Camp NaNoWriMo: The Halfway Mark

This is it, halfway through the month of July and Camp NaNoWriMo!

It’s been quite an adventure of discovery, about what it’s like to write more than 1600 words EVERY SINGLE DAY and what happens if you have a day where you fall short (immediate panic starts to set in), how many words you can write in the 15 minutes before work or 30 minutes before making dinner or 20 minutes before lights out, how little idea I have of what I’m even writing, and what it’s like to write while you’re camping.

And if you’re wondering, HELL yes the words in this blog post are absolutely being counted as part of my 50,000 word goal. To confirm, I made it to the 25,000 word count today. Whoo-hoo! In order to get there, my story today veered in a pretty weird direction, recounting the tale of a massive pig who escapes his ultimate fate for a brief period of time to run pell-mell through a small Montana town in the 1920s, ending up at the hotel, where he finally runs out of steam and the end of his time on earth.

That’s what I mean when I say I have no idea what I’m writing. I’d give you a synopsis, but I don’t really have a plan; things just happen, and at this point I’m not being critical about where the story is going. It started out being about a woman’s road trip with her dog, high jinks ensue, etc.

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This is the (writing) life..

So yes, writing a lot, at whatever moments present themselves, including on last weekend’s camping trip, when I spent a couple of blissful hours writing at Rosario Beach on north Whidbey Island. I parked my butt on a pillow on the warm smooth rocks in a pocket of driftwood, my tablet propped on my knees. There were velvety ribbons of blue-grey clouds on the horizon, the Olympics off in the distance a paler blue. The driftwood sheltering us bleached yellows and grays. Kayaks and row boats slowly made their way past in the calm bay, bobbing in the small waves. An ant crawled over the many-colored round and oval stones, sometimes carrying a small crumb.

It was incredibly peaceful.

Did I mention the F18s and giant military prop plans that continuously roar through the airspace overhead, overpowering the quiet crashing of waves? Yeah, that part wasn’t quite as peaceful.

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Wonky Bear joined us on the camping trip!

That day I wrote this after making it through about 800 words of my story:

I’ve gotten tired of writing – not from the actual doing of it, but of wanting to do other things. Holy cow, this is not an easy gig! I really want to nap and pick up a book, but every time I think about that, I have to think, this might be the last 15 minutes of quiet I get for a while, before getting swept up in more camping adventures. Earlier today, we drove up the road to another beach, less sheltered but sandier, and as we were walking along, I was suddenly struck by the urge to do a cartwheel. I honestly can’t remember the last time I tried to do one, whether I was encouraged by a couple of glasses of wine to do it if so (probably), and if I might actually wind up on my butt if I tried one here. But there weren’t that many people around, so I just went for it, and it’s like even after all these years, my body still knew what to do. So, I did another one. Doug was laughing and telling me he should have gotten it on video. So I figured why not, one more can’t hurt. My form could be better but it’s not bad for an old lady.

I don’t think I pulled any muscles, but sometimes at this age, you don’t know until the next day. Today I woke up with a really sore spot between my shoulder blades and had no idea why. But then I figured it out. I had been craning my neck back and forth behind me trying to see where I was backing our little teardrop trailer. It was my first time backing it up for real (aside from practicing in an empty parking lot). It took me a few tries, but I finally got it in the spot. It’s been so much fun camping out with my parents. Last night we sat by the fire and toasted marshmallows, something else I haven’t done in ages. I don’t really even like marshmallows that much, but it’s not something you get to do very often, and it was good fun.

I really thought writing on the go like this would be easier in some ways – less distractions than at home – but it’s funny how when you lose your routine, you get the feeling that everything is fractured. It’s tempting to want to give up and just let it go for a few days, but once you look for the right opportunities, like writing on this beach, you realize how much more you could do than you thought.

So, it’s been a great experience thus far, if challenging at times. And who knows what will happen next in my remaining 25,000 words? I sure don’t, and I’m kind of okay with it! To the rest of my amazing cabin-mates, I hope you’re having a wonderful experience so far. Thank you for keeping me inspired and motivated!

A Rug is Born

20170630_174118469_iOSAs I’ve mentioned in posts this year, three years ago, the year of my husband’s stroke, a friend helped me get started on a little project to make a rug out of recycled t-shirts and other textiles pulled from overflowing carts of last-chance clothing at Goodwill.

