Category: Commentary

Two people marry and probably do indeed believe that their union will be until death parts them. Along the way things change. The two people themselves change. They become divided in ways that are painful. Living together becomes a continuing battle that makes them miserable. They realize that the only way of keeping peace is to end the union, to file for divorce. 

Such happens all of the time. Often it is not really anyone’s fault that things fell apart. At other times one of the partners in the marriage contract has abused the good graces of the other too many times. The lying, cheating or abusing becomes too much to bear and the divisions splinter all hope of reconciliation. 

It has been suggested that the precious union of fifty states in our United States of America is not longer working. Our political relationships seem to be as toxic as a marriage gone bad. The polarization of red states and blue states appears to be in a deadlock, a battle for ascendency of one over the other. Using a toxic marriage as an analogy a Congresswoman has suggested that it is time for a divorce, a split between the differing political ideologies. It’s a solution that has crossed the minds of many Americans even from the earliest beginnings of the United States. 

The Continental Congress charged with writing our nation’s first Constitution haggled over how to balance the role of government and the individual states. It argued over how to provide fair representation. Ultimately the compromise was to create a House of Representatives based on population inside a state and a Senate in which all states had an equal voice regardless of how many people lived in them. The quest to adequately represent the unique needs of a particular state was as controversial then as it is now. 

James Madison argued that attempting to label a region, a state, a city or even a family as being of a single philosophical bent was absurd. Human nature defies the idea that everyone in Texas, for example, is a proponent of Republican views. In fact an analysis of voting patterns in Texas indicates that most of its cities lean toward Democrats. Deeper data analysis shows that even neighborhoods are home to people with an astounding variety of political leanings. The very idea that any place is all in for a certain way of governing is absurd. 

Therein lies the reason that my southern born great grandfather joined the Union army during the infamous Civil War. He no doubt fought some of his neighbors and relatives in that unfortunate and misguided conflict. If such a dissolution of the Union were to occur today there would be countless people displaced from their homes because of the assumption that everyone within the borders of a particular state represents a single way of thinking. 

When I consider my own extended family I have to laugh. We can sit around a dinner table discussing our discordant political ideas and still love each other. We seem to represent a divergence of thought that is actually exciting to hear. I can’t think of anything more horrific than being trapped in a echo chamber of like-minded thoughts. Instead of stubbornly choosing sides and threatening to abandon each other, we actually enjoy the exercise of considering new points of view. We try to hear arguments with respect even when they are quite far from the ways that we think are right. We ask questions, listen carefully and in the end draw our own conclusions without rancor. We understand that there has never been a time in history when every single individual was of the same mind. Being so would indicate a lack of thinking, a cult like allegiance to an unchanging way of doing things. Progress would be at a standstill in an environment like that. 

While those men who wrote our Constitution sometimes threatened to leave the decision making body, they ultimately compromised in an effort to keep the Union intact. They understood that breaking it in to tiny parts would only lead to bigger disagreements and maybe even wars later. Instead of dissolving their relationships as tenuous as they sometimes were, they sought to keep the Union for which they had fought so hard in the American Revolution. They understood the importance of recognizing differences as legitimate and necessary components of a democracy. Disagreements will always be present in the human landscape. We will rarely reach of point of one hundred percent agreement on any topic. Thus we have used the idea of majority rule within our various states for over two centuries. 

I may live in Texas, but I am free to be as blue as I wish to be. It is frustrating that my vote often ends up being negated by majority rule and the assignment of Congressional districts, but I have much vested interest in living here. I’m too old to consider trekking to a blue state where I might actually end up living next to neighbors more red than the ones I now have. I aim to stay and keep voting my way in the hopes to one day make the changes that I desire. I won’t be running away from the place and the people that I love even if they totally disagree with me. That is not what relationships inside the various states should be about. Instead we should be thinking about how to come together as the good people that we know we are. 

