Late for Your Life (Mary Chapin Carpenter)

My husband and I had tickets to see Mary Chapin Carpenter and Shawn Colvin this Sunday, April 5 (emphasis on had).  They are best friends, and I was so looking forward to seeing and hearing them swap stories, songs, and jokes.  I can wait...  :-)

We all know that concerts in real-life have been put on temporary hold and, in the meantime, many musical artists are offering up livestream shows instead.  What a lovely way to provide solace, therapy, and uplift.

Singer-songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter has launched a new online music series called “Songs From Home.” Although she’s practicing social distancing by performing solo from her kitchen in Virginia, Carpenter’s debut episode finds her joined by a special guest, her dog (and “co-producer”) Angus, who wanders in and out of frame, variously staring out the kitchen window, offering his affection, and gnawing on a bone as Carpenter sings “Edinburgh.”

There are four more episodes, which you can find if you Google Songs From Home and Mary Chapin Carpenter.  Enjoy!  

To quote MCC:  Stay mighty.  Stay at home.

P.S.  I haven't requested reimbursement for my tickets yet, hoping the show will be rescheduled.  Not to be missed...  :-)



SONG:  Late for Your Life by Mary Chapin Carpenter

BOOK:  You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay

POEM:  spring again by Jesus Papoleto Melendez (Susan's note:  the format is exactly how it appeared in print...  :-)

spring came /
the same way winter left
& summer will come
& summer will leave;        slowly
          / when no one's expecting it
             when people are tired of waiting

like waiting for welfare checks /
          a long wait/             a slow wait

the windows are open
but butterflies don't fly in
to display a sense of love

           / only housefly enter
              to sit on food       & eat crumbs

& dreams escape /
& become stolen      & lost      & used
& wasted        & thrown away
& dreamed anew

the junkies sit on the stoop
& nod themselves into dreams
            / maybe into the ones which escaped
& stinkball is played
& on warm nights        the ghetto musicians play
our ghetto song
on garbage can tops         & bang on empty coke bottles
& sound real chévere

:tomorrow
the junkies will sit on the stoop
& nod themselves into dreams /
stickball will be played /
                                             the streets will become chalked
                                             with 1st and 2nd & 3rd bases

hop scotch will become a game
& tops will spin on sidewalks /

& everyone will anticipate summer.

QUOTE:  "We want to get this good music to as many people as possible because I think it heals, it soothes, I think music is incredibly important, especially in today's chaos." ~ Graham Nash

In Spite of Ourselves (John Prine)

As previously stated, my husband and I have been self-isolating since Friday March 13... which segued to a Broward County emergency order to Shelter in Place on Friday March 27... which has now transitioned to a new statewide (Florida) dictum to Stay at Home, starting tomorrow/Friday April 3.

We love each other (in September, we'll celebrate 44 years of "official" marriage, with a few years of dating before that!).  However, we've never been one of those joined-at-the-hip couples.  He is used to coaching soccer two nights a week and having games every Saturday and Sunday.  I have always had a joyfully-abundant calendar of concerts, bookclubs, and dinners (and lunches, now that I am retired) with friends.  All of this is a bit too much togetherness (insert wide-eyed emoji here).  We are managing to navigate these different and turbulent waters, where crises can either make or break a relationship.  We snap, we argue, we clam up... and yet we remember why we chose each other as life partners, and we apologize and connect and reignite (cue Mary Tyler Moore theme song!).

I decided to put together a list of my coping mechanisms, in hopes that it might inspire others (also, it really just helps me fill a bit of time...  :-) :

~ Daily schedule.  When I have the entire day ahead of me, I am not likely to get much accomplished but, if I attempt to structure my day with some of the items below, in addition to the little things like "take my vitamins", it helps keep me on task.

~ My balcony.  When I first wake up, I make a cup of coffee or hot tea, settle into my lounge chair, and greet the day, as well as the Wild Kingdom that is my backyard.  How can I be anxious when there are birds singing in the trees, turtles swimming in the pond, and prehistoric-looking iguanas loitering on the lawn? (The golfers are a breed unto themselves!).  In the evening, I slow down to watch the sunset, and breathe deeply, inhaling gratitude and exhaling worry. 

~ Menu ideas. I make breakfast smoothies for us both, and we are on our own for lunch) but, when I get home from Publix and as I am re-stocking the freezer, fridge, and pantry, I write down ideas for potential dinner meals, which makes nightly cooking plans as close to no-brainer-ish as possible.

~ Smoothies.  Frozen fruit + protein powder + coconut water + SuperGreens powder + my NutriBullet = easy, healthy, and delicious!

