“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” -Cormack McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
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Nazca
I first heard about the Nazca lines when I was a child. My mom grew up in South America and learned about them in school. As far as I know, she never actually visited them, but when I was growing up she’d talk about them from time to time.
One of the things that she’d talk about, the thing that fascinated me the most, is why they existed. I grew up in a time when aliens were a hot topic, and there were books and tv shows that speculated about the link between the Nazca lines and visitors from space.
My mom and I would talk about the theories, about the fact that the figures are best seen from above and of how difficult it must have been for people who couldn’t fly to envision and complete the designs. Back then, it made perfect sense to me that the symbols were some type of navigation system that was used by alien astronauts.
Today, I’m skeptical, because, well…logic and reality. While it hasn’t been proven, some scientists and historians believe that the lines were created as a means of locating and communicating about water supplies. Others speculate that the lines were part of religious rituals, similar to Stonehenge and other ancient man-made creations. We may never know for sure, but what has been proven is that it’s possible to design and create the symbols without aerial views, even though the lines are designed to be seen from the sky. So, a down-to-earth explanation for the creation and existence of the lines seems most likely.
Still, it’s fun to imagine that, just maybe, the lines have some otherworldly origin or purpose, especially with the latest discovery, the one made this year. I read about it yesterday and woke up thinking about it this morning.
On the side of a hill, eroded but still faintly visible, is an image of a cat. Efforts are now underway to restore and preserve the design.
I imagine cats all around the world took in the news with a knowing, wise look on their whiskered faces.
This past week, my cat, Tom, was rather generous, bringing me a snake on one day and a lizard on another.
Fortunately for the snake and the lizard, I was able to get them both safely back outside. They appeared to be fine, although perhaps a little freaked out by their experience. I know I was.
Tom, on the other hand, appeared pleased and proud, purring and twisting around my ankles, offering kitty kisses and snuggles. He must have felt like he was providing for me, that his gifts were indicators of his affection. From his cat brain perspective, nothing could be better than a wiggling delight delivered directly at my feet.
I guess the saying is true. It’s the thought that counts, even in the case of feline benevolence.
Sometimes, elections come with drama. Punditry, debates, commercials, and yard signs surround us and (if we let them) occupy our hours and minds.
This campaign-driven drama can lead to an anti-climactic feeling in the actual moments just before voting. No matter how enthusiastic I might be about an election, waiting in line to get my ballot feels a little like prepping a room before painting the walls: necessary, but uninspiring.
The actual voting moment, however, never fails to make me emotional.
Where I live, we use electronic ballots. Each selection I make on the screen feels like a cheer, an internal celebration of my values, my opinions, my hopes and dreams.
By the Are these your final selections? confirmation question that is the last step on the voting machine, I have tears in my eyes. I blink them away as I walk to the ballot collection machine and (if they are offering them) accept my I voted sticker.
Perhaps that seems silly. Perhaps, to some, that makes me ridiculous.
I don’t care. I won’t apologize, or duck my head to hide the tears. I won’t allow myself to feel embarrassed or less than because I bring my emotions into the polling booth. I hope I always react this way, feel like this.
It wasn’t so long ago that brave, determined people fought to make sure that I could vote. There are still battles happening today, efforts to ensure that people can be heard. Sometimes, I feel like those who paved the way, who put everything on the line (and are still doing so now) are voting with me, standing by my side or crowded behind me, cheering along.
I will never be a world leader, never discover a cure for disease or make life-altering judicial decisions. I’ll never fly a spacecraft or make a news-breaking scientific discovery. When I vote, however, as I did yesterday, I become part of the historical record.
It’s a tiny role, for sure, like a background character in a live, on-stage performance. But imagine if the tiny roles didn’t exist. You’d be left with a half-complete story, one lacking heart and soul, warmth and energy. You’d be missing the context and meaning that can only exist when many are present, many are part.
I’m proud and grateful for what I am able to contribute.
Here’s to the emotional experience of voting and the celebration of all it represents.
There’s been somebody at our house almost every minute, every day, for the past seven months. This is quite different from one year ago.
We do leave for various reasons; we’re not completely housebound. But, we respect the advice of doctors and scientists, so we are at home much more than we are out. The places we go are specific and few. It’s rare for our house to be completely empty these days, and our hours follow generally predictable routines.
This is a summary of Mollie’s take on it:
Month 1 – YAY!
Month 2 – YAY!
Month 3 – YAY!
Month 4 – YAY!
Month 5 – Yay!