My great grandfather ended up fighting for the winning side in the ill fated Civil War, but according to my grandmother he never got over the horrors and privations of that terrible conflict. It should never have happened then and it would behoove all of us to understand that it should never to happen again.

A broken machine lead me to spend a day of people watching. I had accompanied my husband to the Methodist Hospital Outpatient Clinic where he was scheduled to undergo a one hour screening to determine what, if any, changes have occurred in his heart since his surgery three years ago.

 I had settled into the waiting area with my laptop and my phone ready to entertain myself. I was already thinking about where we might go for lunch and what we might do for a bit of fun afterward. Then came a text from my husband indicating that there might be a brief delay because the PET scanner was not functioning properly. I purchased a cup of chai tea from the Starbucks in the lobby and wrote a first birthday letter to one of my newest nephews to fill the extended time. 

After I had finished that rather delightful task of writing to my nephew I found myself looking around the cavernous room at all of the people coming and going. I wavered between feelings of sadness and joy as the parade of people of every possible age and race passed before me. On the one had it was distressing to realize how many individuals were dealing with health issues. On the other hand I thought of how wonderful it was that they had a great place like Methodist Hospital to come to for help. 

All but a small minority of those walking back and forth wore masks, a holdover from the pandemic. Signs indicated that the face coverings were mandatory but some rebels boldly disobeyed. I had mixed feelings about their recalcitrance as well since so many of the people who were there appeared to be elderly or suffering from severe health problems. I wondered how it was possible to ignore the needs of others.

The passing parade featured couples walking together, one with a worried look and the other appearing to be quite frail. Again a mixture of thoughts and emotions overtook me. I witnessed love but also a tinge of sorrow in each tiny group that I saw. On such a beautiful day it seemed quite sad for anyone to be cooped up inside and yet there we all were. We shared both the hopes and the concerns that such places engender. 

There was a kind of bipolar feel to the experience as the strains of a lovely pianist and vocalist wafted over our senses in an effort to tame any nervousness that we might be feeling. My fascination with the humanity of it all made me want to linger, but my empathy was leading me into sorrowful places. I soon enough hoped that I would be leaving shortly, a dream that was dashed when my husband told me that the technicians had not been able to get the machine working again. He would have to wait for a screening in another part of the hospital. His test would be delayed about three hours. 

My husband came to meet me in the waiting area looking annoyed and frazzled. He had fasted during the morning but the technicians told him that he would have time to get some lunch so off we went in search of sustenance. We became one of those couples like the ones I had been watching. I was hovering and he was mostly silent. I suspected that a lack of caffeine that was mandated by the test was the major source of his irritation. His back hurt and the thought of just sitting around in anticipation was not making the day go better. We decided to take a walk outside to grab at least a bit of the splendor of the day. Unfortunately being aimless for a time did not go very well for either of us, so we gave up and went back inside. It had become apparent that it was going to be a long day of waiting, so we attempted to make the best of our situation. 

By the time my husband finally began the screening it was quite late in the day. To the credit of Methodist Hospital everyone was bending over backwards to accommodate both of us. The crowds had thinned out so much that people watching was not a particularly fascinating option anymore. I now sat in a tiny room with only one other woman who quietly and without expression just stared at the wall across from her. I settled on surfing the Internet on my laptop but my thoughts about all of the activity within the walls of that huge hospital kept returning. I sensed that miracles were happening even as I sat doing nothing. I also understood that perhaps somewhere on another floor someone might be taking a last breath. Some families were hearing good news while others were saying goodbye to someone they loved. The irony of such a place crowded the thoughts in my brain. 

There was a time when I believed that I wanted to follow a career in medicine. I suppose that I might have been good at such an occupation but I am not so certain that I would have been able to endure the ups and downs associated with healthcare. At least as a teacher my focus was mostly linear, a progression of growth that was positive. The downside of being an educator was rare. My life in a classroom was generally happy and meaningful. Nurses and doctors seem to be on more of a rollercoaster. It takes a special person to experience that kind of changing emotions that can occur in a single day. 