~ Daily Dozen.  It's a phone App, created by Dr. Michael Greger (my plant-based guru!) in which I can log my servings of beans, berries, fruits, vegetables, whole grains, nuts, seeds, herbs and spices, etc., as well as my beverages, exercise, and vitamin B12. As I've never been one to count calories or points, it is a very helpful and easy way to ensure I get enough nutrition to sustain and fuel my vegan lifestyle.

~ Essential oils. Some of my daughter's friends have gone into the essential oils business, and I commissioned one of them a while back to make up three blends for me:  Healthy, Energy, Calm.  They came in small roll-on bottles and not a day has gone by without me using one of them.  These days, most often, it's Healthy...  :-)

~ Walking.  I had been walking the trails in our Broward Library Park but now that feels riskier, so I am traversing a 45-minute-ish route in our condo complex.

~ Stretching.  Super-important, especially since my sciatica kicked back in two months ago.  Ugh.  Doing specific exercises about 3 times a day, and in the condo pool when I'm there.  I also use a massager the kids gave me for Christmas a few years ago.

~ Pool.  Believe it or not, they've stayed open and, now that the snowbirds have headed back north, only a handful of people are down there.  I use an antibacterial disposable cloth to open and close the gate, as well as wipe down the lounge chair.  I use an SPF 30 on my arms, legs, chest, and back... and an SPF 15 on my face (I also wear a hat). Aaaaahhhh, natural Vitamin D.  And of course there is a book involved!

~ Reading. I had checked out 25 books from our local library before things started getting really bad, and I am systematically working my way through those. I set myself up for success by trying to choose only 4- or 5-star material, interspersing novels with non-fiction with memoirs.

~ Blogging.  Yes, here I am again after a 7-year absence.  An exercise in creativity, an online journal, a stream-of-consciousness blather.  It really doesn't matter if no one reads nor comments.  This is for me, and is an excellent steam release from the pressure cooker of life, to upload my swirling thoughts so I don't go completely crazy... at least until the next day, when I feel the need to unload again.

~ Family get-togethers.  We meet twice a week, at first at the Broward Library Park, then the park in our old neighborhood, now at a grassy area in our condo complex.  Folding chairs, blankets, six feet apart, telling stories, laughing, just seeing each other's faces.  Sarah and Colin came over the other day so he could run around.  The little guy is 20-months-old and full of energy. He is so confused, because why isn't Lala hugging him and picking him up as usual? He came toward me, and I started running (because I didn't want either one of us to potentially contaminate the other), and I turned it into a game but, when they left, I was so upset. It is a fact of life that I can't touch my grandbaby right now. This is all just so f*cked up.

~ Potato Chips.  Oh god, as some people crave sweets, my drug of choice is salty/crunchy.  I learned that I cannot buy a big bag, or else I will eat the entire contents.  Bemoaning this fact to my son Rob, who suggested snack-size.  Yes!  The Baked Lay's variety pack is just what I needed, and I really do ration out one per day. I found this one in yesterday's portion.  It's a sign from The Universe...  :-)

~ FreeCell. My solitaire version of Tetris.  It makes sense to me, my brain just thinks that way and, when I need a few moments to chill, I play a few games on the laptop.

~ Talking on the phone with friends.  I used to *hate* the phone, because I spent so much time on it at work.  Now that I am retired, I am more appreciative of voice-to-voice, especially now that face-to-face get-togethers are not an option.  I have spent the last two weeks having meaningful as well as hilarious conversations with dear friends and family members:  my children, of course (daily!); my sister Mari and my brother Brad; friends Nancy, Judi, Eileen, Melanie, Laurie.  Still to come are Linda and my cousin Laura.  Soul-refilling.

~ TV/Movies.  I cut waaay back on screen time when I retired, viewing a few shows (Top Chef, Project Runway, etc.) and IMDB-recommended movies and series (JoJo Rabbit, Unbreakable, and others).  thankyoujesus for Netflix and HGTV.  My friends Laurie and Dana just bingewatched Downton Abbey, and others are mainlining West Wing (ah, remember the years when we had an intelligent, compassionate, articulate President?!?).

~ Being overcaffeinated in the morning, and then sharing too much sh*t via my phone.  I only mean to inform and not annoy, but I think my family and friends are frustrated with my links.  Must. Stop. That.

P.S.  Before I deactivated my Facebook account, I chose my Word of the Year (which I've been doing since 2007, following Christine Kane's lead).  In 2020, Contentment spoke to me (I have Enough!) and I instituted a buying moratorium.  I've been so very good but, I confess, in these trying times, in a fit of weakness, I ordered a pair of earrings via Amazon, inspired by the woman in the Resilient video I posted a few days ago [hangs head in retail-therapy shame!]


