All It Takes Is A Little Love

I remember going downtown to Sweeney’s Jewelers with my then fiancee, Mike, to choose the ring that he would place on my finger on our wedding day. The style back in 1968 was to have a fairly wide gold band showcasing a solitaire diamond, so that is what the jeweler first brought from the vault for me to try. It soon became apparent that my hands were way too small for such a piece. Every one that I tried went all the way up to and sometimes beyond my knuckle. It was time to look at other options. 

The jeweler was calm and seemed to understand exactly what I needed. Before long I was holding my hand out in front of my line of sight to gaze on a delicate set with thin gold bands intertwined. The engagement ring was lined with diamond and the pattern repeated on the wedding ring with a single large diamond beautifully balancing the artistry of the stones. It was uniquely stunning and I knew that I would enjoy wearing it for the rest of my days.

And so it was. Mike placed the two parts together on October 4, 1968, and there they stayed every single day since then with few exceptions. I removed the rings before going to the hospital to have my babies and when I had a couple of surgeries. I left them at home when we went on vacations because I did not want to run the risk of losing them in a faraway place. 

Recently I spoke of my rings with my daughter and granddaughter as we enjoyed a girlie moment of reminiscing in the way that only women would understand. I noticed as I was sharing the story of choosing my rings how loose they had become. Over time my fingers were often swollen so I had the rings resized. Of late I they had hardly ever been puffy and so they were now a tiny bit too large. 

On one occasion I noticed that the rings had twirled one hundred eight degrees so that the main diamond was facing downward toward my palm. I considered the prospect of having them resized once again but let other more important concerns grab my attention. I did not think about the rings for a week or so after I had looked at them with my daughter and granddaughter. It was only when I was listening to music while I drove to a tutoring session that I began tapping my left hand on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Suddenly I saw that my ring was not there and immediately went into a panic. 

There was nothing I could do in the moment because I needed to take care of my students first. I’m not quite sure how I successfully made it through the next two hours but somehow I performed my duties and then drove home trying to remember what might have become of my rings. I realized that I had been many places since last knowing that they were still on my finger. There was no telling where they might have fallen off without my even noticing. 

Upon arriving at home I searched my truck and every surface and room in the house. I even went so far as to go through the garbage and under chair cushions. All was to no avail. There was no sign of my rings anywhere. I was so upset that I was unable to eat the soup that I had prepared for everyone for dinner. Instead I went to my bedroom and cried. 

It was not so much the actual physical loss of the rings that bothered me as much as the sentimental value of their constancy in fifty six years of my life. They had been with me through all of the stories that make me, me. I had worn it in times of trials and tribulations. They were my golden circles of life and somehow my instinct told me that I was never going to see them again. Nonetheless I made countless efforts to retrace my steps hoping to uncover the hiding place where the rings lay. I even had people searching the homes where I had visited. There was an all out effort to find them for me but again nothing seemed to be effective in locating them. 

I am a realist at heart and I place a much higher value on people than on things. I do not generally collect expensive jewelry or trinkets. My tastes are simple and I am more inclined to repair something that is worn out rather than replacing it. I just spent days repainting lawn furniture so that I might use it a few more years before the rust takes its final toll. I realized as I thought of my ring that while it meant the world to me it did not mean the end of the world to lose it. I thought of people in Los Angeles who had come home after the fires to nothing but  concrete slabs where their homes once stood. I remembered the photos showing how much Ukraine and Gaza have changed since the wars in those parts of the world. I understood that I don’t need my rings to remind me of how solid my love for my husband has been. My life is the jewel that matters the most. 

Miracles do happen but I am not counting on one this time. I may never see my rings again but perhaps its time to replace them with something more practical for a woman my age. If I happen to find it them will rejoice. If I never see them again I will still have my beautiful memories which will remind me of the many blessings I have been able to count. Nonetheless, I think I will say a little prayer to St. Anthony. He’s a saint who has helped me find things before. Maybe he can lead me to the place where my rings are hiding. That would surely be nice.  

