All It Takes Is A Little Love

I will be the first to admit that I am a confirmed perfectionist who cannot bring myself to do anything half way. Being such a person made me quite successful first as a student and then with my career. I’m not so sure that it has been as greatly appreciated in my private life. I often get the feeling that even the people who love me very much get a bit annoyed with the obsessive compulsive behaviors that constantly lead me to straighten a pen on a desk or tidy up the house twenty four seven. I belong to a group of people who are known for being tightly wound. It’s difficult for me to simply relax no matter what the situation may be. I care about everything deeply. I analyze and reanalyze every situation. It feels normal to me but seems to drive the people around me slightly mad from time to time. 

I suppose that I do indeed understand those who wish I would just chill from time to time because those who just don’t seem to care much about things one way or another often bother me. I can put up with their messiness as long as I don’t have to live with it, but when they don’t even appear to care about major events impacting the world I am totally baffled. “Meh” seems to be their operative word for any discussion of difficulties facing humanity. Part of me longs to be as emotionally detached as they seem to be and part of me feels intensely frustrated by their seeming nonchalance. I simply do not understand how they can care so little and in turn they view me as a ridiculously angst ridden oddity. 

I suppose that it really does take all kinds to keep the world running well. Perhaps such souls might teach me something with their nonchalance. Maybe I do get way too bent out of shape over issues and situations over which I have little or no power. I suspect that I overthink and over plan a bit too much. I’m so busy trying to make things run smoothly that I often miss the moments to just enjoy the people around me. I raise my own blood pressure when I think of all the problems that we humans must face. Now and again I indeed enjoy being around someone who just makes me laugh and relax, but I can’t seem to make myself tarry in such a moment too long for there is always so much to do.

My mother was much like me in her younger days but as she grew older she lost her reputation for perfection because she simply gave up the endless battle. She preferred a spontaneous drive to the ocean on a sunny day to folding the laundry and immediately putting it away. There were many times when she showed up unannounced at my home and found excuses to pull me away from my seriousness. It was as though she knew that I needed a break from attempting to save the world. 

My grandmother Minnie Bell often caused the wagging tongues of old school housewives to tsk because she often had dust on her furniture while she wandered around calling to birds. She was a fabulous cook but her home was sometimes askew. She perfected what she enjoyed and left the rest for another day which may or may not have ever come 

I suppose that I have seen a reflection of myself in my father-in-law since he came to live with us. Every single day is a repeat of the previous one with a routine that does not deviate in even the smallest detail. He won’t come out of his room without tucking his shirttail into his belted pants. I have yet to see his feet because he never appears in public without socks and shoes. I have learned to listen for the sounds that tell me that he is counting down the tasks of the day. It has taught me how unnerving someone like him and like me can be to others. There are times when I literally want to scream and ask him why he can’t let go for even a tiny bit. Then I remember that I am exactly the same way and I wonder how often I have made someone want to shake me, throw things around, purposely move that pen on the desk to a place where it does not belong.

Maybe we would all do well to have more balance in our lives. Those whose attitude is “Meh!” might put in just a bit more effort and those of us who are constantly fulfilling scheduled duties and plans would do well to just go outside and listen to the birds. Variety in our lives may be what we need to work together in a community of understanding. 

When Covid came around I discovered a new side of my personality. Because I was not going anywhere I allowed myself to dawdle in my pajamas in the morning hours. I did a great deal of reading while the chores around my home waited for my attention. I spent time talking with friends and family members on the phone. My pace was slower than it had ever been in my life and somehow it felt okay and wonderful to be that way. Sadly once we all resumed our previous lives I mostly fell back into all of my old habits, washing and tidying, worrying about what will happen next week, next month, next year, decades from now. I sometimes miss the pandemic version of me who was much more calm. 

I am older now and should be wiser. I don’t need to impress anyone with my dutiful behavior anymore. I really don’t want to be tied to a strict self created schedule of jobs anymore. I hear the ticking of the clock and realize that it is long past time for me to do the kind of things that matter so much more than having a perfectly ordered home. I want to be with my friends, especially those who might teach me how to say, “Meh!” now and again. I hear the doves on my rooftop calling me and the mountains that I so love are waiting for me. Maybe I’ll just step over the pair of shoes sitting on the floor and escape to a wiser more relaxed version of me. 