And by little I mean 8 feet by 5 feet and weighing in at a mere 40 or so pounds. I’ve watched hours and hours of football, Orange is the New Black, The Get Down, Poldark, Occupied, Better Call Saul, Halt and Catch Fire, The Fall, The IT Crowd, Narcos, OA, House of Cards, Sherlock, Broadchurch, Penny Dreadful, Stranger Things, and Happy Valley (to name a few) while my creation grew heavier and heavier on my lap. As my friend Tess (the project instigator) said, if you’re gonna watch TV, might as well be doing something. Oh, productive people, where would us inherently lazy ones be without you?

I made it my goal to finish this massive undertaking before the end of mid-year this year, since I let it lapse all last year. Today is June 30, y’all. And my weighty progeny is complete at last! As I texted my friend today – Houston, we have a rug. I love it, as do Pablo (the cat) and Wonky (the little bear on the pillow). Jasper and Doug haven’t expressed an opinion yet, but I know Doug will be glad that I can spend time on other things now.

What things might those be?

July will be camping and writing. Mostly writing, since I’ve joined the Badass Honey Badger Cabin at Camp NaNoWriMo (thanks for inviting me, Peg!). The goal is 50,000 words (NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month), but it can be flexible. I decided to just go with it and see what happens. I’ve had an idea for a long time but haven’t been able to get started. The camp is virtual, meant to create an online place to connect with others in your cabin, provide and get encouragement, be inspired, and stay focused. Writing is usually such an isolated activity, so I’m interested to see how this will be. I already can tell Peg is going to be a great cabin host.

And we’re doing some actual camping too, as long as Washington parks are open; guess we’ll see if the state is still open for business after today. Ah, the political dysfunction isn’t just national. Sigh. Some of my reclaimed time needs to go into the resistance as well.

I can’t say for sure if I’ll be blogging in July, since I want to focus my writing energy on NaNoWriMo, but maybe I’ll post a few paintings. I definitely plan to keep doing those, they are so good for getting the right brain involved and I find myself looking at people and things with so much more detail now that I’m trying to draw and paint. Last Sunday, I joined Peg & Marcus at a free library event on body-positive life drawing. I will not subject you to my drawings (people, especially faces, are damn hard to draw), but it was a fun and enlightening experience. I think looking at things in a new way can only help with writing. Plus, it’s super relaxing.

Much more so than cutting up garment after garment. Trust me on that.

 

Wag More, Bark Less

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My mom’s old dog Prancy, snoozing in the afternoon shade.

Someone asked me last week how I keep it together and don’t lose my mind. We were talking about how crazy our jobs are, but most of us have pretty complicated lives, so this question has broader implications.

First of all, last week’s post demonstrates that I, like all of us, don’t always hold it together. Sometimes I fall apart. Last year, when I didn’t write, I didn’t feel completely whole either. This year has been better in that respect, I’ve found ways to pull myself back together to do things that heal and nurture me. It’s been incredibly hard in other ways, of course; my own struggles and triumphs feel pretty insignificant in light of all that is happening with our democracy. As much as it might help my mental health, I don’t want to hide from those hard realities, but now and then, it’s okay to take refuge inside a smaller circle of friends, pets, books, and whatever else gives you the ability to keep going. Last week, I retreated and worked on some more watercolors, which I find incredibly relaxing.

Then you get back to the fight, because you don’t want to let the “bloviating mendacious shitgibbon(s)” win. (I stole that from a George Takei tweet, cuz no way could I make up something better than that.) Plus, giving a damn about something outside ourselves that matters – other people, our environment, creating things – makes this life worth living. At least for me. As another George, author George Saunders (one of my faves), advised graduates in this 2013 convocation address:  “Err in the direction of kindness.”

I did just refer to certain people as shitgibbons (whatever those might actually be), so clearly, it’s not always easy to be kind. I’m pretty sure George S. would agree with this characterization, but still. The onslaught of meanness and hatred lately testifies to how hard kindness can be, and it’s tempting to want to jump into the fray of nastiness. But I don’t want to live like that. For me, it helps to remember I’m not the only one suffering. I was really struck by a poem I read recently by Mary Karr called “Carnegie Hall Rush Seats.” The poem’s subject is the cello in the orchestra:  “…like all of us, it aches, sending up moans from the pit we balance on the edge of.” As she says in the poem, “Be glad you are not hard wood yourself and can hear it.” I think if we do not let ourselves become hard, we can still hear each other. We can help pull each other back from the pit, and ourselves in the process.

