a paint-up, fix-up project we will soon begin.  I must clear out those four drawers and find additional storage for the few items I will save.  I will save the letters.  The "love letters" as I think of them.  Contrary to my assurances to my sister, I never touched them.  I've looked at them since, all bundled together with that ratty rubber band. The least I could do is find a nice ribbon.

I would like to read them.  When I was younger, they fascinated me, but I never touched them.  They weren't mine, they were private and they were personal.  I really didn't think with that much maturity, but something about those letters was different.  Sacred, even.

I've been doing a little writing lately, creating stories from a few memories of years gone by and, at the same time, whining because I don't feel like I ever really knew my mother.  My Authentic Mother, as it were.   For that matter, my Authentic Dad also...but he was an easier read.  The letters might help that venture...but at 71, I still hesitate.  What to do?  I open the drawer, I pick up the letters, I put them back and, gently, close the drawer.  I'm not sure what holds me back, but something does.  At the same time, I believe I may regret not reading them. Regret not taking time to get to know them a little better...from the other end of life.  Read? Or Not Read?  I don't know--but I'm willing to listen to opinions and/or advice...            

THE OVERVIEW EFFECT

Because I like to read quotations and, when one strikes me, ponder it for a few minutes, I'm always on the lookout. Last week, I found this: "HAPPINESS IS WORTH THE EFFORT."  I know that quote, put together so succinctly, wouldn't have resonated with me at all two years ago.  Two years ago, I hadn't dived into the pool of Personal Development, nor realized the value of a Life Coach cheering me on from the sidelines.

Today, I can say with complete sincerity and comfort, "I'm creating my own life."  We're all creating our own lives, but not all of us are conscious of it.  Not all of us are working on it.  Even I, the recent convert, forget from time to time, and must backtrack to pick up the pieces I've dropped.  So--the idea that we create happiness, and happiness is worth the effort seems natural.  Actually, everything good that we accomplish is worth the effort but, sometimes, it's a tough slog to get there.

Edgar Mitchell is given credit for the "Happiness is worth the effort" quote.  I had no idea who Edgar Mitchell was, but I assumed he would be a writer or philosopher.  But, much to my surprise, Edgar Mitchell was an astronaut.  One of ours.  He was the pilot of the Lunar Module on the Apollo 14 mission to the moon.  He was the sixth American to walk on the moon and, by the end of the mission, had covered more territory and spent more time there than anyone else.

I thought about Edgar Mitchell and the monumental commitment necessary to become an astronaut, when I ran into an unexpected sentence:  It seems that on Mitchell's return home from the moon, at the point in which the spacecraft has a perfect view of this little ball we call home, he found himself "filled with an inner conviction that the beautiful blue world to which he was returning was part of a living system, harmonious and whole, and that we all participate in a universe of consciousness..." We are all connected--united, if you will, on this "tiny, fragile, ball of life hanging in the void."   The article went on:  "From space, national boundaries vanish, the conflicts that divide people become less important, and the need to create a planetary society with the united will to protect this 'pale blue dot' becomes both obvious and imperative."  Mitchell came back a changed man.

His experience was not unique. Other astronauts and cosmonauts have reported similar awakenings and the phenomenon has been given a name--The Overview Effect. Science-speak describes it this way:  "...a cognitive shift in awareness reported...during space flight, often while viewing the Earth from orbit or from the lunar surface."  Some report it as a spiritual experience, others use different terminology.

As I read that, I thought maybe we all need a little time in space to figure out what this Earth (and life on this Earth) really means. It's the only home we know, and we're all on it together riding through the darkness. Years ago, in my mind, Coca Cola had it right when they sang, "I'd like to teach the world to live in perfect harmony..." Especially this year, we might want to revive that thought...It would certainly be worth the effort.

THE PROCESS OF GRATITUDE

Last November when I was wandering the aisles of the local Office Max (I had once found very cool desk accessories there) I came across a Gratitude Journal.  It was smallish, with a gray cover, the printing on which was gold and creamy white.  A whitish ribbon peeked out, letting me know I would always be able to find my proper page with just a flip of that ribbon.

My find might have been what some would call "A wink from the universe," as I had been thinking about gratitude quite often in 2015, but not really expressing...or examining it.  Last year, I had been part of a group meeting regularly with a Life Coach--by conference call.  Our coach opened each session by asking each of us to relate what we were grateful for that morning.  I was new to the group-coaching concept and not entirely sure it was my thing, then boom--every session I had to think of something for which I was grateful. Fortunately, I am grateful for my family, and that became my fall-back position.  I could always mention family, but that wasn't really helping me work with the whole "gratitude" process.  So, I was sure my newly purchased Gratitude Journal would take up the slack.

