All It Takes Is A Little Love

My mind is racing all over the place these days. I’m one of those people who reads several books at once and spends a great deal of time perusing articles that catch my attentions from magazines and newspapers. I read posts on Facebook and X while also playing the Spelling Bee and Wordle games in the New York Times. I’m addicted to documentaries and stories related to history and current events. There’s so much going on right now that my brain is abuzz with thoughts, concerns and even a kind of over active empathy. Somehow today I am finding it difficult to focus on one thing to write about because I am so over stimulated. 

I just read a shocking piece in The Atlantic about a Filipino family that kept a woman named Lola bound to them without pay for most of her life. Shockingly Lola was selected to care for the child of a wealthy and powerful man while he was working away from home. When the little girl grew into an adult woman the father “gave” her Lola as a gift. From that moment forward Lola was a kind of unpaid “slave” who cooked, cleaned. did laundry and cared for the family children for many decades without ever being paid a dime. Her only payment was a place to sleep and remnants of food along with constant criticism and punishment when she displeased her keepers. It was not until Lola was in her seventies that one of the men she had raised helped her to reunite with her sister sixty years after she had been conscripted. 

I began to wonder how many such stories are still playing out all over the world. How many poor people with little education are being used by wealthy individuals for their labor with little or no compensation? I find it difficult to imagine how anyone in this day and age is unable to comprehend how wrong such behavior actually is and yet I see and hear actions and commentaries that tell me how people are constantly being judged as inferior and worthy of contempt. I really can’t put my head around the kind of thinking that views our fellow brothers and sisters of the world as somehow being less than to the rest of us.  

I suppose that there have been and will always be individuals who think that they are more worthy of respect. The “isms” of society have always been around in one form or another and continue to flourish even as we should all be better educated and more understanding. I suppose that even I am sometimes too quick to judge the actions or comments of people without asking why they may seem to be so toxic. I should be asking what has happened in their lives to make them so angry rather than instantly disdaining their ignorance. When I do that I am as bad as they seem to be. 

These days the warring in Israel and Gaza is very much on my mind. I do not know of anyone in my family who is a practicing Jew, but my ancestry can be traced back to Jewish men and women in the long ago. I have always felt a kind of affinity to the Jewish people. I have cried over their centuries long mistreatment. I would adamantly defend them in most cases but I also have been aching over the situation of the Palestinian people in Gaza. It really is possible to be for both countries at the same time. The incident of the October attack on Israel was horrific but the present response that has killed over thirty thousand Palestinian citizens, destroyed homes, hospitals and schools is not proportional. I find myself grieving for both countries and realizing that the people there are actually victims of politicians who refuse to give in to one another. Most people anywhere would prefer to find ways to live in peace. 

My heart is crushed by man’s inhumanity to man. It seems so simple to always work to get along and yet the arc of history shows us that we humans find ways to hurt each other again and again. What is the source of such evil in our hearts? Why are we so unwilling to work together to share and respect? Why do we not listen to one another but instead grow angry when people try to protest injustice? Why are we so quick to arrest those who want us to see differing points of view? Why have we always had to turn to martyrs like Jesus,  Abraham Lincoln, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Nelson Mandela before we do the right thing? Why are we constantly arguing about the worth of other people?

I know that I am imperfect. I not only don’t have all the answers but sometimes I think I have no answers. Nonetheless I am willing to make sacrifices for the good of people who only want the same opportunities and good fortune that I already have. Every human longs to be free and secure. Nobody wants war or mistreatment and yet we have evil doers who shatter the peace of people all over the world. How can we not speak out to help the innocents who are being killed and misused simply because it may be uncomfortable for us to do so? Why can’t we stop to ask the person stealing across our borders why they have risked everything to do so? Why can’t we listen to students protesting the war in Israel and Gaza and find out to what they have to say without drowning them out with arguments? Why can’t we understand that the very existence of our own country was rooted in the economics of slavery and attitudes that still subject Black citizens to injustice? We should be actively working to understand rather than filling the air with disagreements and attacks. Truths are more often than not difficult to hear, but hear them we must! We only delude ourselves and make matters worse when we deny the complexities of living together. Nothing is simple and never has been. We have work to do. We should not depend on another great martyr coming along to repair our problems. Each of us has a responsibility to end the debates and use diplomacy to truly repair the brokeness.    