SONG:  In Spite of Ourselves by John Prine (and the live version as well...  :-)
[Another head nod to Melanie, who shared this Kevin Bacon/Kyra Sedgwick version with me earlier!]

BOOK:  My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh

POEM:  Half Omen Half Hope by Joanna Klink

When everything finally has been wrecked and further shipwrecked,
When their most ardent dream has been made hollow and unrecognizable,
They will feel inside their limbs the missing shade of blue that lingers
Against hills in the cooler hours before dark, and the moss at the foot of the forest
When green starts to leave it. What they take into their privacy (half of his embrace,
Her violence at play) are shadows of acts which have no farewells in them.
Moons unearth them. And when, in their separate dwellings, their bodies
Feel the next season come, they no longer have anyone to whom
To tell it. Clouds of reverie pass outside the window and a strange emptiness
Peers back in. If they love, it is solely to be adored, it is to scatter and gather
Themselves like hard seeds in a field made fallow by a fire someone years ago set.
In the quiet woods, from the highest trees, there is always something
Weightless falling; and he, who must realize that certain losses are irreparable,
Tells himself at night, before the darkest mirror, that vision keeps him whole.

On the verge of warm and simple sleep they tell themselves certain loves
Are like sheets of dark water, or ice forests, or husks of ships. To stop a thing
Such as this would be to halve a sound that travels out from a silent person’s
Thoughts. The imprint they make on each other’s bodies is worth any pain
They may have caused. Quiet falls around them. And when she reaches
For him the air greens like underwater light and the well-waters drop.
They will see again the shadows of insects.
They will touch the bark and feel each age of the tree fly undisturbed
Into them. If what is no longer present in them cannot be restored,
It can at least be offered. Through long bewildered dusks, stalks grow;
Rains fill and pass out of clouds; animals hover at the edges of fields
With eyes like black pools. For nothing cannot be transformed;
Pleasure and failure feed each other daily. Do not think any breeze,
Any grain of light, shall be withheld. All the stars will sail out for them.

QUOTE:  "When marrying, ask yourself this question: Do you believe that you will be able to converse well with this person into your old age? Everything else in marriage is transitory." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

This World Is So F*cked Up (But I Ain’t Never Giving Up On It) (Michael Franti & Spearhead)

Happy April 1!  No pranks or foolishness today, as our lives are already one big joke.  Sneeze, you're it.  The Governor has *finally* issued a statewide 30-day stay-at-home order, beginning midnight Thursday (tomorrow).

My new favorite word, from the Urban Dictionary:

Covidiot
Someone who ignores the warnings regarding public health or safety.
A person who hoards goods, denying them from their neighbors.
Did you see that covidiot with 300 rolls of toilet paper in his basket?
That covidiot is hugging everyone she sees.

From the ridiculous to the sublime, April is National Poetry Month and, when I was on Facebook, I prided myself on posting a poem a day throughout.  After I deactivated my account, I worried about what I'd do to honor the occasion, not realizing at the time that I would revive my blog.  I've enjoyed discovering new poems (go back to 2007 and 2008 to find some of my old favorites), and am delighted to be sharing them.

Did the Seniors Publix run again this morning (sounds like a geriatric 5K, right?...  :-) They actually had someone out vetting the shoppers.  Needless to say, with my white "professional highlights", I did not get carded.  This may be the last time we take advantage of their respectful option, as we're seriously looking into Instacart from now on.  After staying home for almost three weeks (with a few ventures outside our gated community), it is becoming too stressful, not to mention risky, to engage with the world.  I feel almost agoraphobic lately.

But, we said we would, and we did.  Our friend Reba (who just turned 83 a few days ago) a snowbird with Autotrain reservations back to Maryland for the end of April, has wisely decided to stay in Florida indefinitely.  I checked in on her yesterday by phone and said that, if she'd send me her grocery list via text, I'd be glad to do her shopping and drop it by her apartment, which I did this morning after I unloaded my own groceries into freezer, fridge, and pantry.  Thought about buying her a plant or some flowers as a belated birthday present, but got her this instead...  :-)

Stopped at a gas station on the way home to fill up my car (just in case), which had signs on the pumps saying that they had hand sanitizer for sale inside.  Went in and bought four small bottles.  Thank you, local Chevon on University Drive!

Honestly, other than meeting up with my kids in the grassy area of our complex once or twice a week, or walking the trails around the golf course (almost daily), or hanging out at the pool late-afternoon every other day, I am more serious than ever about sheltering-the-f*ck-in-place.  I don't want to be a statistic.

P.S.  I enter Goodreads giveaways pretty regularly and, good news, I finally won a free book.  Zippity!


SONG:  This World Is So F*cked Up (But I Ain’t Never Giving Up On It) by Michael Franti & Spearhead (thanks times a bazillion to Melanie, who shared this song, and graphic above, with me!)