As of this writing I don’t know what my husband’s scan will tell us, but I am grateful that he was able to get it done in the top hospital in our state. I wonder if during my long day someone was also watching me, wondering why I was there. Ours was an interesting gathering of diverse people with the common bond of hoping to find healing. Perhaps when all is said and done that is what the whole of life is all about, our sameness and not our differences. We walk through this life hoping with each day that the news will be good, the miracles will happen. If we are lucky we will find people willing to help us try to make those things happen. We would do well to remember to thank them more often than we criticize them. They seem to be in a world of good days and bad days all at once.

A have a Facebook friend who entertains us daily with stories of her recent move to a farm. She particularly enjoys thrilling us with tales of the exploits of her chickens and their rooster, Batman. I get a kick out of reading her posts because they are so well written and upbeat. I truly believe that her daily updates on “Cluckingham Palace” are the stuff of a best selling book. She has a way of creating joy out of life’s ordinary irritations that sometimes make us fret. Today she posted a meme that spoke to me in a most personal way, “If you stumble, make it part of the dance.” That little quote sent me back to a memory that has stuck with me for decades. 

I had enrolled my five year old daughter in a dance class and she seemed to enjoy the experience of learning different steps and routines. She was an exceedingly shy little girl, but somehow when the music started she forgot her inhibitions. It delighted me to see her so happy and excited about an upcoming recital. She and her fellow dancers were learning to sing and dance to a song called “Tattletale Duck.” I had the task of putting together her costume by fashioning a little skirt out of yellow toile. Both of us worked hard in the days before the big show.

On the night of the recital my daughter looked adorable all decked out in yellow, complete with a feathery tuft pinned to her hair. The sweet little troupe of girls did indeed look like a flock of ducklings as they walked on stage and waited for the music to begin. After the first note they were as precious as can possibly be with their tiny voices chanting the little tune and their feet shuffling and turning out of unison more often than not. All eyes were on whichever little girl they had come to see. 

My daughter was perfection. A smile lit up her face as she danced with the precision of a Rockette. Then, just as the routine drew to a close, disaster struck. The fastener on her yellow tutu came apart and the skirt fell around her ankles. I was mortified that my seamstress skills had failed so miserably in the height of the moment. Nonetheless, without changing her enchanting expression or missing a beat, my girl gracefully stepped out of the circle of netting and completed the routine. When the music stopped and the girls began to exit the stage she bent down as though continuing the dance, picked up the fallen garment and then raised it into the air with a flourish and then a bow. The whole audience went wild with applause. 

That moment seemed to define the grit that my daughter would continue to exhibit in difficult times. Behind her quiet exterior was a strength that would come out whenever life hurled hardships her way. She continued to dance and charm audiences all the way through her high school years. She accepted challenges again and again, always finding ways to make her most difficult moments part of the dance. Even as she headed to college she was willing to stretch her mind with courses that pushed her beyond her comfort zone. Over the years she would face difficulties with the same determination and creative spirit that she demonstrated as a five year old dancer. 

Life is rarely easy for any of us, but some people appear to be more adept at creating joy out of even the most horrific circumstances. None among us have never stumbled and felt that horrible feeling of looking foolish. The greatest in our midst have a way of making those ghastly moments part of the dance. They smile through the hardships and gracefully keep in step. They understand that the choreography of life is not about a single moment but is instead an entire routine that continues right up to our final bows.

Happiness and sense of self confidence comes from somewhere deep inside our souls. Some of us can bring laughter from stories of chickens. Others dance their way through the ups and downs. None of us are immune to feeling as broken as the tutu that fell to my daughter’s ankles. Something snaps and we don’t feel that we have effectively done our jobs. That’s the moment when we choose whether to just lie on the ground defeated or become a flash of loveliness waving in the air, resurrected from the ashes. 