Last week Evan Gershkovich was sentenced to sixteen years in a Russian prison. Evan is a journalist for The Wall Street Journal who in the process of doing his job was accused of being a spy and held for over a year awaiting his trial. His conviction and sentencing was ultimately held in secrecy. His trumped up fate speak volumes about the corrupt nature of Russia where freedom of speech and press are restricted to the point of being nonexistent. 

Evan attended Bowdoin College in Maine, a highly rated “little ivy” where his professors regarded him as a brilliant and gifted writer. Because his parents were immigrants from Russia he grew up hearing and speaking the language of that country. After landing a job writing for The Wall Street Journal it was only fitting that they would ask him to write about the country from which his ancestors had hailed. 

Initially Evan did remote reporting from London where he would reach out to contacts who kept him informed. Eventually he decided to enhance is articles by reporting on the scene. He moved to Russia hoping to get a better view of the people and what was happening there. In the process of gathering information for a story he was accused of spying and ended up in jail. 

I have been following Evan’s journey with bated breath. Since I believe that all of the charges against him were faked up by the KGB I doubted that he would be found innocent but I hope against all odds that I was wrong. My worries that there was no way that he might get a fair trial were confirmed last week. I have suspected that his capture and conviction were predicated on the idea that he might be used in a prisoner swap. I see him as a pawn in Vladimir Putin’s unscrupulous world. 

Seeing Evan standing all alone in a class cage swaying back and forth as the verdict and sentencing were read was heartbreaking and reduced me to tears. I have taken a particular interest in Evan because he is about the same age as the young men and women who were the last of my students in the public school where I worked before I retired. Most of them are now enjoying success in their chosen careers and settling into family life with spouses and babies. This is where Evan should be right now. He was engaged at the time of his arrest. He no doubt would now be married and thinking of starting a family. Instead his future is so uncertain. 

My granddaughter attends Bowdoin College. She will be a junior next year. She has so many plans for her future. She wants to attend law school and explore the world. The thought of something like this happening to her or anyone that I know is dreadful. I would beg our politicians here not to use Evan’s situation as a ploy to sway voters. If they know of a way to get Evan released, then please share what needs to happen right now. This is a young man’s life and it should not be trifled with for any reason whatsoever. 

I’ve been watching a multiple episode documentary on the Cold War that traces the path of our difficulties from Russia and what was once the Soviet Union from the very end of World War II when Germany was partitioned between the victorious nations and the Soviet Union took over the eastern sector of that country. I have lived through the fear of nuclear attacks and red scares. I thought I knew most of what had been happening for the decades of my life but I learned so much more than I had ever imagined. The one thing that is certain is that Russia, and in particular Putin, is not our friend. We trust him to our peril. 

I am hopeful that Evan’s stay in a Russian prison will come quickly to a close. I think of him often and wish him well. I understand that he has many friends who keep him supplied with letters and hope. I hear that he even plays long distance chess with his father. I want him to know that I will not forget him. 

I saddens me that the Russian people are still under the thumb of a repressive government run by people who have enriched themselves on the backs of others. Putin is now the richest man in the world because he has taken the country’s treasure and freedoms for himself. Now he is intent on resurrecting the Russian Empire with his first prize being Ukraine, something that I cannot bear to think will ever happen. 

I am united with Evan Gershkovich just as I believe all Americans should be. I am united with Ukraine just as I believe all Americans should be. Let freedom ring for all who are imprisoned under Russia’s thumb. I await Evan’s return to us with bated breath.

The last many years have been incredibly emotional for me. The Covid 19 pandemic took family members of my friends and some of my former students. I mostly isolated with my husband for two years to protect him, my brother and my father-in-law and his wife who all had serious health issues. I was appalled by the cavalier and often ignorant attitude of President Trump who seemed more concerned about impressing his followers than saving lives. I was determined to vote him out of office and happily he did not win the election of 2020. 