Awareness is part of it, but there’s also action. This year, one of my goals was to put some energy into volunteering. I’ve been a supporter of Old Dog Haven for a few years now, ever since our dogs got old and I realized how hard it is to watch your loyal, live-life-to-the-fullest friends slow down and need help. And of course, the inevitable end, which we must stay present for as well, as hard as it may be. Old dogs deserve so much love and care, and ODH makes sure they get that. So I signed up to volunteer earlier this year, and have done a few small tasks here and there. On July 23, I will be helping out at the annual Walk for Old Dogs event. I’ve registered and have a sponsorship page set up in honor of Shadow and Tanner. Can’t wait to see all those old tails wagging!

These are just a couple of the tools I’ve found helpful. I have others I’ll share another time. Meanwhile, listen to whatever music lifts your spirits and moves your mind (your booty, too, if you like), read a good book or poem, do something nice for someone (and yourself!), and put the shitgibbons to shame.

What’s Going On?

20170516_032059046_iOSI don’t know about you, but I’d really like to know the answer.

What’s going on with you?

What’s going on in the world right now?

I’m not totally sure, but I think this might be the most beat-down I’ve felt all year. My mind is in a bleak place. Case in point, a little story.

While we were eating lunch today – on the back deck, in the clear yellow sun – we saw a hummingbird sitting on the feeder, sipping some lunch by us. Another hummingbird came along, eyed the one drinking for a few seconds, and then lightly landed across from its feathered fellow. Aaaw, look at all of us, peacefully enjoying our meal together.

It didn’t last. If you’ve ever watched hummingbirds, you know they’re fiercely competitive, with each other, with other birds, even other animals. I’ve had them buzz me when I was weeding too close to their favorite flowers. They fear no one. They are also not into sharing.

The first bird immediately shot over to the new one, chasing him off the feeder and through the yard. We see this happen routinely, and often spot two or even three hummingbirds zipping through the yard and sometimes high above our heads, dive bombing each other.

We admire them and revel in watching them. But today, all I could think about was how much I was reminded of us, humans, right now, doing all we can to eliminate our “competition.” It feels like no matter where I turn, the news is about people being killed, harassed, terrorized, or deported. People in the Northwest picking up weapons to “protest” against each other. The threat of climate change and shitty (or just plain non-existent) health care will no doubt take their toll on most of us if we don’t all kill each other first. The only people who seem like they’ll escape this race to the bottom are the people currently in power.

I don’t have any answers, not today. If I can’t even enjoy one of nature’s most astonishing creatures without these kind of thoughts, I probably need to go meditate or something. But I felt I needed to say this, because I know I’m not alone. And I wanted you to know you’re not alone. Unlike hummingbirds, I think we do want to get along, help each other, see people be happy. Things just feel bewildering and intractable right now, and I think that’s a normal reaction to insanity. I’m not sure that makes me sane, but it’s a start.

Like You Just Don’t Care

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The rare lower leg selfie.

Anyone have a neighbor who is often seen out in her yard wearing a bizarre mosaic of clothing that might include high-waisted jeans, old Beck t-shirts splattered with paint, bright blue socks adorned with cartoon versions of Bob Ross and his “happy clouds” (could be green and happy trees, depending on the day), and occasionally slippers when she’s forgotten they’re not actually shoes? Does she speak French to her chickens, whose responses are mainly limited to ‘buuuuuurrrrque (French for ‘berk’)? You may also have noticed her taking her undies and other laundry down from the clothesline during your summer deck party.

If so, howdy neighbor!

Yeah, that was me out mowing my lawn this morning in a get-up not too different from that described above (the summer version includes shorter pants, which is awesome if you’re my neighbor cuz you get to see more sock!), with the seasonal accessory of a white mask over my mouth and nose. Allergies suck, and I think it’s too late to hope I might “outgrow” them. At least I can eat peanut butter, and trust me, you don’t want to know me if I ever have to give that up.