BOOK:  Your Journey to Calm: A Guide to Leaving Anxiety and Panic Attacks Behind by Maggie Oakes

POEM:  people are panic-buying chickens like they did toilet paper** by Maya Stein (**I borrowed this line from a recent New York Times article entitled “America Stress-Bought All the Baby Chickens.”)

The salons are closed. Yoga mats lie curled at the corners of shiny floors
at the downtown gyms. The baking aisles’ staples have begun to disappear: flour,
yeast. There are lines past the sliding glass doors for the eggs that may not be there
when our turn arrives. And so, we are retreating to the source, the future yield
of still-unplanted gardens fervent in our minds as we dig through overstuffed garages
for the tools we are certain live on the back shelves. Some of us may succeed,
find ourselves the shepherds of a new, burbling flock, or the tenders of salad greens
that will outlast an apocalypse. Others will dream of the cakes our mothers made,
reach a fingertip into a phantom bowl where a memory of batter still coats the sides.
And the rest will notice, for the first time, how yellow the daffodils are.

QUOTE:  "Panic causes tunnel vision. Calm acceptance of danger allows us to more easily assess the situation and see the options." ~ Simon Sinek

Resilient (Rising Appalachia)

As discussed previously, my family is writing in, and passing around, a journal as a tangible way to capture our thoughts, dreams, and fears through essays, drawings, poems, and songs.  Here is my entry from a few days ago:

I find myself in a pendulum between "this too shall pass" and "these are the end times" but, I am the MOTHER, so it is my Job to stay strong and hold it all together when everyone around me is losing their sh*t.  That is what I do, as at various times my family has experienced stitches and broken bones... MRSA hospitalization... an emergency C-section... prostate cancer surgery.  My default mechanism is to envision myself as the voice of calm and reason, their advocate and protector, asking the right questions, buffering between them and the healthcare system, sleeping in super-uncomfortable recliners.

Once the crisis had passed and things were back to "normal", I allowed myself to freak the f*ck out, finally able to fall apart with the tragic What-Ifs swirling around in my head, all the bullets dodged, the there-but-for-the-grace-of-god flipside scenario.  Poetry is one of my many coping mechanisms (thankyoujesus for Maggie Smith:  the poet, not the actress!).  Donning my She-Ra cape, rattling my Wonder Woman bracelets, and conjuring the Shield of Invincibility to keep my loved ones, and myself, safe throughout this storm and chaos.

SONG:  Resilient by Rising Appalachia (major thanks to Fred for the heads-up on this song.  Wow!)

BOOK:  Welcoming the Unwelcome: Wholehearted Living in a Brokenhearted World by Pema Chodron

POEM:  The Mother by Maggie Smith

The mother is a weapon you load

yourself into, little bullet.

The mother is glass through which

you see, in excruciating detail, yourself.

The mother is landscape.

See how she thinks of a tree

and fills a forest with the repeated thought.

Before the invention of cursive

the mother is manuscript.

The mother is sky.

See how she wears a shawl of starlings,

how she pulls the thrumming around her shoulders.

The mother is a prism.

The mother is a gun.

See how light passes through her.

See how she fires.

QUOTE:  "I never said I wanted a 'happy' life but an interesting one. From separation and loss, I have learned a lot. I have become strong and resilient, as is the case of almost every human being exposed to life and to the world. We don't even know how strong we are until we are forced to bring that hidden strength forward." ~ Isabel Allende

When I Get to Heaven (John Prine)

The family of John Prine says that the legendary singer-songwriter has been hospitalized since Thursday after a "sudden onset of COVID-19 symptoms." 

According to the family's statement, Prine, 73, was intubated on Saturday, "and continues to receive care, but his situation is critical."

"This is hard news for us to share. But so many of you have loved and supported John over the years, we wanted to let you know, and give you the chance to send on more of that love and support now. And know that we love you, and John loves you."


My friend/college roommate Linda texted me a few hours ago with the news.  We had just seen him together this past MLK weekend at the 30A Songwriter Festival in Santa Rosa Beach FL.  My friend Fred texted me shortly thereafter.  I had no idea until then.  I am distraught, and every f*cking purple candle in my house is ablaze. Please god let JP be okay and, if not, let him go smoothly and peacefully "into that good night".