Month 6 – Yay
Month 7 – yay
She still appears to be glad we’re around all the time to keep her company. She seems to enjoy hanging out with us in the backyard, or on the couch, or on the bed, wherever we might be during the day and through the night.
However – it’s been a long time since she had to wait patiently for the sound of the key in the lock, the front door opening, after being alone. She used to wiggle with energy, bounce and bark, when we came home. She was so excited by our new presence and the affection and attention that came with it. Now, with the house so rarely empty, with somebody always available for a loving ear scratch or tummy rub, she doesn’t always notice when one of us walks in the door.
The kitchen used to be a magical place where meals were typically based on our comings and goings to and from the outside world. She knew that food followed the morning alarm clock or the evening return to home. Sometimes, we’d bring her something from a restaurant, and the crackling paper bag was her signal that she was about to enjoy an extra special treat. Now, the kitchen is still the place of food, but it’s also the place of phone calls and video meetings. The alarm clock and the restaurant meals don’t happen very often anymore. Seeing us in the kitchen no longer automatically means that it’s dinner time.
Even the backyard, that wonderful playground full of leaves and sticks, birds and squirrels, has become routine. It used to be inaccessible for most of the day. Now, it’s simply a bark away. With the weather cooling off, a bark sometimes isn’t even necessary. We often prop the back door open, allowing the breezes in and Mollie out, freely, according to her mood and interest.
It’s possible that some of the changes we’ve noticed in her behavior are due to her age. She’s four years old, not a puppy anymore. I remember what it was like as our sons grew up, the gradual shift from little boys who eagerly ran to greet us when school was over to teenagers who gave a casual wave and a Hey, ‘sup as they came through the door. Perhaps Mollie’s just moving into her teenage years.
I suspect, however, that the past seven months, our constant presence and the quiet and mostly unvaried routine of our days, play a part. The joy she displays at the word walk, at her realization that she’s getting out, she’s going somewhere, she’ll see and do new things, gives me that impression.
In many ways, Mollie’s just like us. Home is a special place. We love each other, we enjoy being together. These are the people we want around us through it all, and we appreciate what we have. We are grateful and happy.
Still, it’s fun to change things up. The world is appealing, enticing; the variety it offers, the potential adventures and interesting options call to us. We haven’t lost the desire to go, to do, to see and experience and then to share those bits and pieces of life beyond our front door.
A friend has a cuppa with a really funny statement on it that includes a swear word. I was tempted to use it in my post today, but I decided not to because this blog is PG-rated. I don’t know who might read it; best not to risk offending.
But, as I told my friend, that doesn’t mean I don’t swear. There are moments when profanity flies out of me, vocal evidence of extreme frustration or anger, shock or amusement. In my experience, a curse word (or two or three) can make it easier to get through the feelings and move on.
I do have boundaries – I was raised to believe that there are some places, some situations where profanity is simply not acceptable. And, as with my written blog, I strive not to offend in my verbal speech. I try to communicate in a way that isn’t objectionable, which sometimes requires me to be creative with my word choices. That can actually be a beneficial challenge as it forces me to polish my language skills. It would be inauthentic of me, however, to pretend that I don’t know and never use “naughty” words.
I read somewhere that swearing can be a sign of intelligence. There appears to be a correlation between verbal skills and profanity use, as people who have extensive “regular” vocabularies often also have extensive swearing vocabularies. These vocabularies can play an important role in higher-level emotional processing and expression. So, perhaps profanity doesn’t always deserve its negative reputation.
Nevertheless, communication is a two-way street, so I’ll continue to keep my posts profanity-free. I have sarcastic cuppas and cuppas with pictures and colors, shapes and sizes that can serve to illustrate my feelings and points without swear words. That doesn’t mean, however, that you won’t find a few fiery words contained in the cupboard where my cuppa collection is stored.
A few years ago, at our youngest son’s request, we planted an apple tree in our yard.
Last year, the tree produced four apples. Unfortunately, a storm shook them out of the tree before they were ripe. Nevertheless, we were quite excited by our bounty.
This year, the tree has given us one apple. One perfect, beautifully ripe apple. It seems a shame to eat it. It also seems a shame not to.
It won’t keep forever, so eat it we will, after we’ve admired it, photographed it, exclaimed over it. I suspect it will be the tastiest apple we’ve ever enjoyed. The best of both worlds, the experience and the outcome.
Here’s to simple treasures and delicious moments.
I read a story yesterday about a 102-year-old woman in Chicago, Bea Lumpkin, who covered herself head-to-toe in PPE so that she could go in person to drop off her ballot.