Update: Many days later I was taking an article of clothing from one of my drawers and something fell on my foot. There were my rings! Now they are safely stored away until I can get them adjusted to the small size of my finger. They will be treasured.

I love to write. It is soothing to my soul. I also feel happy when the words that I put on paper inspire someone. I know that my most popular blogs speak of the incredible people I have known and loved. My readers like to be uplifted by my thoughts and it’s usually quite easy for me to describe individuals and ideas that are positive and optimistic. On the other hand, when I write about situations that are concerning to me, I lose many of my faithful followers. It seems that many do not want to hear about anything that is even remotely unpleasant.

It would be so much easier to simply ignore the problems that I see in the world around me and just stick with unicorns and happy thoughts. Venturing into controversy all too often leads to upsetting people for whom I actually care. Many would rather look the other way rather than stare into the abyss of problematic issues. I lose much of my audience when I tackle knotty subjects in order to suggest my sometimes differing points of view. While I like to think about and talk about topics from differing points of view, I find that the many individuals are put off by my mere mention of ideas that challenge their thinking and beliefs. 

We humans are different from the other creatures that live around us. While they may have instincts that go beyond mere survival they are unable to match our abilities to think and create. The greatest ideas in the ascent of humankind have initially seemed out of the box and even blasphemous at times. Galileo was punished for the audacity of insisting that the earth is not the center of the universe. Jesus was given the death penalty for daring to question both civil and religious laws. 

While I do not dare compare myself to the greatest minds who have impacted our world, I understand that ideas often begin as questions about the everyday ways that we do things. The movers and shakers of history saw inconsistencies in practices and asked why we had to keep following manmade rules that were not working as well as they should. The men who founded the United States of America might have simply continued bowing to the king rather than suggesting that there was a better way of living than being servants of a tyrant. There were in fact many colonists who were dead set against a revolution. Some of them left the country rather than rally around the continental army. Some shut their doors and windows and looked the other way. Some worked against the effort to form a new kind of government of the people. Being a citizen who believed in the ideas set out in the Declaration of Independence was not an easy decision. It took dedication and critical thinking to ascertain that a democratic republic was better than an aristocracy. . 

I say these things because so many people that I encounter appear to be in a kind of hypnotic state of mind in which they accept blind loyalty to symbols and a mystic past that they have lionized. Even when they witness the truth being twisted into a ridiculous lie they would rather believe than challenge. They do not seem to understand that maintaining freedom is not an easy task because it must be available to all people, not just those with identical concepts and ways of thinking. 

I mull over thousands of questions that disrupt my serenity. In my mind that is how it should be for all of us. In a nation as large and as diverse as the United States there must be room for many different religious beliefs, many different ideas about how to educate our children, many different thoughts about sexuality. Forcing a single way of thinking on millions of souls is as autocratic as the reigns of kings of old. Surely we can see that those who propose uniformity of living are moving backward rather than progressing. There is great danger in a leader who would resort to banning ideas, insisting on total loyalty from the citizens, threatening those who would dare to suggest that the despot is wrong. This is not the kind of government that our Founding Fathers risked death to create. 

As we move into a new administration that will determine our fate in the next four years I would implore everyone to be willing to stand up to anyone who would refuse to work for the good of all. I would suggest that true freedom comes only when we have the right to object to rules that hurt a particular class or group of people. Ours should not be a one party nation in which only the winners of elections have the right to voice their preferences. We cannot divide ourselves into two camps that no longer speak to each other or agree to discuss differing possibilities. That is a death sentence for our very democracy. We have to hear the voice of the little boy who has the temerity to note that our emperor has no clothes. In fact we should worry that we have an emperor at all.  