My one-time next door neighbor and longtime dear buddy Dan gave me the eponymous John Prine album when it was first released, in 1972, on vinyl of course.  I played the h*ll out of that disc.  Side A, Side B, lather, rinse, repeat.  I knew every word to every song.  I still own his entire catalog on vinyl, even though we've loaned our turntable out to our sons. I have seen him live a double-handful of times.  Such a brilliant lyricist.  Inspired by the 6+ minute video below, here are some of my favorites: 

Well, a question ain't really a question
If you know the answer too. 
~ Far From Me

A bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down... 
and won 
~ Illegal Smile

Some cowboy from Texas
Starts his own war in Iraq 
~ Some Humans Ain't Human

wondering how a man could send a child actor
to visit in the land of the wind chill factor. 
~ Sabu Visits the Twin Cities Alone

And all the news just repeats itself
Like some forgotten dream that we've both seen. 
~ Hello in There

Now Jesus don't like killin'
No matter what the reason's for 
~ Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore

I knew that topless lady had something up her sleeve
~ Spanish Pipedream

The cannibals can catch me and fry me in a pan
Long as I got my woman 
~ Aw Heck

Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios. 
~ Sam Stone

I could go on...  :-)


In this short film, Prine spends a typical afternoon driving around Nashville while talking about his journey from midwestern mailman to career songwriter. He plays an emotional version of “Summer’s End,” from The Tree of Forgiveness, his first album in 13 years, while fans including Dan Auerbach, Rosanne Cash and Todd Snider share their favorite Prine lyrics.

And this New Yorker Tree of Forgiveness review



SONG:  When I Get to Heaven by John Prine

BOOK:  John Prine:  Beyond Words by John Prine

POEM:  Wanting Sumptuous Heavens by Robert Bly

No one grumbles among the oyster clans,
And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer.
Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want
Heaven to be, and God to come, again.
There is no end to our grumbling; we want
Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven.
But the heron standing on one leg in the bog
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.

QUOTE:  "The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake." ~ Kurt Vonnegut

Blue River (Eric Andersen)

All this talk of coronavirus.  Lately I find myself in a pendulum between "this too shall pass" and "these are the end times".  Today, I need a palate cleanser.

Brian Doyle.  Who here has heard of him?  I am embarrassed to say that he did not even appear on my radar until a few weeks ago.  I can't recall where we crossed paths, except I think it was a Goodreads pop-up for One Long River of Song:  "If you liked that, then you will love this." I immediately set out to find everything about him, and discovered he died a few years ago, of brain cancer, at the age of 60. Where had he been all my life?!?  I felt like I had missed the proverbial boat but, then again, through the magic of books and the Internet, he was now my new best friend.

I immediately Amazoned (yes, I made it into a verb!) him to my friend Roxanne, as a "belated* birthday present.  I had him Amazoned to me, so that I could transport him across county lines, and deliver him to Dar in St. Augustine as an *early* birthday present.  I want to give this book to everyone I know.  It is my new love language:

"Brian Doyle lived the pleasure of bearing daily witness to quiet glories hidden in people, places and creatures of little or no size, renown, or commercial value, and he brought inimitably playful or soaring or aching or heartfelt language to his tellings.  A life’s work, One Long River of Song invites readers to experience joy and wonder in ordinary moments that become, under Doyle’s rapturous and exuberant gaze, extraordinary." ~ David James Duncan

And this, from Doyle himself, as a brief bio/teaser:

Brian Doyle lives in Portland, Oregon, where he is inundated by the laundry of three teenagers and finds that the deeper thickets of marriage are more interesting than the open woodlands of serial affairs. 

Hmmm.  We should all do this; construct a mission statement in one sentence, less than 50 words, to encompass our life, hopes, and dreams.

SusanM lives in Pembroke Pines, Florida, where she is in a constant struggle to balance her Pollyanna self with her Eeyore alter-ego, and whose brain is so full of song lyrics that she can hardly remember her To Do List.

Your turn...  :-)

P.S.  All this to say:  READ THE BOOK!


SONG:  Blue River by Eric Andersen

BOOK:  One Long River of Song by Brian Doyle

POEM:  What Do Poems Do? by Brian Doyle

I was, no kidding, a visiting writer in a kindergarten recently,
And the children asked me many wry and hilarious questions,
Among them is that your real nose? and can you write a book
About a ruffed grouse, please? But the one that pops back into
My mind this morning was what do poems do? Answers: swirl
Leaves along sidewalks suddenly when there is no wind. Open
Recalcitrant jars of honey. Be huckleberries in earliest January,
When berries are only a shivering idea on a bush. Be your dad
For a moment again, tall and amused and smelling like Sunday.
Be the awful wheeze of a kid with the flu. Remind you of what
You didn’t ever forget but only mislaid or misfiled. Be badgers,
Meteor showers, falcons, prayers, sneers, mayors, confessionals.
They are built to slide into you sideways. You have poetry slots
Where your gills used to be, when you lived inside your mother.
If you hold a poem right you can go back there. Find the handle.
Take a skitter of words and speak gently to them, and you’ll see.