I’ve grown up hearing the sound of cicadas that emerge here in the Houston area around late April. As the days grow warmer we often joke that the noise of those insects raises the temperature a few more degrees. The ones that we encounter most often make an annual visit to our area and can be found in many parts of the United States, most notably in the south. This year a most unusual occurrence that has not been seen since 1804, when Thomas Jefferson was President will take place. Two varieties of what are called “periodic” cicadas will emerge at the same time, promising lots of noise in the southeastern and midwestern areas of the country. 

Periodic cicadas live underground for fifteen to seventeen years before finally emerging. There are only a few varieties of this interesting insect and all of them are found only in the United States. While the two emerging broods will be in mostly discrete places there might be an overlapping in the area of Springfield, Illinois. Because this is such an unusual occurrence there is an expectation that entomologists and those interested in insects will descend on the affected areas to view the emergence. This once in a lifetime experience will not happen again until 2245 and with climate change certain to affect the earth in multiple ways it is uncertain that the periodic cicadas will even exist by then. If they do, the world that they encounter may be far different than the one they have found in the past. 

There is something hauntingly lovely about the sound that cicadas make. As a child I recall sleeping with our windows open because air conditioning was still not commonplace in most homes. The song of those insects from the stink bug family was like a summertime lullaby. They provided a lovely white noise that made my eyelids heavy and kept me sleeping through the night in spite of the heat. 

I remember donning lightweight sleeveless pajamas with bottoms that were short. They were made in such a way that they did not cling to my body. With our home’s attic fan moving it’s powerful blades a light breeze wafted through the window next to my bed. I admit that I was a bit jealous of my brothers who because of their maleness were able to sleep without a shirt. They also had a room with two long windows set side by side creating an almost open feeling to the area. They got the full benefit of any breeze on their skin even on ninety degree nights. 

I can no longer imagine how we made it through the long hot months without the cooling effects of air conditioning, but we did. We ran around with hardly any clothing covering our bodies and very rarely bothered to wear shoes on our feet. Our bodies were tanned each year from playing outside in the sun. We were free range kids who would have fit right in with Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Our mother kept us vaccinated for tetanus because we frequently injured our feet with glass, nails or sharp tree limbs lurking in the grass. Welts from mosquito bites dotted our arms and legs but we hardly noticed. We were too busy playing with our friends and enjoying our childish adventures. 

The garden hose was our friend. When times were overbearingly hot we would aim the water at one another and feel its cooling effect. Our mother was a favorite of the neighbors because she set out a large thermos of water cooled with ice each morning along with a generous supply of cups. Often in the afternoon she encouraged us to come inside with our friends where she hosted card games that lasted until the sun was lower on the horizon. We’d sip on homemade lemonade and little sandwiches while enjoying quite serious competitions. 

When I got older and was no longer a little rug rat, our neighbor Mrs. Janot often invited me to join her for an afternoon viewing of General Hospital which came on at two. Mrs. Janot would turn on the air conditioner located in her living room and give me and her daughter, Karen, slices of watermelon to snack on during the program. The only rule that we had to follow was to be quiet so that Mrs. Janot would not miss a moment of the exciting life of the people who worked at General Hospital in a make believe town.

During those summers of old I could hear the people on my street talking and laughing. The music on their radios wafted into the street. I smelled the chicken frying on someone’s stove and heard the band kids practicing on their instruments. Mixed in with the sound of cicadas were the songs of the birds and the barking dogs who lived in little houses in backyards in those days. So much has changed.

I’m totally spoiled now. The heat of late spring and summer drives me indoors unless it is early morning or after dark. I only hear those cicadas during the brief moments when I dare to go outside. My windows are closed and my air conditioner pumps away. Even the children on my block stay inside their homes. I miss seeing them run around as they do when the days are cooler. I wonder if most people will actually notice the unusual cicada event that is coming if they don’t happen to read about it like I have. We may be cool now but we have also lost a kind of vibrance and joy of living that was so much a part of those summers of old. I don’t want to turn back because I can no longer take the heat, but I sure would like to be in Springfield, Illinois when those two broods of insects make their amazing debut. What a sight and sound that will be! 