I will still write about happy and uplifting people and themes. We need to hear good new from time to time but I will also take full advantage of the freedom of speech that is enshrined in the Bill of Rights that was so brilliantly and courageously designed by the Founding Fathers. I believe that they would encourage me to keep speaking my mind and would suggest to those who dislike what I have to say that rather than insulting me or shutting me down we might do better to talk about our differences and find mutually agreeable solutions. Promising to tear everything down with vengeance is not a solution. It is the destruction of decades of attempts to become better and better at protecting the rights of all. I for one plan to continue to voice my concerns.

I should have written a final tribute to Pope Francis before now, but I have been grieving. My heart has been heavy and my sorrow has clouded my mind. All I have been able to express are feelings, emotions so strong that the part of my brain able to string together the words that clearly define my admiration and love for him are missing. I seem only to be able to feel and cry that our world has lost such a wonderful man who understood and truly cared about every single one of us. 

I did not know what to think when Pope Francis was first selected as the pontiff of the church that I have known since the day I was born. My mother had taken me to be baptized at All Saints Catholic Church in the Houston Heights when I was a baby. From that moment forward she shared her faith with me and religiously followed the teachings that she herself had learned as a child. She sent me to Catholic school for twelve years where I formed the beliefs that would guide me for the rest of my life. 

I came of age when Pope John XXIII was pope and the rebellious spirit of the nineteen sixties seemed to guide the beautiful changes in how the church was finally leaning. Many of the old rules that had seemed silly to me were overturned. The mass was finally offered in the many languages of the people around the world. The priests faced forward when saying the mass and we finally saw their faces instead of their backs. It was a modernization that seemed more in keeping with the lessons of Jesus than the mysterious Latin rituals that I witnessed as a child. 

My mother received a papal blessing from John XXIII for her work at the church where I grew in wisdom and age and grace. It was one of her most cherished possessions and it now hangs in the room in my home where she spent the last year and a half of her life faithfully praying and reading her Bible. She would have been happy to know that John XXIII is now officially a saint, something she knew about him long before a proclamation was made. She died before Pope Francis was selected, but I know she would have loved him as much as I do. He represented all of the values that guided her life. 

My mother was the child of immigrants. She became an American citizen by birth. Eventually her father became a citizen as well but her mother was too busy having babies and raising eight children to learn about the United States and take a test to prove her knowledge and loyalty. Instead her progeny would become ideal citizens and Catholics until the days when they died. 

I come from a legacy of patriotism and strong faith, but admittedly I had struggled a bit with my feelings about the Catholic church during the years before Pope Francis became our pope. It felt as though the church had become too impersonal at times. Then came this beautiful man who was a champion for the poor, the suffering, those forced to migrate from their homelands. He demonstrated how to love even those whose lives seemed strange to us, like the sex workers who lunched with him and were profoundly changed by his loving acceptance of them. 

In a world filled with ever-changing rules and laws that seemed to be designed to punish rather than to inspire and support it was refreshing to have a pope who focused on helping others rather than shunning them. He was like a kind father who guided us and encouraged us to always share what we have with those in need. He showed us how to love the people that we did not understand. His example taught us to be open to differences rather than judgmental. His generosity of spiriot radiated from his face and his words, even to the very end of his life. 

I have shed many tears since the passing of Pope Francis. My heart has been heavy watching his funeral and sensing the great loss that our world has experienced. I know that what he would want from me and all good people everywhere is to follow his example. He would ask us to see the beauty and worth in our fellow humans. He would remind us to always follow the simple but daunting rule from Jesus that we love our neighbors as we love ourselves without restrictions based on our prejudices. 

Terrible things are happening in the world at large. Here in the United States people are being treated without consideration of their humanity that is so much like our own. We seem not to want to know why they are here. Our country only wants to rid itself of them as quickly as possible. They are rounded up based on the superficialities that we all too often use to determine the worth of others. We would do well to instead heed the example and words of Pope Francis to provide love and comfort to everyone among us. 

I hope that I have the strength to follow the moral code that Pope Francis has left us. I hope that I can “be” Pope Francis in all that I do and say. He was a blessed man and I will miss him, but I am certain that he is now enjoying his heavenly reward. May he rest in peace and may we all remember what he most wanted to see from us.