If you are feeling down or broken or defeated it may sound trite to suggest that you just keep dancing, but what else is there to do? Think of that little girl in her yellow leotard shuffling her way to the end of the routine. Sometimes it’s the best we can do. 

Evidently there is a group that is advocating a planet saving idea known as “the fifteen minute city.” The idea is that everyone within an urban area would have access to most of the businesses that they might need for day to day living. This is a topic that I have considered from time to time. In fact, I have had long conversations about such an idea with friends, particularly when my mother was still alive and struggling to find the services that she needed near her home. 

When I was growing up I lived in a little neighborhood near one the the airports in the city of Houston. There was a little grocery store located at the end of my street that my family often frequented. I walked to my school on most days, sometimes even in the rain with the aid of a raincoat and umbrella. While we mostly drove to church we might just as well have walked there on a sunny day because it was only a few blocks away from our house. We had several little restaurants nearby and even a bowling alley just a couple of minutes away. In fact, there was a bit of everything available to us. We had barber shops and beauty salons, a great family owned pharmacy with a grill and gift shop, a mobile library and a lovely park. There were even doctors working in little clinics nearby. If we wanted a bit more adventure there was a large mall with movie theaters and every imaginable kind of store about fifteen minutes away. We literally lived in a kind of village before anyone ever thought of The Villages in Florida. 

Sadly that old neighborhood has become a kind of urban desert. The schools and churches are still there but little else. People living there have to travel longer distances to find the kind of conveniences that we took for granted back when I was growing up. Such is true of many of the older neighborhoods, including the one where my husband enjoyed his own childhood adventures. All too often those who live in the more depressed areas of town have to travel rather far to find what they need, even as they are the most likely to have a deficit of transportation. Low income areas are all too often abandoned, leaving those who live there to fend for themselves. 

I have moved farther from the center of Houston into a suburban area that offers me the same kind of amenities that I enjoyed as a child. The only difference is that the area that is my home base is larger than the more compact neighborhood of my youth. When I was young I knew almost everyone who lived in our enclave. Today I am only familiar with a few people here and there. The old idea of the friendly neighborhood is suffering a bit. Luckily our cul de sac is a little haven that celebrates together throughout the year and looks after each other every day. 

Some of my doctors travel once a week to a clinic that is about three minutes away from my home, but my church is probably thirty minutes away. Most of the time, however, I could probably get along doing everything I need to do on an electric golf cart if there were designated areas to drive one to and fro. There would be little reason for me to ever go more than fifteen minutes away unless I wanted to attend a ballgame or concert or drive to see friends in other areas. 

Some folks have responded to the idea of the fifteen minute neighborhood with anger. They seem to think that the idea is designed to limit their possibilities when it would actually make life much easier if we did not have to constantly drive far from home in heavy traffic to service our needs. I for one applaud the idea of creating centers of commerce and entertainment all over the city and most especially in the most forgotten neighborhoods.

I had a friend who was from Germany. He truly enjoyed his life in the United States but often spoke fondly of his parents’ lifestyle. They lived in Bremen where they truly had a “fifteen minute city.” Everything they needed was close by, including mass transportation. They only owned a car for vacationing or enjoying weekends in the countryside. My friend never quite understood why there are so many cities in the United States were vast numbers of people have little or no infrastructure for obtaining food, entertainment or medical care. He spoke of how few worries about such things his parents had and wondered why we had not created communities that considered the needs of the residents, regardless of their income levels.

I like my own “fifteen minute city.” I have all that I need close by. I often think of purchasing an electric car which would ultimately get me anywhere I need to go without the worry of gasoline. I would rarely worry about running out of a charge because I don’t have to travel long distances most of the time. I suspect that as we adapt to the future we will be changing many of our ways. Building “fifteen minute cities” may be a good start.  

“We are not all in the same boat. We are all in the same storm. Some have yachts. Some have canoes and some are drowning.”