President Joe Biden took over a nation in disarray. As soon as he was declared the winner Donald Trump began a campaign of lies hoping to overthrow the election results. On January 6, 2021, Donald Trump encouraged his followers to rally in Washington D.C. where he continued his ridiculous assertions and suggested that Vice President Mike Pence should discount the real electoral votes and give the election to him with fake electors. He incited the anger of the people who had believed his untruths on that day just as he had been doing for months and when they stormed the Capitol threatening Mike Pence and Nancy Pelosi in particular, Trump only sat idly and watched things devolve. Only hours later after the Capitol building was trashed and people had been severely injured and killed did he finally tell his people to go home. 

For the past four years Donald Trump has done little aside from playing golf and continuing to tell lies while he insults good honest people over and over again. During that same time President Joe Biden managed the country with kindness, compassion and an eye for getting us past the pandemic and into the future. Our nation now has its lowest unemployment rate in decades. While other countries are still struggling with runaway inflation ours has slowly but surely continued in a downward trend. Our cities are recording the lowest crime rates in years. An infrastructure program championed by Joe Biden has rebuilt roads, bridges, and drainage systems. He has served as a font of wisdom among our European allies, generously offering aid to Ukraine as they fight to preserve their democracy from an invading Russia. 

The last four years might have felt more peaceful and healing were it not for the constant complaining and lying of Donald Trump, as well as the court rulings that have thwarted efforts to hold him accountable for the many egregious and illegal acts he has performed. Somehow in spite of a mountain of evidence that Trump is unfit to be President of the United States he is now the official nominee of a Republican party that seems intent on bowing to him rather than doing what is right and just for the United States and its people. 

Sadly as the political scene began to heat up this summer the press and even many Democrats pounded more on President Biden’s age and fitness for office than the lies and offenses that define Trump as someone who is not to be trusted. The relentless attacks on Joe Biden, while overlooking Trumps many flaws have resulted in the resignation of President Biden from the race. The irony and ugliness of what has happened is stunning and I for one have spent time sobbing about the way a great man has been treated while a criminal while a weak and banal man has been canonized and lionized. It says something quite disappointing about who we Americans are. 

We live in a nation where there are more guns than people. We are all too easily egged on to fight and bicker and destroy reputations without evidence. With great regularity we end up reading about disturbed young men taking out their anger on other people with guns that should not be in our midst. Thus a twenty year old attempted to kill Donald Trump for seemingly no other reason than showing that he could. At the same time the press took down an honest man because he is not as energetic as he once was and he sometimes mixes up names. We have become a cruel place indeed. 

Once again as he has done so many times in his decades long career, Joe Biden has heroically risen to the moment and taken himself out of the race. Perhaps he is too old to continue the job for four more years, but the same can be said of Donald Trump who is seventy eight and prone to the same kind of word salad mix ups as well as falling asleep during trials and speeches at his convention. Perhaps we should rethink the open ended rules of who is eligible for the presidency. We live much longer now than people did when the age requirements became part of the Constitution. What is true for Joe Biden is most likely true for anyone, including Donald Trump. As we age we just don’t have the spring in our steps or the quickness in our minds that we once had. 

I will remember President Joe Biden with great respect and gratitude. For four years he has taken the heat from the MAGAs for all of us in this country. He is a truly good man who loves God, his family and this nation. He is an imperfect man like every human who has walked on this planet but he has always been willing to admit to his limitations rather than falsely boasting. He has always been honest and caring much like a good father would be. I am certain that his historic legacy will place him among the greatest leaders we have ever had. I wish him well in the final days of his presidency and I hope more than anything that he knows how much so many Americans like me love and admire him. 

Now we must turn to a new race for the office of President of the United States with younger people representing the party of the Democrats. I will work to get them elected because I believe with all my heart that the future of our democracy is at stake and only they can save us from the corruption that has infiltrated the once Grand Old Party. Whoever is on the ticket will get my vote in November. I want to keep our country safe for my children and my grandchildren. They represent a much better future than the one that Donald Trump describes.

But enough of that…For today I’m saying goodbye to President Joe Biden’s run for reelection through tears and thankfulness. God bless America and God bless President Joe Biden. Our nation is grateful for all you have done.