I love my friends. They are truly good people. I have known some of them from the time that I was seven years old. I met others in high school. I have friendships from the neighborhoods where I have lived and from the jobs where I worked. There are also friends from church. It’s amazing how much alike we are and how each person has impacted me in my life’s journey. 

I have known many people. Some were close for a time but distance and the years that passed separated us. I have fond memories of them but do not even know where they are or what they may be doing. They had a deep influence on me at one time that I will always appreciate. They were part of my life for a reason and I in theirs and then we both moved on.

The really fun friendships are the ones that were unexpected. There is Rosie who was the quintessential “good ole gal” who taught me about life in the raw. She took my naive self and showed me what the world is really like and how to handle almost any situation. There is the woman from New York who helped me become fearless from her examples of being compassionate and fair even in dire situations. I don’t see either of these ladies anymore but they carved such an impression on my heart that I still think of them with a smile. They made me tough and resilient and also much kinder and softer than I had ever dared to be.

Perhaps my longest standing friend is Lynda, the girl who lived across the street from me when I was six years old. We shared so many childhood memories and secrets but then my family moved away we were going to different schools, so we only saw each other now again. Nobody would ever guess that we do not communicate every single day because we can pick up our conversations as though they ended only the day before even when several years have passed since we talked. Hers is the only birthday that I remember without a calendar. April 19 tells me that she and I are growing older together and that somehow we are “sisters’ who just get each other no matter the passage of time.

I have young friends who might have been my daughters and sons but we are so simpatico that our difference in age does not matter. They are incredible young folks who keep my faith in the future optimistic. A world of people like them will be very good indeed. They are generous and loving souls who remember me in small ways that mean the world to me. I may get a text on Christmas day or Valentine card on February 14. Sometimes they just check to see if all is well. 

I am sometimes stunned by the goodness of the people that I know. While so many complain that the world is going to hell, I know differently. I see the compassion in the people that I have been honored to call friends. They just keep optimistically moving forward no matter what the weather or state of the Union may be. They love me and I love them in spite of our differences. We did not choose each other because we always agreed on everything but because we witnessed the beauty of each other. 

I have lost some of the most wonderful friends that anyone has ever had. My friend, Pat, was the big sister that I always dreamed of having. She guided me into a world of adventure, travel and enjoyment. Being with her was like a holiday. I still treasure every moment that we shared and now I have her daughter in my circle to continue the family tradition of thoughtfulness and joy.

I miss my friend, Egon, a German with a Norwegian mother. We used to joke that we would take care of each other if anything happened to our spouses. I never dreamed that he would leave us so soon. I miss the evenings sitting by his pool listening to music and discussing the state of the world as though we were serious pundits deciding how to steer the nation. I just wish that I had known more about my ancestry before he died. I think he would be delighted to know that I descend from Vikings on my paternal grandmother’s side of the family. I think he would have laughed and danced like a Norwegian elf at the news that we were even more alike than either of us expected.

I don’t think of myself as an extrovert but somehow I seem to make friends wherever I go. I always have a quiet relationship with the people that I know. I’m not much for big parties or raucous situations. I most enjoy just sitting one one one or with a small group listening to people and learning from them.

I feel quite fortunate to have been so lucky in finding the most wonderful people with whom to share so many moments of my life. I love their diversity. They have made me a better more interesting person than I might otherwise have been. Even if I do not see them or if they have decided that I no longer fascinate them I feel an incredible appreciation for each and every one of them and will always be open to welcoming them each time we manage to find the time to meet once again. 

I love the cul-de-sac where I live. I have wonderful neighbors who are kind and loving and ready to help each other. They are a diverse group that seems to prove the idea that having many different kinds of people can make an organization or community stronger. It is in their individual uniqueness that they bring much joy and kindness to our daily interactions. Ours is a beautiful street filled with a cross section of educational levels, races, cultures, religions, sexual preferences and ages. We embrace each other just as we are and learn from our differences. We are a happy bunch who understand implicitly that help is always nearby when we need it. Being in the midst of diversity is such a lovely way to live. It is like a rose garden filled with variety and color. 