QUOTE:  "Modern storytellers are the descendants of an immense and ancient community of holy people, troubadours, bards, griots, cantadoras, cantors, traveling poets, bums, hags, and crazy people." ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

American Tune (Paul Simon)

What if the Virus is the Medicine? by Jonathan Hadas Edwards and Julia Hartsell

The emerging pandemic is already a watershed of the early 21st century: things won’t ever be the same. Yet for all that the havoc that the virus is wreaking, directly and indirectly, it may also be part of the bitter medicine the global body needs.

How could adding another crisis to an already crisis-ridden planet possibly be medicinal?

Before we explore that question, we want to be clear: our intent is not to downplay the severity or minimize the importance of lives lost to this disease. Behind the mortality figures lie very real pain and grief, and these numbers, often discussed so casually, are personal, representing the potential loss of our parents, elders, teachers, dance companions, grandmothers or immune-compromised friends.

Already, our hearts are breaking for the physical distance with our aging parents until we know if we’re infected. There’s not only a risk of losing beloveds in this time, but having to do so from afar. Our hearts are breaking for those who may die or suffer alone, without the touch of their loved ones. We honor death as a sacred passage, but we do not minimize death, suffering or sickness in the slightest.

We pray that each one who transitions from this virus (as from the many other deadly diseases, accidents, overdoses, murders, suicides, mass shootings, and on and on) be met with on the other side by unexpected blessing, connection, peace.

Neither are the economic implications to be taken lightly. Many in this country have already seen massive impact, and the recession has only begun. As always, those closest to the edge will be hit hardest. For some, a month sequestered in beauty could be a vacation.

Others have a few months before financial panic sets in. And for others living paycheck to paycheck or gig to gig, there is a great immediacy of struggle. The economic ‘side effects’ of this coronavirus could be catastrophic.

And yet.

For many in our world, the pre-coronavirus status quo was already catastrophic. Many are facing an imminent end to their world--indeed, for many species and many peoples, the world has already ended. We are in the midst of a crisis of unprecedented magnitude: the choice for humanity is change or die. No one said change would be easy. (Neither is dying.)

And incremental change is not enough. It will take radical change to shift our current, calamitous trajectory away from massive environmental devastation, famine, energy crises, war & refugee crises, increasingly authoritarian regimes and escalating inequalities.

The world we know is dying. What is unsustainable cannot persist, by definition, and we are starting to see this play out.

What hope is there, then? There is the hope that breakdown will become, or coexist with, breakthrough. There is the hope that what is dying is the caterpillar of immature humanity in order that the metamorphosis yields a stunning emergence. That whatever survives this collective initiation process will be truer, more heart-connected, resilient and generative.

We are entering the chrysalis. There’s no instruction manual for what happens next. But we can learn some things from observing nature (thank you Megan Toben for some of this biological info). For one thing, the chrysalis stage is preceded by a feeding frenzy in which the caterpillar massively overconsumes (sound familiar? We’ve been there for decades). Then its tissues melt into a virtually undifferentiated goo. What remain separate are so-called imaginal cells, which link together and become the template from which the goo reorganizes itself into a butterfly.

Does the caterpillar overconsume strategically, or out of blind instinct? Does it know what’s coming and trust in the process, or does it feel like it’s dying? We don’t know. It’s natural to resist radical, painful change. But ultimately there’s little choice but to surrender to it. We can practice welcoming the circumstances that force us away from dysfunctional old patterns, be they economic or personal. We have that opportunity now.

Let’s return to a crucial word, initiation. On an individual level, initiations are those processes or rituals by which one reaches a new state of being and corresponding social status: from girl to woman, from layperson to clergy, and so on. Initiations can be deliberate or spontaneous, as in the case of the archetypal shamanic initiation, which comes by way of a healing crisis.

To paraphrase Michael Meade, initiations are events that pull us deeper into life than we would otherwise go. They vary widely from culture to culture and individual to individual, but two characteristics they share are intensity and transformation. They bring us face to face with life and with death; they always involve an element of dying or shedding so that the new can be born.

Most all of us have undergone initiations of one sort of another, from the death of a parent to the birth of a child. Many have experienced initiation in the form of a crisis or trial by fire. Those of us who have gone through more deliberate, ritualized forms of initiation can state unequivocally: the process is not fun, comfortable or predictable.

You may well feel like you’re going nuts. You may not know who you are anymore. You don’t get to choose which parts of you die, or even to know ahead of time.

One of the overriding feelings is of uncertainty: you don’t know where you’re going, only that there’s no going back. And there’s no way of knowing how long the transformation will take. It can help to remember that the initiatory chrysalis phase is a sacred time, set apart from normal life.That it has its own demands and its own logic. That it cannot be rushed, only surrendered to. That it may be painful, but also, ultimately, healing.