The world is certainly going through a dramatic phase of upheaval in seemingly every corner of the globe. Here in the USA we are in an election year which brings out the grumbling and hand wringing on an almost daily basis. It sometimes feels as though the level of complaining is at a fever pitch. When we humans are subjected to increased negativity we are prone to finding ourselves joining in with the cacophony of whining that is so prevalent. Everyone seems to have a beef about something. We are enduring an epidemic of dissatisfaction that is making us all uncomfortable and leading to breakups and skirmishes on personal and worldwide levels.

We’ve all encountered someone who can’t seem to find satisfaction with any aspect of life. They are sad sacks who are notorious for moaning about situations that seem unimportant. They argue with cashiers in stores, complain about the food in restaurants or the perceived lack of attentiveness by a waiter. They perennially see their glasses as half full and seem to believe that the universe is purposely set against them. It’s difficult to be around such individuals but if we stop to consider what is causing them to be constantly negative we usually find that they have endured larger traumas that have led them into cycles of chronic depression. The more they grinch, the less likely people are going to be willing to be around them and so they end up feeling victimized in a self fulfilling prophecy of being misunderstood. 

Upheavals in our lives affect each of us differently. Sometimes there are so many challenges that we are overwhelmed and the negativity that we present to the world is an effort to get someone’s attention and ultimately their help. Often we only want to be reassured that everything will ultimately be okay. Not everyone is rational enough to be a stoic who quietly bears burdens with the understanding that most tough situations eventually pass given enough time. Some people just need to get the poisons of fear and anger out of their systems. 

There are loving ways that each of us can deal with the chronic worrier or the person who finds fault rather than joy in every situation. Pushing them away or telling them to get over their agitation only reinforces their belief that nobody cares about feelings that are so real to them. Instead we might simply provide them with a safe place to express how they are actually feeling in the moment. When we do so we will generally find that they find solace just in knowing that someone is willing to hear what they have to say rather than immediately stifling their ability to explain themselves. 

If we actively listen to a person who is ranting about a situation we usually find that something far deeper than just a negative personality is driving their words and actions. Loneliness, fears and profound losses affect our outlooks on life. Abandonment or abuse as a child colors our ability to trust others to treat us fairly. Instances of prejudice or injustice make people wary of being mistreated. Our personal histories make each of us uniquely vulnerable. 

I will be the first to admit that I have shifted into an almost chronic state of worry in the past few years. I was indeed traumatized by the sudden and unexpected death of my father. My entire world changed in a heartbeat and since that moment I have always looked over my shoulder wondering when then next tragedy will consume me. I was an adult before I was able to feel confident that I am capable of overcoming challenges that seemed to come my way in waves. I was shocked once again when my mother became chronically afflicted with bipolar disorder. I felt personally beset upon when my husband nearly died in his mid-twenties. Life has been a rollercoaster for me but things always ultimately work out. Nonetheless, when I feel threatened with yet another test of my endurance my initial reaction is to come unglued. When that happens all I really need is someone who will take my anxieties seriously and simply love and encourage me until I regain my footing. Lectures on being tough only send me into more of a frenzy. 

I suspect that most people are like me. We all face problems and sometimes even feel as though ours are more difficult that those of others. We react or overreact and a good person will allow us to wallow in self pity for a moment. Often just knowing that someone understands our feelings is the only thing we need to toughen up again. The angels who love us even when we are frightened and weak do more to help us heal than all the lectures about how we should think or behave. 

Life can be very difficult and cruel. The slings and arrows that attack us sometimes send us into funks that make us bad company. If we are lucky there will be someone around to let us rant and cry and complain without questioning or  judging us. Sadly not everyone is fortunate enough to have steadfastly loving people around them. There are indeed souls who feel abandoned, forgotten, misunderstood. When we hear them complain we might ask ourselves to consider that what they really need is someone to hear their cries for help that are cloaked in ugliness. 

Think of how much more wonderful the world would be if we walked for a moment in someone else’s shoes rather than preaching to them. Most of the troubles we witness in our fellow humans began long ago when life dealt them a blow. Sometimes all they really need to break the cycle of negativity that ensnares them is a single voice saying, “I hear you and I understand.”  