She was two years old when the 19th Amendment was passed. She’s never missed an election, voting in every one since she became old enough to do so.
Although she’s been isolating herself, avoiding exposure to COVID-19, she wasn’t about to miss this year’s election. So, she followed the recommended safety guidelines to minimize her risk and made her way to the nearest ballot drop-off box.
Given her experience and age, it might be tempting for her to approach this election as optional, her participation as unnecessary. But it’s those experiences, the awareness and wisdom gained from a career as a school teacher who’s lived through two world wars, the Great Depression, the 1918 pandemic, the space age, the focus on civil rights, and everything else that’s happened in the past century, that encouraged her to vote this year. Even as she nears the end of her life journey, she remains hopeful about the future – for herself and for all of us who will still be here after she’s gone.
Today’s cuppa is for Bea Lumpkin and all the others like her, ordinary heroes and role models, doing what they can to make the world a better place for everybody.
We added peas and brussel sprouts to our garden yesterday, so I chose my Garden Cheerleader cuppa today.
If our new garden babies are doing well by Thanksgiving, I plan to include peas and brussel sprouts in our holiday menu. We may not end up with a bumper crop; it’s more likely we’ll get just a few from each plant. Still, it may be enough for all at the table to enjoy a bite or two. I expect they’ll be the tastiest of all the veggies, coming from our own backyard, served to the people we love.
Here’s to homegrown and the joy of sharing the bounty.
I dreamt of my father last night.
In my dream, he was in the hospital, sick and in pain. He held out his hand, and I took it. He told me that holding my hand made him feel better. I told him I would hold his hand as long as he wanted me to.
And then I either woke up or moved on to another dream; I don’t remember. I do know that when I opened my eyes this morning, the dream was on my mind. I could still see his face and hear his words. I could still see his arm, swollen and bruised, reaching out to me, and I could still feel his hand, warm but weak, holding mine. The dream both saddened and comforted me.
My father died before the pandemic, before the necessary rules of separation and isolation. If one can be grateful about a death, I suppose I’m grateful for the timing of his.
I knew that his life was ending and was with him each day, along with my sister and stepmother and friends who came to see him, caring for him, talking with him as slowly, bit by bit, he grew weaker and then was ultimately unable to speak. In those last days, just as in my dream, I held his hand. I stroked his arm, his forehead. I sat quietly beside his bed, looking at his face, his closed eyes, his hollow cheekbones and thinning hair.
Regrettably, I wasn’t there at the final moment. That fact haunts me sometimes. I do find peace in knowing that other people were there on that day and that in the time leading up to that moment, he and I were able to say our goodbyes. I find comfort in knowing that we were together through most of it, that he knew I was there and that he was soothed by my presence.
There are so many stories of death right now, of lonely deaths in hospital rooms sealed off by protective measures, FaceTime goodbyes and remote grieving. There’ve been more than 200,000 of them as of today, and there are likely hundreds of thousands more still to come. They are in addition to all the other stories of death, of passings due to cancer or heart disease or car crashes, all the same fatal circumstances that existed before everything changed, circumstances that didn’t go away, that will continue to exist as long as humans do. Even those may be governed by the same strict measures and protective rules, necessary steps that limit in order to safeguard.
It’s tempting to avoid these painful stories, but I make myself pay attention to them. I do so as a means of honoring the people within them, but I’m careful not to take in too many at once. The sadness becomes too great. That sadness then leads to anger, which is justified and important, but which can also be incredibly destructive if not channeled in productive ways.
So instead, I focus on small bits of humanity. I look at the pictures the families have chosen to illustrate the existence of their loved ones. I learn about the special moments in these strangers’ lives. I vow to respect them by doing what I can to prevent more death, to acknowledge and heed the wisdom of those who speak in terms of science and history, empathy and common sense.
Very often, the stories mention the kindness of a nurse or a doctor or a hospital worker who was with someone at the end, who spent a few special moments to comfort and care when nobody else could. I think of these people as guardian angels, present in the absence of those who wanted to be there but who were unable to, were not allowed because of the reality of today. When we talk of heroes, these are the people we must include.
Death is inevitable, but we don’t have to be numbed by it. Feelings and connections are needed now more than ever. It’s such a simple gesture, holding somebody’s hand. It’s an easy choice, honoring the last moments of somebody’s life, acknowledging their existence, assuring them that they matter and will be remembered, even if we are strangers.
A Daily Cuppa 