We’ve had an exceptionally wonderful weekend here in Seattle (a smidge hot for this native, but I ain’t complaining after the long, soggy winter we just endured), during which I’ve had several occasions to spend time with loved ones who helped me celebrate my birthday. Lots of fun, with some downtime mixed in, and as a result, I needed to catch up on chores this morning.

I’m not tangoing to the mid-century beat yet, but it is pulling me onto the dance floor. (I love to dance, so perhaps if I think of it this way, aging won’t be so bad.) Meanwhile, I’m not a young thing anymore, and as a result, I find that I am getting less and less concerned with how I’m perceived. This is a blessing for me, but maybe a curse for my neighbors.

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Not to get too macabre about it, but by this point in life, it has become crystal clear that there’s much less time in front of me than there is behind me. I need to maximize every minute of every day (although I do like my occasional nap) to read everything I want, to continue learning, to travel, to see friends, to write, to garden, to work for social justice, to volunteer, to try new things. To finish this damn rug (tantalizingly close; see this post for where I was with it back in February).

As for trying new things, I’ve embarked on almost every creative ship that was departing Inspiration Bay. After enjoying a few days on beguiling new waters, I usually become bored of the horizon that stretches out seemingly forever and move onto another adventure. Such is the Gemini personality. The islands (i.e., closets) are strewn with the jetsam of my tossed-overboard hobbies, but nonetheless I have decided to set out on yet another journey.

I’ve always wanted to do sketch journaling, of nature, daily life scenes, travels…I am not artistically gifted, but as I allude to above, I’m trying to ignore the judgy neighbors inside my own head (and tune in to the Bob Ross socks instead*). I’m interested in this journal idea for a couple of reasons. One is to be in the moment and pay better attention to the world around me. Another is to use my right brain more, try to tap into a font of creativity. My friend Ed (whose great new blog Outpost4013 you should go check out immediately) often sketches and he’s one of the most creative people I know. I doubt I’ll achieve Ed-level creativity, but I still think it’ll be a good thing for me.

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Rosé with roses on a warm summer evening.

So I used money I got for my birthday and bought some portable art supplies. I had so much fun planning what to buy and looking at inspiring books (check out An Illustrated Life, which features many artists’ sketches of daily experiences, in various art forms). My friend and fellow gardener, Gilly, who lives in Ireland, sent me the book Botanical Portraits, which arrived a couple of days ago and I am excited to work with things right here in my garden. A timely and wonderful gift!

I have no idea how this latest adventure will go, but am wasting no time worrying about it. Even if I capsize, I’m sure I’ll gain new knowledge along the way. That alone makes it worth it.

* No I don’t think my socks are speaking, BUT, if they were, they’d be saying kind, supportive things, much like this or this Bob Ross account on Twitter).

New Holiday: Sunny Seattle Day

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A hellebore in our yard, growing rampantly like everything else

There’s not really a point to this post other than the fact that it has been a gorgeous sunny weekend and I finally just needed to find a spot in the shade to rest and appreciate the warmth after a busy day in the yard. I was catching up on a few favorite blogs, and today’s post from NW Edible Life inspired me to take stock of what we got done.

First though, there’s a crow somewhere on the gutter above me tossing the winter’s accumulated gunk onto the ground below looking for treats – not sure what they find in there, but apparently we don’t clean our gutters often enough (to be perfectly honest, my wonderful father-in-law has cleaned them out the past few years, since it’s a chore Doug used to do, but given he lives in Arizona, the gutters are totally neglected in between his visits).

Other than that, it’s a good, quiet time in the late part of these long afternoons, when the yard sighs in the shade of the massive poplar, most people have finished their noisier yard chores, and the hens have stopped heralding their latest ovoid accomplishment. On warm days, the feathered ladies do what I like to call “dust yoga.” They dig a disc-shaped spot in the dust (which isn’t all that easy yet, given the ground is still wet just beneath the surface) and roll from side to side in it with their wings out. One time I thought one of them died because she was lying there so awkward and still. It must have been chicken shavasana.

I planted a few seeds the past couple of days – zuke, green onions, radish, nasturtium and sunflowers. The tomatoes and peppers are still hanging out in the greenhouse, where they seem pretty content. Hoping to plant them soon. The yard is a mess though – it went from dormant to jungle in a few short days and there are fevered battles going on out there between morning glory, blackberry, lemon balm, some kind of tree sprouts that must be shooting up from an old root, and things I don’t even know the names of. This yard resists being tamed with all its might and I have my moments of wanting to just let it have its way.