I sat down on the morning of December 1st and began:  "Today I am grateful for the quiet early morning reflection-time that I can carve out for myself nearly every day.  I begin with coffee and the current "Daily Guidepost" reading.  Then I move on to another book of my choice...right now it is "What's So Amazing About Grace" by Philip Yancey.  It deserves to be read several times over a lifespan.  Then I move to Unity Church's "Daily Word" message for the day.  Today it is "Pray for Others." Then I listen (lights dim) to their Meditation.  It's a wonderful start for any day."

Looking back, that wasn't bad for a first effort.  As I continue my review, I note that on December 4th, I was grateful to feel better than I had the day before.  Sometimes it's the small favors.  As Christmas began to close in, I find I was simply grateful for a new day and a fresh start.  On December 16th, I see that I was grateful for Best Buy's "Geek Squad," but on the very next day I was grateful to be learning gratitude.  And on and on it goes to this morning, when I expressed thanks for the peaceful feeling that surrounded my "Morning Time."  That isn't always the way it is, but I've learned enough to be grateful when it is.  Grateful enough to write:  "This morning I am just thankful to be."

As A.A. Milne noted:  "Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude."  I'm learning...    

A BEAR FOR THE AGES

Books were treasured items when I was very young.  I can remember whenever I had a case of serious sniffles, or symptoms of flu, or an especially nasty case of Chicken Pox as I did in first grade, I would be confined to bed with a few books scattered nearby.  Bed, at that time, was in a shared room with my sister.  It was a small room, but bright, with both a north and an east window.

We didn't have a lot of books.  As with everything in the late '40s, we had a few of this and one of that.  Not like today's children who have a lot of both this and that.  I remember two books of poetry--a large format book filled with Mother Goose rhymes and colored illustrations, and a slightly smaller, and more serious, dark blue book--Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses."  I have to guess that both books were gifts to my sister...perhaps when she was born. (The '40s were also a time of sharing and hand-me-downs.) 

I remember preferring Mother Goose to Robert Lewis Stevenson, but I loved the illustrations in both. My worldview was formed from those drawings--which means my ideal landscape and cityscape and architectural design all date from 18th and 19th century England.  It's why I sometimes think the Good Lord planned for me to be born in England, but in the rush and flurry and fury of World War II, dropped me in Dodge City, Kansas.  It was an honest mistake--the Army Air Force Base in my home town had originally been intended for Royal Air Force pilots.  No doubt, it was just another wartime paperwork snafu.

As far as owning a book to claim as mine, that would be "The Littlest Angel" which, much to my surprise, is still in print.  I loved "The Littlest Angel" and, although it's technically a Christmas book, I read it again and again and again. It was not an easy book to read--it's difficult to learn of a small boy in heaven--all by himself--trying so hard to be good, and failing at it again and again.  The ending, however, is more than wonderful so, if you buy it for a grandchild, DO NOT let him or her become depressed and put it aside.  He must read it all, for the rewards are rich. 

This reminiscing has led us, in a roundabout way, to what I had intended to be my starting point:  The 100 Aker Wood and Winnie the Pooh.  Our set of four Winnie the Pooh books: "Winnie the Pooh," "House at Pooh Corner," "When We Were Very Young," and "Now We are Six" were also baby gifts for Mary.  The books were copyrighted and published in the late '20s, so our editions would have been very early.   I could listen to tales about Pooh and Rabbit and Owl and Eeyore and Kanga and Baby Roo by the hour and...I did, if I could plead with just enough intensity to win over a kind adult. Fortunately, by the time I could actually read the books by myself, my sister had moved on to movie magazines and Farley Granger, letting me store A.A. Milne's four masterpieces on my own set of shelves.

To the left of our front door was a set of stairs that led to an upstairs bedroom.  They were enclosed, but had a west facing window.  For me, those stairs were a cozy private place where I could read, play with my stuffed animals or spread out my paper dolls.  Each step became a different room, or a different house, or a different part of Pooh's world.  I spent hours on those stairs, and that is exactly where I read and re-read every tale about Pooh's adventures with Christopher Robin. 

Many years later, after Mary and I had both graduated into the Adult World, I learned she had packed up the Pooh books and taken them to California to use in her classroom.  I felt terribly let down, although I hadn't looked at them in years and, after all, they were her books.  My own kids owned Disney-fied Pooh books and paraphernalia, but it was not the same.  Not even close.  I always missed Ernest Shephard's line drawings. No amount of technicolor could make Pooh as lovable as those spare illustrations.

A few months ago, I was working on a writing project, searching for quotes, and realized only Pooh could cover the situation.  I dropped into Amazon, and YES! Pooh was still in print.  I ordered the classic boxed edition which was a copy of those I had loved as a child, and waited impatiently for the mailman to drop them at the front door.  He did, and I've been reading ever since.  No one is as sweet and lovable as Pooh.  He describes himself as a "Bear of Very Little Brain," but, in actuality, he is a Bear of Very Large Heart, and that is enough for me.