I recently celebrated the birth of my eldest daughter. She turned fifty four years old in her rlatest journey around the sun. I remember the day of her birth as vividly as if it had been only yesterday. It’s funny how clearly we recall exact details of such important events. 

She was a true child of the seventies. I was twenty one years old on the day of her birth and as naive as they come but I had grown up quickly the year before when my mother was first diagnosed with mental illness. I had to convince Mama to go to the hospital and get treatment from a psychiatrist who had been recommended to me. That event went south very quickly and set the stage for my mother to push back anytime I needed to get her medical help. 

By the time my daughter was born almost exactly a year later after my introduction to the world of mental illness I felt like an old soul. On the day I went to the hospital to give birth I did not know whether I would be a mother of a girl or a boy. The baby was already overdue and when I finally went into labor it would take eighteen hours for her to come. Back then I stood five feet six and a half inches tall and weighed all of eighty eight pounds before I became pregnant so everyone was in awe that such a tiny woman gave birth to a nine pound two and half ounce precious girl who looked as though she was a month old. 

After my girl’s birth I settled into a homey routine with my new little family that included settling down in front of our television in the evenings to watch the sitcoms that flooded the airwaves. That’s when I first saw Bob Newhart perform his sweet fumbling rendition of a psychologist happily married to a woman who seemed to have to guide him safely through each day. I so loved his character and somehow identified with his gentle nature that seemed to be so true of who he actually was. He became one of my favorite comedians and I would watch him in different roles over the years as my own life would be influenced by him in a most incredible way.

About five years after my mother had first shown symptoms of mental illness she had another frightening bout with the depression and mania that would follow her for over forty years. It was a blow to both her and me because we had somehow thought that she was cured after her first episode. Unfortunately her experience with the initial psychiatrist had been so frightening to her that she refused to go see another doctor. I was desperate to find someone who would help her in a more gentle manner. 

By then I had also had my second child, also a daughter. The only doctor I was seeing at the time was my OBGYN. I contacted him for advice on who might be a good fit for my mother, explaining how the first doctor had treated both her and me as though we were lab rats in his experiments. My doctor immediately gave me a name, Dr. Thomas Brandon, and assured me that our family would love his methods and his style. 

I called Dr. Brandon’s office and he was actually willing to talk extensively with me about my mother, what had gone wrong before, and what kind of treatment I was expecting from him. We spoke for almost an hour after which I felt confident that he would be just the person my mother needed to see. I made an appointment for a few days later and convinced my mother to go after relating how informative and compassionate her new doctor had been when I spoke with him.

We both nervously arrived at the appointed time where the receptionist handed us a sheath of paperwork to complete. My mother was not doing well so concentrating on answering all of the questions was difficult for her. Before long the doctor himself came to the waiting room and sat down  quietly with us. To our utter surprise we noticed immediately that he resembled Bob Newhart so much that he might well have been his twin brother. My mother smiled for the first time in days. 

Dr. Brandon watched her quietly for a time and then sweetly suggested that she might complete the paperwork later. He asked her if she would like to go with him to his office and the two of them disappeared for more than an hour. Later the receptionist asked me to join my mother and the doctor. He explained the medications that he had prescribed for Mama and suggested that she stay in my home for a time. He wanted her to have healthy meals and time with family. He outlined a program in which she would slowly begin to help with household chores as she began to feel better and then he set up an appointment to see her in a week. He gave me a phone number where I might reach him if an emergency arose. Oddly enough Dr. Bandon did not just look like Bob Newhart but seemed to be a clone of him in how he spoke and acted. Somehow it was reassuring beyond belief. 

My mother would be Dr. Brandon’s patient for years to come. At first I would accompany her to the appointments but eventually she went willingly on her own. He quickly had her working again at her job and monitored her progress continually, all without making her feel afraid that he was going to treat her in a way that was uncomfortable for her. 

With the passing of Bob Newhart I remembered how much our family loved his many characters who were so human, so loving, so wonderful. I sometimes think that without him my mother would never have accepted her new doctor. Somehow Dr. Brandon was so much like Bob Newhart that Mama sensed that she would be safe with him and she was. 