I grew up with a hybrid of family life. Until I was eight years old my mother and father had a very typical American marriage. He was the “breadwinner” who went to work each day while my mother stayed home caring for the children and the house. When my father died leaving my thirty year old mom to keep us afloat things suddenly changed. I saw two sides of a woman’s role. One was quite traditional and the other was cutting edge. 

Few women worked outside of the home in the nineteen fifties and early nineteen sixties. I remember being curious about one of our neighbors who worked as a lawyer. She was so different from the other ladies who lived near us. For some reason she took an interest in me and sometimes invited me to her home for tea time and conversation. She showed me how to play chess and encouraged me to study and consider attending college one day. I liked her confident air and the interesting topics that she discussed when I visited. She seemed more like my father than my mother at the time. The idea of one day holding down a full time job like the men became fixed in my mind. 

Before my father died my mother adhered to a daily and weekly routine that may as well have been a paid job. Each day was filled with tasks designed to keep the household running smoothly. She stopped from time to time to have a coffee break with a lady friend or to talk with one of her sisters on the phone, but mostly she worked around a regular schedule that kept the house tidy and in good repair. She often used her work to teach me how to properly clean, sew, cook, and mend broken items. I became an expert at making a bed, folding clothes, creating a straight seam on cloth before I even started school. 

My mother suggested that when I was older and married that I should halt my labors each day to make myself presentable for my husband. She showed me how to brush my hair and use some perfume to smell nice. Then she insisted that when the man came home it was my role to be pleasant and loving. She suggested that I keep discussions of bad news for later in the evening rather than blurting out negativity as soon as my husband walked in the door. Hers was a very traditional role followed my women for ages. 

When my father died everything changed. I watched my mother morph into an even more impressive version of the neighbor who had once so impressed me. Mama was in charge of everything so unimportant tasks were pushed to the side. She became the family provider, accountant, head of household. Even her advice for me changed. She began to encourage me to get an education, obtain skills that would allow me to work. She taught me how to do the things that had traditionally been the duties of men. She insisted that I be an equal partner in a marriage rather than playing a more servile role. She prepared me for the women’s movement of the sixties and seventies without ever thinking of herself as a liberated woman. 

I adopted a free spirit with abandon. I was lucky to find a spouse who encouraged me to first be my own person. I kept attending school to earn undergraduate and advanced degrees. I worked outside of the home and shared in duties that women had once surrendered to men. We made important decisions together and encouraged our daughters to be bold. I knew that there were times when I made men of an older generation uncomfortable. In particular my father-in-law would sometimes insist that I did not know my proper place in a marriage. 

I was part of a movement that toppled so many of the stereotypes of women. I was ambitious and outspoken in a time when not everyone my age was adopting such a progressive stance. My friend, Marita, invited me to accompany her to a convention of feminists that featured some of the trend setters of the time. She and I spoke of the balancing act that women would need to learn if we were to demonstrate that it was possible to maintain a good marriage, home and relationship with our children all at the same time. We were learning how to accomplish things that had rarely been done in the past. 

I used examples from the neighbor who had so intrigued me when I was a child and mostly realized how strong and intelligent my mother had been when she did all the heavy lifting for our family. I drew on their wisdom and somehow made it work even as I sometimes worried that I may have slighted my husband and my children now and again with my devotion to developing myself. I learned that it takes team effort to make men and women equal partners in a family. Somehow we adjusted even when the going got tough. 

Today seven out of every ten married women work outside the home. Girls are educated in subjects once thought to be the domain of the boys. Women are free to voice their own beliefs and even get their own avenues of credit. Women can also stay at home if they so wish, but nobody is simply expecting them to do so. They enjoy the freedom of choice that women of my mother’s era so infrequently saw. Not surprisingly families are still doing well and girls in particular are encouraged to dream as big as the boys do. 

Since my father-in-law has come to live with us I often defer to his routines which were built around the same ways of doing things that my mother did so well before my father died. Each evening my father-in-law convenes with us at the dining table where we speak of pleasantries before eating dinner. He has marveled at the independence of my two daughters, his granddaughters and mentioned that they were the change makers. My husband laughs and gives me a knowing look and we just let it go. It’s difficult for an older man to understand the earthquake that changed the world in my generation, but my mother-in-law certainly knew what was happening and she quietly encouraged me to topple the status quo. 