I used to do an annual garden journal, but I don’t feel like I have the time for that anymore. I would note planting dates, harvest dates and amounts, what I did with the items from the garden, etc. An instructive process if one is consistent and rigorous in keeping notes. These days I’m lucky if I actually remember to mow and do some weeding. Today I did spend about 3-4 hours solid doing yard work and I felt a bit like my old self, where I got totally obsessed and didn’t want to stop; when I went in to clean up, I had leaves and bits of branch stuck in my hair. That’s when you know you’ve gotten carried away, in a good way I think.

Hubby cleaned off the patio where all the dead leaves and spiders have some sort of alliance, a chore I find terror- and sneeze-inducing. Very grateful he took that on. He also cleaned out the chicken coop and put new bedding in for them. He gets annoyed at how tired he gets from doing these things, but he doesn’t let it stop him. Have I mentioned how determined he is?

In a bit, I’ll go inside and figure out what to do with the rhubarb I harvested. I like to make shrub with it (basically you steep fruit in apple cider vinegar and sugar for a few days to create a refreshing elixir to mix with soda – it’s incredibly delicious, not to mention good for your gut). I also adore a good rhubarb crisp, but since I’m on a low-carb/low-sugar meal plan right now, I may have to hold off on that. The grandfather from whom I inherited the blood sugar issues passed away from complications of diabetes when my mother was 17, so I figure I better take this seriously. Man, do I miss bread though.

The next few days are going to continue to be sunny, but tomorrow it’s back to reality, our “real” jobs taking over our focus once again. We still have a lot to get done around here, but we’ll have to tackle it another day. Maybe Seattle will start making sunny days some kind of holiday, given how few of them we get. One can dream, right?

 

 

 

 

Celebrating With My Third Husband

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Anniversary week at Cannon Beach, bundled up even in the sun. #worthit

 

There’s a quote by Margaret Mead that says “I’ve been married three times, and not one of them was a failure.” (I also saw “I’ve been married three times, and each time I married the right person.”). In any case, I do like to joke that I’ve been married three times, even though I’ve only had one wedding.

I just celebrated ten years with husbands two and three, but before you think polygamy, keep reading.

I met my first “husband” in college and we stayed together over 10 years. While we never legally married, we bought a house and raised kitties together. When we split up, it was mostly because we’d found we wanted different things in life. We’re still in touch and I still love him as a dear friend, and cherish his parents as my former “in-laws.”

Then I was single for a while, before meeting my next beloved husband, whom I married at a wonderful wedding celebration in 2007. I was married to this man for almost 7 years before he had a life-changing stroke while we were in Hawai’i in 2014.

My third husband, the stroke survivor, shares many of the same cherished qualities as my second husband – he’s kind, determined, motivated, curious, physically restless – but he also has his own unique qualities.

This latest hubby is a talker, a wordy person. The previous husband wasn’t as verbally expressive, and didn’t like to goof around with words the way I do. Now, #3 has taken over the gift of gab in our household. He’s always rhyming, making up kooky plays on words, punning like a madman. As a Gemini, this is upsetting, since that has always been my lane. He makes me laugh a lot though, even when I’m trying desperately to get my own quips in. It’s like the world’s worst improv show at our house.

He has also taken up writing, an activity that his predecessor would never have sat still for. In fact, since I left my computer at home accidentally while on our trip (I had such good intentions to use it, too), I had to fight to use his for a few minutes as he worked on his latest blog post. He loves to chat with random strangers, an activity that introverts like us rarely engage in, and which I still find disorienting.

#3 also often wakes up with a “song of the day” in his head. There is no logic to the song it is, which is mystifying. Where do these songs come from? Trust me, it’s doubtful he’s heard these songs in the recent past to draw from; recently, a Simon & Garfunkel song made an appearance. Tomorrow it might be Pat Benatar, you just can’t tell.