My mother had many recurring episodes of severe depression and mania over her lifetime. Because of her wonderful doctor she was able to work until she was old enough to retire. I would always have such gratitude and respect for the doctor who had served her so well. At the same time I felt that somehow I also needed to be thankful for Bob Newhart for being the man who brought so much joy into our home that we knew that we could trust him and anyone whose personality resembled his.  

I enjoyed and loved Bob Newhart in every role that he performed. I could tell that he was a genuinely good man. The world was truly a better place with him in it. Little did he know that he also inadvertently kept an equally wonderful woman from being cancelled by her illness. His work on this earth was all so good. May he rest in peace and maybe if he has a chance look up my mother who was one of his biggest fans.  

My mother had a difficult and tragic life and yet she was one the the happiest and most content people I have ever known. In truth I have never quite figured out how she managed to be so upbeat about life, so loving even toward people who avoided her. In spite of all of her numerous trials she somehow managed to be happy. 

It can be trite and unsympathetic to ask those who are suffering to cheer up and find something wonderful to feel good about their in their lives. There are truly times and situations that are so profoundly difficult that to suggest that they look on the brights side would be uncaring and maybe even cruel. I always marveled at the way my mother found happiness in the smallest of things and how she managed to pop back so blissfully from her long bouts with mental illness. I think the key to her joy came from thinking more about other people than herself. 

One might suggest that my mother’s happiness was artificially created by the psychotropic drugs that she took to control her bipolar disorder, but the truth is that she was never fully compliant in taking her medication. Furthermore, when she did agree to take various prescriptions they tended to mute her emotions rather than send her into a state of euphoria. It was my mother’s generosity and unconditional love of the people around her that made her so delightful. She was like an innocent child in her embrace of people and her satisfaction with life as it was. If she had her radio and an Astros baseball game was on the air she was in her own little heaven. 

My mother spent her days spreading joy. She saw greatness in even the most forgettable person. Those who knew her well loved her because of her almost innocent way of making people feel special. Her generosity is legendary to this very day. She gave of herself to the very end of her life in spite of the limitations imposed on her by illness and a very meager income. What she offered to people was respect and compassion, immeasurable memories of someone who really understood and cared. Her devotion to people outside of herself distracted her from the many problems that beset her and kept her optimism blooming again and again. 

That is not to say that my mother was eternally bright and cheery. The chemicals roiling in her head had the power to send her into uncharacteristic depressions that were so deep that they temporarily paralyzed her and left her sitting in the dark inside herself. Such moments would be followed by a mania that was not so much a joyful time as an inability to turn off a torrent of thoughts that kept her awake and incoherent. 

At such times my brothers and I went into action getting her the help that she needed, returning her to a state of mind that was familiar and reassuring. We knew she was well again when the angelic smiles returned to her face and her thoughts focused on doing things for the people that she knew and loved. She understood pain and sorrow like few people. She listened to those who were in the clutches of sorrow without saying a word. She simply loved them and hugged them and helped them to heal enough to carry on. 

For many of us happiness is indeed a choice but others are embroiled in situations that are almost impossible to overlook. Sadness is not something that we humans can turn off as easily as simply deciding to do so. Horrific events take over thoughts and push people into a kind of darkness that they can only escape over time. We would do well to be patient with them, just be available for them without judgement or commentary. My mother understood this. She understood people and never had expectations for how she thought they should behave. She was simply there for them. 

I learned from my mother. She showed me how to look into the hearts of people who are hurting. I suppose she helped me to develop a kind of sixth sense for discerning when someone is in trouble emotionally. It has served me well in working with young people for decades. I learned how to see inside people’s hearts and how to hear what they were not saying out loud. I realized that souls can be broken so violently by tragedies that being happy again does not seem to be an option. The road to smiling again lies in having someone around who allows them to grieve properly for whatever they have lost. It happens when they finally realize that some pain is so intense that it will never totally leave, but admitting it is a step toward smiling once again. 

We should always be aware that happiness is not in fact something we choose or force on others. It comes from within and often takes time to revive. We must be patient with ourselves and with others whenever life deals its blows. Sometimes the profound sorrow has to be acknowledged before the smiles return. Only a healed heart is able to choose to be happy.