A few summers ago my husband and I visited Maine with the purpose of helping our granddaughter move from the apartment provided for her internship into student housing on campus. It was still two weeks away from the arrival of most of the students so the area felt oddly empty save for the many retired folks who inhabit that part of our country. Everywhere we went we saw mostly grey haired white people who had retired to the lovely state filled with trees and ocean views. it felt strange to be in such a monochromatic bubble even though it was of the kind that existed in the time of my childhood in the south. 

My granddaughter explained that part of her internship duties had involved determining how to attract more diverse populations to the state. It seems that businesses were languishing in the absence of the kind of vibrance that I take for granted where I live. The concern of industries and the government in Maine is that without the vibrance of many different types of individuals and families the economies will not grow and may even become stagnant as the older people die. 

There are some in our country who seem to believe that diversity should have no prominence in our government or corporations or schools. They somehow equate diversity with an evil ploy to make it difficult for white men to achieve the highest levels of success that they once enjoyed. I hear folks saying that it is common for a white man to lose a job to a female lesbian of color. Such beliefs make me realize that a large number of people do not fully understand the nuances that result in the hiring of someone for a particular job. They do not remember or know of the prejudices that impeded all but white males in job placements of the past. Nor do they seem to realize that when searching for the best applicant for a particular job there are many characteristics that lead interviewers to rank one candidate over another, none of which boil down to meeting some false set of quotas. 

As a Dean of Faculty and Instruction in a high school I participated in a group selection of new teachers. Most of the time those invited to an interview were already culled from multiple resumes and applications that came to our desks. Our first process was to use the information that they provided to find individuals with the education, experience, and recommendations that made them stand out as persons who would be best qualified to teach our students. After that we interviewed each of them to get a feel of their personalities and how well they would mesh with our faculty, our students and our school culture. 

Sometimes the high grades from college and the outstanding essays outlining their goals were not enough to convince us that each person had what it would take to interact with our students. There really was a kind of “it” factor that would tell us that one person was more suited than another. To be certain that we were on the right track in our selection, the finalists would be asked to teach a sample lesson in a classroom that we would select. It was always in watching them interact with the students that we were able to make our final decisions and never was that made simply in some artificial effort to create diversity rather than to look for the best candidate. Sometimes the person with the degree from an ivy leagues college just did not click with our student population. Such persons were not passed over because they were not diverse enough but because they just were not right for the environment in which they would have to work. 

I myself began working at that school as an older white lady because I had years of positive experience working with children of every kind of background and intellectual ability. The principal who interviewed me was wise enough to gather that I was earnest when I told her that kids are kids to me. I have but one job and that is to teach and nurture them so that when they leave my classroom at the end of a school year they will be ready to move to the next level. She soon learned that I was also someone who was sought out by the younger teachers who sensed that I was willing to help them to adjust as well. 

I think we give the idea of diversity in organizations a bad rap because someone who did not land a job needed to find a reason for being rejected in favor of someone who seemed to be less qualified. It is certainly painful not to win the prize and I understand that as well. I have been passed over many times and I generally consider myself to be lucky in that regard. I know that if my philosophies did not mesh with the boss I would no doubt end up being miserable on my job. Being selected for a position in any organization is a matter of many different reasons, the least of which is artificially creating diversity. When diversity finds its way naturally into an organization everyone gains and we should all celebrate, not attempt to officially and legally push it out based on numbers rather than the whole person. 

When deed restrictions, segregation or laws kept certain people out of certain neighborhoods in the time of my youth I was isolated from the magnificent beauty of the many diverse ways of living. My cul-de-sac resulted because everyone who lives here had a chance of buying one of the houses. Diversity is organic and natural when we take away the prejudices that make us believe that only certain people should be allowed to do anything. We may try to wipe it from websites and history but it cannot be rubbed out. We have moved on from that.