He’s more impatient than my second husband. Which is ironic, because this is another example of where roles have changed. Impatience is a special skill I possess, whether it’s while driving or waiting in lines. I inherited this from my father, I consider it my genetic birthright. Hubby #2 used to tell me to relax, nothing could be done about it anyway. I used to tell him to shut the f*%k up because being frustrated was how NORMAL people reacted. Now I have to be the one who slows our roll, because getting #3 stressed out is not helpful or healthy. I’m sure it’s been good for me as well – all that fuming about things isn’t a great use of energy (although I will never be okay with people who don’t know how to merge onto the freeway, so please just figure out where the gas pedal is already).

I’ve often thought that I wasn’t really a grown up until I met husband #3. I guess I’m version 3.0 as well. We’ve all been the right person, and not one of us has been a failure – we’ve just been evolving. I am incredibly lucky to have spent these last ten years married to two of the most wonderful men imaginable. And I’m not sure what Margaret Mead would think, but three marriages seems like plenty.

Being in the Streets

Nothing much in the tank today. Or, in more climate-friendly terms, the batteries are depleted and the clouds are preventing much in the way of energy production. I’ve been crazy busy these past few weeks, and ran out of steam.

It was a really good weekend, with some work in the garden (peas have a semi-functional makeshift trellis), getting ready for and going to the climate march Saturday, and having dinner with friends that night. We hadn’t gotten together since New Year’s, and it was so good to catch up, scarf down pasta and take a walk in the last of the day’s light with a typical Seattle mist falling on our heads. We found a soccer ball in the cul de sac at the end of our block and ended up playing some convoluted form of soak-’em and soccer in the street until we were gasping from laughter. Ed, being on the opposing team from me and Tess, kept losing a shoe which I felt fully justified in kicking as far as I could from him. I think she and I still lost, although I’m not entirely sure.

As far as friends go, you can’t ask for much better. Aside from our parents and siblings, they’re the people we consider our family members. We’ve traveled together, gone camping together and have been trying to figure out for a long time how we could eventually all live together. Since among the six of us, only one has a grown daughter, it’s likely we’ll be having to find a way to care for ourselves as we grow old. I think about this a lot now, since of course I assumed Doug and I would be very self-sufficient well into our old age.

We’re barely self-sufficient now as it turns out, but we manage okay with help from these and other friends, and our parents who come take care of things around the house. Doug and I both have four parents, and while I’d never suggest divorce is good, we’ve had more than our share of parental love and support as a result. My stepdad Grant is 83 and still works on our cars. Talk about spoiled.

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Doug and Grant, the dynamic duo

Speaking of whom, he marched with us on Saturday! He has grand kids and great-grand kids, and he wasn’t the only grandparent there trying to do something to help keep our planet a decent place for them to live in the future. He’s really frustrated and worried and just wanted to be out there in the streets to protest with like-minded people. I felt really honored to be out marching with him.

climate-march-kidsWe arrived early to the pre-march gathering at Occidental Park and were right in the middle of the action when things got started with drummers, a marching band, and a not-coal train powered by people wearing wind-turbines on their backs. Lots of great creativity, as always. I really loved the person wearing a bee-keeping outfit, with paper bees attached to her by springs so they bobbed all around her head. Her sign said “Honey Makers Not Money Makers.”

A major element of the climate change movement is for a just transition away from our oil-driven economy, in recognition of how a changing climate will impact some communities more than others. And that the solutions should – and can! – improve our lives, with green energy jobs, cleaner air and water, walkable communities with healthy local food, and so much more. There is no reason for polluting pipelines to go through native peoples’ lands if we move to solar and wind power instead. There’s no reason to open our national parks up to gas and coal exploration either. None of these things is needed, but they make huge profits for someone, so of course they get pushed.

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This kid has major courage and conviction

At the end of the march, we rallied at Westlake Park and heard a bunch of great speakers, including two kids from the youth-led organization Plant for the Planet. Their goal is to plant a billion trees (!) around the world. These kids are amazingly well-spoken and motivated, and they aren’t afraid to call out grown-ups like us for not doing more. They’re taking the actions they can, and reminded us that we can vote. Ahem.

So yeah, we have work to do, and not just in the streets. But while we’re on that topic, today is the beginning of the annual Bike Everywhere month (read my 2015 post here). It’s one of my favorite ways to help the planet and stay healthy. Plus, we have some actual sun in the forecast, hallelujah! I feel more energetic already. Happy May everyone!