Now and again I see a quote that captures my thoughts and this is definitely one of them. Life is a journey, a grand adventure if you will. There are times when everything seems wonderful and others that are filled with sorrow and even terror. From day to day, moment to moment we never quite know what challenges will come our way, nor how we will be left to face them. Even with our most cautious planning for tragedies, we may find ourselves thrashing in violent waves determined to make us drown. Depending on where we were born and who were our parents we will have vastly different resources to keep us afloat. Presuming that we actually know how someone is feeling in the face of difficulties is one of the most thoughtless things that we might do.

I vividly remember hurricane Harvey pounding my little cul de sac relentlessly. The rain never ceased for days, not even for a moment. My husband was recovering from a mild stroke and doctors had told us that the probability of another stroke event was highest in the first weeks after the initial event. I was terrified that he might need quick medical care in a time when it would be difficult, if not impossible to transport him to an emergency room. I don’t think that I slept for more than an hour or two until the storm had finally moved away from our area. 

I was glued to my laptop during those awful times, hoping to garner some news and clinging to long distance support from friends and even strangers on social media. I hid my own fears because friends and family members were reporting their own frightening stories of water filling their homes and last minute escapes from the rising tides in chest high rivers that suddenly roared through their neighborhoods. I was terrified and concerned for them and knew that, at least for the moment, my own troubles were minimal compared to theirs. 

I noticed a number of people reassuring each other with comments about how God had spared them the worst of the storm. They praised Him for keeping safe watch over them. I understood their feelings because they were parallel with my own, but then I saw a post from someone describing how cruel it felt to have their friends celebrating God’s goodness while they were refugees from their water logged homes. They begged the people they knew to be more careful in how they worded their good fortune lest it sound as though only the chosen few favorites of God were entitled to His protection. I realized that I too had been guilty of such words without realizing how much worse they made the fates of the unlucky souls whose lives had been upended so brutally. I saw that we were all in the same storm, but our boats, or lack of them, were quite different. Instead I began to privately be thankful for my good luck. 

Since that time I have seen the metaphor of surviving a raging storm many times over. I see the cruelty in assuming that I understand how someone is feeling in the midst of tragedy. I know that my friend whose son was murdered does not feel better upon hearing my own views of how he should move past his great loss. The unexpected journey that he is enduring is incomprehensible to most of us. All we can do is love him and allow him to react in the ways that work for him without bombarding him with platitudes. It’s difficult to walk in his shoes. We only are able to imagine how such a tragedy might impact us, but we will never really know what kind of boat will carry him or us to still waters and safety once again. 

I’ve had some trials lately. When I begin to linger in a pity party for my situation I often think of worse places that I might be. I’m not in a town being ravaged by war. My life has not collapsed in an earthquake. I am not a wandering refugee hoping to find compassion and safety in a strange land. I am simply experiencing a squall and I have a sturdy boat to keep me safe for now. It’s just a matter of time until the sun shines again and even if the changes wrought by the dreary weather are not to my liking, I feel certain that I will be able to adjust to them. I only have to reach out to family and friends and all will be fine. 

Some people in the world are right now enduring unspeakable horrors. The only difference between their situations and mine is the luck of birth. Through no effort of my own, I came to be in a free and wealthy country. I was the child of loving and bright parents. Even with the ups and downs of losing my father at a young age, I was surrounded by family and friends who never failed to pull me from moments of near drowning. I did nothing to deserve such good fortune. By the luck of the draw I came to be in a safe and loving place. 

We all have the same needs the world over, but some people are challenged with uncertainty for all of their lives. They don’t even have a boat when the storms come their way. They have to know how to swim or they will drown. They hope that along the way they will encounter enough kindness to keep them from sinking into the abyss. 

I try to remember to be that person who reaches out from my own boat to help those who did not have the same good fortune that I have. I do my best to be kind and understanding. I no longer assume that I am somehow more deserving of my place in the world than anyone else. Even on the worst of days I have a steady boat, but I know that even an ocean liner can sink given the right circumstances. I try to remember this and be grateful for what I have and then share more with those reaching up from the water.