Imagine what happens when an entire society finds itself in the midst of a critical initiation. Except you don’t have to imagine: it’s already happening, or starting to. It looks like chaos, a meltdown. We’re in a moment of collective, global-level crisis and uncertainty that has little precedent in living memory.

The economic machine--the source of our financial needs and also a system that profits from disease, divorce, crime and tragedy--is faced with a dramatic slow-down. We are all facing the cessation of non- essential activities. There is opportunity here, if we claim it.

This is a sacred time.

However, unlike a traditional rite of passage ceremony, there’s no priest or elder with wisdom born of experience holding the ritual container, tracking everything seen and unseen. Instead, all at once there are millions of personal quests inside one enormous initiatory chrysalis.

And yet, look closely: amid the goo, you may start to notice imaginal cells appearing. Pockets of people who are aligned with something they may not fully understand, in receipt of a vision or pieces of one, beaming out their signal to say: let’s try something different.

This is an opportunity to loosen our grip on old and familiar ways. Those ways worked for as long as they did, and they got us here, for better and for worse. They seem unlikely to carry us much further.

What if we’re instead being asked to feel our way forward, from the heart, without benefit of certainty--which, when concentrated, quickly becomes toxic? No one has all the answers in this or any other time. Right now the questions may be more valuable.

What if we honor this time with sacred respect?

What if we take the time to listen for the boundaries and limits of our Earth mother?

What is truly important?

How can we receive the bitter medicine of the moment deep into our cells and let it align us with latent possibility?

How can we, with the support of the unseen, serve as midwives to all that is dying here and all that is being born?

With these questions resounding, let us s l o w d o w n and listen. For echo back from the unseen, for whisperings from the depths of our souls and from the heart of the mystery that--no less so in times of crisis--embraces us all.


Wow.  Timely.  As of 12:01 this morning (Friday, March 27), we (Broward County, Florida) are now operating under an Emergency Shelter-in-Place order (meaning, stay indoors except to conduct "essential" business). I will stop going to the park to walk, as well as meet up for our family get-togethers.

I *will* walk in my condo complex, even safer now that most of the snowbirds have headed back north.  I feel secure to have at least a two-week supply of food in my fridge, freezer, and pantry. I will venture out at some point to fill up my car with gas, just in case.

And we wait.


SONG:  American Tune by Paul Simon (cover by Dave Matthews)

BOOK:  Shelter by Céline Claire, Qin Leng (Illustrator)

POEM:  Cutting Loose by William Stafford

Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason,
you sing. For no reason, you accept
the way of being lost, cutting loose
from all else and electing a world
where you go where you want to.

Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder
that a steady center is holding
all else. If you listen, that sound
will tell you where it is and you
can slide your way past trouble.

Certain twisted monsters
always bar the path -- but that's when
you get going best, glad to be lost,
learning how real it is
here on earth, again and again.

QUOTE:  "When the storms of life come, if they come to me personally, to my family or to the world, I want to be strong enough to stand and be a strength to somebody else, be shelter for somebody else." ~ Anne Graham Lotz

The Rain, The Park, & Other Things (The Cowsills)

In the last week, my family (husband, three adult children, grandson, granddog) and I have met twice in a local park, scheduled again for tomorrow/Friday.  Since the kids are worried about us, their "aging" parents, we went for almost two weeks without a face-to-face, and it was breaking my heart.  Now we head outdoors, with our blankets and chairs the obligatory six feet apart, and spend about 90 minutes catching up on each others' lives, which fills my soul.  We've talked a lot about coping mechanisms, as well as things we can control vs. things we can't. R, my middle child, had the brilliant idea of passing a journal back and forth, a page per person, and I love the idea of there being a tangible gift on the other side of this, a collection of our innermost thoughts via writings, drawings, poems, and songs.  In my head, I am titling it Love in the Time of Corona(virus) (sorry, Gabriel Garcia Marquez!).

I am grateful for my friend Nancy, who encouraged me to get back into my walking routine, long-dormant and much missed.  This is our second week of meeting Monday/Wednesday/Friday at the same local park mentioned above, and now I am in obsessed mode (conjuring a sweet memory of 20 years ago), my legs twitching to get out of bed and hit the pavement.  I am all about "hey, let's walk for an hour, then sit on a bench, then head back to the car", while N likes to quantify things, and lets me know we have taken about 6,500 steps. It's a good balance.  We walk, we talk (ooooh, so much talking that I can't remember what I told her before and what is still to be shared!), we laugh, and we try not to worry.  Now Eileen and I are doing the same thing Tuesdays and Thursdays, except that next week we will have to move our routine to evenings, since she is a teacher, and will be doing her instructions online until the end of this school year.