 

 

Earth Day at the Musée

SAM-brochuresLast week was damn busy – as I forecast in my Failure to Launch post. I don’t usually have so much going on, liking mostly to just come home and chill after work. I’ll write more later about the other events, including the two author readings, one of which held several fortuitous moments for Doug and me.

As I also mentioned in that post, I capped off the insanity by getting up crazy early on Friday to be at a monthly pre-work yoga and dance party called DayBreaker (@daybreakerSEA). The theme this month was the 80’s, in honor of the one year anniversary of Prince’s passing. I pulled together a semi-appropriate outfit in spite of screwing up my attempt to create a slouchy sweatshirt (basically it was so slouchy it was falling off) and danced like a very happy fool with my good bud Tess for two hours after doing a 6 a.m. yoga class on the floor of a bar. Doesn’t get much better than that (although, never been more grateful for a yoga mat, trust). In case I don’t get back to this at a later time, my impressions from club dancing, which I love and used to do often in my twenties:

  • Be yourself, together
  • Beats in your feet travel through your body, jumping up and down
  • Sweaty and free
  • Yes!
  • Not one, but TWO dudes dressed as Prince were there
  • Spandex (this WAS an 80’s theme, after all)

So my intention Saturday was to have breakfast, mow the lawn before the rain returned and then run some errands. Not much else, because I was SORE, people. Dancing at 47 is a whole different story than when you’re 17 or 27. Knees and feet particularly, plus shoulders and upper back from the yoga. I do yoga every week, but this was a bit more rigorous. I think the adrenaline was pumping, from a lack of sleep and in anticipation of dancing , so I overdid it. YOLO, right?

After mowing, I did my meditation (priorities!), and I realized that going to Costco on Earth Day felt akin to tossing plastic bags into a pod of whales. So I thought about what I felt up to doing, which unfortunately didn’t include the March for Science (first protest I’ve missed this year) or volunteering at a park restoration event. I landed on a long-overdue trip to the Seattle Art Museum to take in the Jacob Lawrence Migration Series that was ending yesterday. The Seeing Nature exhibit is also there, which felt appropriate for Earth Day. A wander through a museum felt like the speed I could handle.

I arrived early, which it turns out was a very good thing, since the room is small and the paintings are numbered, so are viewed in order. By the time I left the museum a few hours later, the line to get in the room extended all the way down the third floor.

The Migration Series was painted by Lawrence in 1940-41. The 40 paintings in the SAM exhibit (I’ve read there are 60 total, so some were apparently left out) depict the stories of African Americans migrating from the rural South to the North in search of better lives and new opportunities.

lawrence-copThe first paintings show life in the South and the conditions that black people were facing – lack of food, work and decent housing, boll weevils killing off the cotton, and lynchings. Meanwhile, the North desperately needed workers, so much so that agents were coming to recruit them. People started to leave for Northern cities, waiting at stations and crowding onto trains with their few belongings, leaving in such numbers that they faced harassment and even arrest to impede their exodus, but nonetheless they went. They sent letters back to those who stayed behind about all the opportunities, and the black newspapers covered the stories as well, compelling more people to make their way North. There were jobs (hard jobs in steel factories and railroads, but jobs), better places to live, more food, schools for their children.

Things seem good for a while.

Then the paintings start to show another side to the story. White workers angry with black workers for taking their jobs (unbeknownst to them, black workers were sometimes being recruited to replace striking white workers), sometimes resulting in violence, even riots. Different, subtler forms of discrimination, even from other African Americans who’d lived in the North much longer. Living conditions becoming overcrowded and unhealthy.

JL-paintingThe last painting is only a few feet from the first one as you finish the series, and by that point, there seems to be almost no difference in the story of those who migrated from the ones at the beginning. It comes full circle, but in the same way a merry-go-round does, ending up where you started, then being swept up again into the swirl. You circumnavigate the room and at the end, little seems to have changed. I found myself pulled toward the beginning (end?) of the line, wanting to start over, hoping for another outcome.

venice-paintingInstead, I headed upstairs and ambled through the Seeing Nature exhibit, which houses 150 years’ worth of European and American paintings depicting luminous landscapes, brilliant renderings of the Grand Canyon, and numerous scenes of Venice as seen through the realist, pointillist and impressionist lenses. This exhibit was entrancingly beautiful and I enjoyed it thoroughly, but in some respects, I wish I had seen it on a different day. Or maybe that I’d seen Jacob Lawrence on a different day. Seeing scenes of such disparate lived experiences on the same day was jarring.