The opportunities for women are limitless today and that is a wonderful thing. At long last we mostly seem to understand that our baby girls are just as capable as our boys. We’ve come a long way and there should be no turning back!

From one day to the next I find myself searching for tiny bits joy. I listen to the the laughter of children waiting for the school bus on the corner of my street while I sip on my morning tea. I hear the doves cooing on my roof. I watch the sunrise and see my younger neighbors leaving for work. The everyday routine early each morning relaxes me and fills my heart with gratitude. I celebrate the quiet as I meditate and feel a certainty that the simplest moments of living are often the best. 

When I fill the well of my coffee maker I am grateful that I live in a place where the water is so clean and pure. It’s easy to take such things for granted until I read about souls who have no running water. I think about the homeless, the refugees, the immigrants who deserve a good life like I have but are still searching for the security that keeps me warm when it is cold and cool when it is hot. 

I often stop in the middle of cooking to marvel at the bounty that fills my pantry and refrigerator. The aroma of spices fills my kitchen throughout the day as the three of us who live hear prepare breakfast, lunch, dinner and sometimes a snack. I can’t help but think of those who are starving. Perhaps my mother reminded me of those who are hungry so much when I was a child that I feel humbled by the food that is always available for me. 

I am energized by the small group of students that I teach. They are looking toward the future while my own life is slowing down. It is wonderful to feel their enthusiasm and to see them progress in their stages of learning. They make me feel connected to our society. They chase away the loneliness that I might otherwise feel if I only sat at home growing older each day. 

I treasure my books and the music that often wafts through my home as I do my chores or write by blogs and stories. I think of the teachers and professors who made me a citizen of the world by widening my horizons and points of view. They taught me the importance of never ceasing to learn. They showed me how to grow and change so that I am not a stagnant individual who is grumpy because the world is seemingly not what it used to be. I instead celebrate progress and adapt to the wonder of invention.

I have a home, a big yard, a car to take me wherever I wish to go. In a world filled with war, hunger and want I live comfortably at peace only minutes away from every convenience that I may ever need. I have the ability to live better than kings of old with all of my modern inventions. Top notch medical care is just down the road. I have everything that anyone actually might desire to feel satisfied. 

My own good fortune causes me to think of those whose lives are filled with dangers and want.  I know that I have a responsibility to do more than simply think of them, but knowing what to do is complex and confusing. Good wishes need to be accompanied with actions and yet I wonder how one person like me can even make a dent in solving the problems that are so big. Such questions consume my thoughts and the only solutions that I find seem so small when compared to the enormity of the problems in our world. 

I take the lead of many of my friends who regularly do good deeds within their communities. I suppose that if each of us exhibited the kindness of my friends Linda or Melissa or Paula on a regular basis the blight that we see would begin to change. Even small gestures multiplied many times over make an exponential difference in the lives of those who have not enjoyed the many blessings that have defined my own life. 

It would be easy for me to simply acknowledge that the world has always had winners and losers. I might shrug my shoulders and note that it’s just the way things are and I have no power to change them. Looking the other way in the face of need is easy. Stopping to help is taking a risk that may or may not improve things at all. Still I know that what makes humans the most wonderful is when they take the time to honor and respect one another. Even the least among us is important. As my mother always insisted, “There but for my own good fortune” it might be me wandering in a state of hunger longing for a home.

Drought, famine, war, violence, disasters, tragedies are all around us. We can’t tackle them all alone but together we can make a difference. Instead of demeaning the suffering people of the world or pushing them out of our sight we might ask ourselves what we might do to comfort them. Maybe it would be donating time and goods to a food pantry or offering funds to those who feed the world. We might consider voting for individuals who are willing to share our bounty with those really need a helping hand. A few minutes and a few pennies add up quickly when each of us plays a part in making the world better. Everyone in every place deserves to feel as content as I do. There is no time to waste. Each of us has a role to play in bettering the world. We find the most joy when we share whatever we can with those who are struggling to find what we already have.