We also notice all sorts of nature (squirrels, iguanas, ducks and, most recently turtles).  E took the photo on the left, and it was moving much more quickly than I would have thought possible for something so small (think pet store turtles from when we were young).  N caught the image on the right (huge!), and we were guessing it was a mama as, with each rotation we watched it go through the process of digging a hole, then seemingly deposit eggs, then cover the hole with sand.  Wow!

In the late-afternoons (4:00 p.m.-ish), a few times a week, I go down to our condo pool to do various stretches (thankyoujesus for the weightlessness of water) and swim laps (if my rudimentary butterfly/frog stroke can be considered such).  I then curl up on one of the lounge chairs to read my book as well as to get some sun, one hour front, one hour back, then head upstairs.

I am super-tan, relaxed as much as I can during these crazy days, and make plenty of time for skin care:  Origins VitaZing™ SPF 15 Energy-boosting Moisturizer in the morning, Origins Plantscription™ Anti-Aging Power Serum at night.  Hey, what else is there to do, right?!?

Given the circumstances, this is going to sound ridiculously superficial, but... I miss my wardrobe:  my cute dresses, my tunics and leggings, my shorts and cold-shoulder tops.  Now I segue from my nightgown... to a T-shirt and athletic skorts or yoga capris... to my bathing suit... back to my nightgown.  Then I remind myself that I hope this is the worst problem I face each day.  Perspective is everything.  Ommmmmmm.


SONG:  The Rain, The Park, & Other Things by The Cowsills

BOOK:  Walking Each Other Home by Melanie Boster, David W. Boster (photographer)

POEM:  Keeping Quiet by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

QUOTE:  “Practically speaking, a life that is vowed to simplicity, appropriate boldness, good humor, gratitude, unstinting work and play, and lots of walking, brings us close to the actually existing world and its wholeness.” ~ Gary Snyder

Help! (The Beatles)

Let's take a moment to give thanks to The Helpers, the essential people who will get us through this current global crisis, and are putting their own lives on the line every time they show up for work:  first responders, health care professionals, those who work in grocery stores, banks, pharmacies, gas stations, etc.

It was Seniors Day at Publix, meaning that they instituted a new policy last week, starting yesterday, that the hours of 7:00 to 8:00 am, every Tuesday and Wednesday, were exclusively for those of us 65 and older.  It's a respectful gesture, in that we are the demographic most like to die from the coronavirus, especially those with underlying medical conditions (thankfully, neither my husband nor myself fall in that category).

Anyway, it was very organized and civilized, and we stocked up (without hoarding) on groceries (both perishables and shelf-stable boxes and cans), and household goods. All paper products were wiped out, but thankfully we have a fair amount of toilet paper and, later today, I will be cutting up paper towels to use for napkins.  There were only two containers of antibacterial wipes on the shelf, and I watched my husband and another woman silently determine they each got one (rather than someone whisking away both).

Our daughter, knowing we were making the adventure this morning, texted us: "Please be safe this morning" to which I replied:

"All went well.  We hugged 10 people, we shook hands with 5, we kissed our cashier, and high-fived the general manager on our way out."

I crack myself up!  We did, though, thank every Publix employee we saw, especially our cashier...  :-)

P.S.  When my husband and I took our Hard Rock Guitar Hotel two-night staycation (which I won in a raffle almost a year ago) the first week of March, we watched A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.  Amazing movie, and here's the true story/Esquire article it's based on.


Rob Brezsny's Astrology Newsletter
March 25, 2020

"Anthropologist Margaret Mead was asked by a student what she considered to be the first sign of civilization in a culture. The student expected Mead to talk about fishhooks or clay pots or grinding stones.

But Mead said that the first sign of civilization in an ancient culture was a femur (thighbone) that had been broken and then healed. Mead explained that in the animal kingdom, if you break your leg, you die. You cannot run from danger, get to the river for a drink or hunt for food. You are meat for prowling beasts. No animal survives a broken leg long enough for the bone to heal.

"A broken femur that has healed is evidence that someone has taken time to stay with the one who fell, has bound up the wound, has carried the person to safety and has tended the person through recovery. Helping someone else through difficulty is where civilization starts," Mead said.

We are at our best when we serve others. Be civilized."

~ Ira Byock, *The Best Care Possible: A Physician’s Quest to Transform
Care Through the End of Life*



SONG:  Help! by The Beatles

BOOK:  The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember by Fred Rogers

POEM:  Of History and Hope by Miller Williams

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.

Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.

All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

QUOTE:  "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world."  ~ Fred Rogers, aka Mister Rogers