Then again, maybe it worked out just as it was supposed to. As my mind turns to the People’s Climate March on 4/29, I try to grapple with what we are doing to our planet, the plants and animals, and ourselves, of course. The impacts will be felt by all, but not equally. Some people have fewer resources and won’t be able to cope as easily with the changes we are facing, whether it’s lack of water, food or habitable places to live.

What will those migrations look like and how will we respond?

 

Not Enough Sign

BLM-marchI put on my marching uniform and hit protest number three yesterday on the year, for Black Lives Matter. Could have been four, but I didn’t attend the Tax March in the morning, even though I obviously support the sentiment. Why hasn’t 45 released his taxes yet? It’s appalling. Many of the Tax March folks showed up for BLM though, so it was a good size march, around 7,000 people. The Facebook RSVPs numbered 18,000 so I guess a bunch of people decided not to come, which is disappointing. The organizer lamented the lower than expected turnout during the rally, but since we were the ones who showed up, not sure how helpful that was. (FYI, I did read on the event’s FB page that some black people in Seattle didn’t support this march because of the organizer; I don’t know much about that, so will need to learn more).

My hubby got to go with me to this one, having had to miss the Womxn’s March and the Immigrant & Refugee rally because he was sick or not up to handling the crowds. It made me really happy to have him there. I missed my other partners in resistance, but CG was away for Easter weekend and the others were working. Peg Cheng and her husband were there, but of course, we never saw each other! Maybe next time, since we know there will no doubt be a next time.

Two things hit me right away when we got there. First, there were WAY more cops than at the Womxn’s March, for way less people. I suppose they thought more people were coming, but even if all the RSVPs had shown, it would still not have been anywhere near the volume of the Womxn’s March. A giant pink sea of pussy hats must be less intimidating than a little pond of black beanies.

The second thing was there were no porta-potties. I don’t know if this was due to a lack of funding or planning, but it was a bummer. I hope there will be some for the People’s Climate march in two weeks, or my mum will be very unhappy.

BLM-names

Remember their names.

You can’t really talk about protests without talking about signs. I spent days thinking about what I wanted to put on one, but in the end, I just couldn’t decide what I wanted to say. There’s too much to say to put on one sign. The theme of this march was to tie into the tax one, in light of the economic issues and disparities faced by black Americans, and especially in Seattle where our sales & real estate tax rates unfairly burden lower income and people of color. But Black Lives Matter is both more specific, to stop police shootings of unarmed black people, and broader, drawing attention to educational disparities, lack of affordable housing, environmental (in)justice, discrimination in the judicial and penal system, and so many other things that no sign could possibly capture it all. When you start layering in issues of intersectionality (i.e., gender, LGBT, disability, class, etc.) you might as well create a flip board. I may do just that at the rate we’re going.

BLM-sign1Of course, I saw signs I liked, like the one pictured here, which captures one reason why I wanted to be at the march, even though it’s only one tiny effort to dismantle a system that’s been in place for hundreds of years. I saw something online while I was thinking about sign possibilities – how instead of a wall, we should build ourselves a giant mirror, and look at ourselves, what we’ve become. If a mirror could also show us the past, perhaps we could accept what (or more accurately, WHO) built so much of this country’s wealth and prosperity, and figure out what kind of country we want to be moving forward. As white people, it’s uncomfortable to acknowledge our role in an unfair system that we feel like we didn’t create, but still benefit from. Looking in the mirror and listening to black peoples’ experiences is the only way we can start to fix things. Racism is hard to talk about, but if you don’t start with that basic premise, it’s a lot harder.

Oh, and in case you missed it (I haven’t really paid that much attention to it myself), lots of states are trying to pass laws to curb protests and make punishments more severe, including here in Washington. Because it’s “economic terrorism.” Which is both laughable and infuriating, given we have a President who refuses to be transparent about where his money comes from and if he’s paid any taxes while the rest of us spend the next two days getting our taxes done on time. If you like irony, it’s a good time to be alive.