Dickens and the waterfall

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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,

it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness,

it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity,

it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness,

it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair,

we had everything before us, we had nothing before us …

- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities (1859)

Here it is, amazingly, the end of another year. It’s been a remarkable one in so many ways. Dickens pretty much nailed it. It’s all so disorienting, I thought a bit of reflection on what the year actually held might help make sense of it. It’ll also serve as a catch-up of sorts, since I was incommunicado here for most of the year.

And, as so often happens, I figured out what I wanted to say as I wrote. Hence the odd allusion to the waterfall in the title.

So,  for starters, I promised to comment on my bloggish silence from January to November. The short explanation is that I had “blogger’s block.” But that’s a cop-out, a description that explains nothing. So let me try again. At some point, I noticed that instead of enjoying writing, I was feeling obligated to do it, and then I got anxious when I didn’t. The best defense against anxiety is avoidance (think elevator phobia), so that’s what I did. But why the lack of enjoyment, when I’ve always loved writing? And why the sense of obligation to do a totally voluntary activity? The second is easier: I know it’s good for me to have an outlet for my ponderings, and some folks appreciate it, so of course I should do it. The first is harder: why the resistance? Complicated. Partly just too busy. Partly, some experiences that left me feeling tentative about writing. Partly a growing discomfort with the “selfie /facebook culture” and the assumption that everyone (anyone) would want to hear about what I was doing or thinking. Seemed pretty self-centered to me … heck, writing about myself and my life is self-centered, by definition.

So, although people encouraged me to return to this space, I stayed away. Until November 8. At that point, I so needed an outlet for my feelings and thoughts—and connections to a wider community—that all the rest seemed unimportant. That elevator stuff is still there, in the background. But it just doesn’t matter in the same way. I need to be here, and if others appreciate it, that’s a bonus.

So, a few glimpses of what I would have written about in 2016, if I’d been writing.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

You may recall that 2015 was the year of my return to fitness program, culminating in a hike in Southern Utah (specifically, Capitol Reef) that had been my aspirational aim through my self-rehab process. I had a wonderful hike, although I didn’t find the arch I was aiming for. I loved the day … and in the back of my mind, I wanted to go back and try again.

It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness

This past spring, feeling my oats after a full year of orthopedic health, I decided to visit Utah again, this time to hike a favorite trail in the Needles District of Canyonlands. En route, I stopped to take a shortish hike in a small canyon I remember from my desert rat days. It was a very hot day, but I’ve always loved the dessert heat, so I figured I’d “warm up” for the next 

day’s planned long hike by doing this short one. Right at lunchtime. Perfect for a picnic beneath the arch at the canyon’s end.  

Unfortunately, I hadn’t reckoned with what about 15 years’ added age would do to my tolerance for mid-day 103° direct sunshine. I struggled out of the canyon with a mild case of heat exhaustion, sadly certain that I couldn’t recover enough for the next day’s long (equally hot) walk in Canyonlands.  So I postponed that hike until next year … and congratulated myself on my wisdom.

And I was back to the best of times …

I had a glorious summer, resurrecting my long-dormant passion for hiking in the mountains. I hooked up with a couple of friends who are also avid hikers, and together we visited old favorites and explored new (to me, at least) hikes along streams, to glacial lakes, among early summer flowers and fall colors, with moose families posing for pictures just before tiny snowflakes spotted our jackets. This return to the woods was wonderful for me. I’d forgotten how much I love it.

          

     

                

                                                             

The year held lots of indoor adventures, too. Plays, concerts, educational events—talks, panels, documentaries, a CU on the Weekend course—any of which would have been blog-worthy. And my mega-cultural undertaking: working with Resonance Women’s Chorus through the spring  concert and the early summer (the national conference of LGBTQ choruses, GALA, was here) and then again through the fall. Stories, stories, all untold. And then there’s OutSources, the weekly LGBTQ-themed radio show that a group of us produce. Over the year, I did a dozen or so shows, most with my partner—we pretty much work as a DJ duo these days—on topics ranging from religious freedom restoration acts through trans misogyny and Orlando to non-binary identities and AIDS work in South Africa—lots of these also warranted blogs.

 

We traveled to a few conferences, and added in playful travels, like a trip to DC with my partner’s 14-year-old grandson. Predictably, his favorite parts were the Air and Space Museum and crabbing with his great uncle. Some pictures, but no blog. Then there were the un-travels: a couple of “staycations” at a hotel, featuring sleep-ins, coffee and newspaper while lounging in the room, and lots of movies. Blog material galore.

To finish off the summer, my partner joined me on a trip back to the site of last year’s delightful, but incomplete, adventure. The walk in Capitol Reef was wonderful, again, and this time, I found the fork in the trail that led to Cassidy Arch. And here it is (in slightly washed out light).

Then came the campaign and the election, the staple of my schedule through the fall (with a side of weekly hikes). Starting in September, I spent several hours a couple of times each week working on the election—first doing voter registration, then shifting to door-to-door get-out-the-vote canvassing. I hated it. Every time I got out of my car, I had to talk to myself: "Just go do it, Janis. One door-knock at a time." I knew I had to do whatever I could, because if she lost / if he won, I didn't want to wonder if I should have done more.

The campaign and its outcome well warrant the remainder of Dickens’ words:

it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity,

it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness,

it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair

You know what the campaign was like. Belief in the ultimate power of the process to select someone qualified, at least somewhat, for this most important job … and incredulity as we watched his ignorance and boorishness be rewarded over and over. The season of Light emerged occasionally in the words of someone sane, brilliant, speaking from the depths—like Michelle Obama—but that Darkness was close behind, as even brilliance and poignancy were disregarded. The perpetual spring of hope, as the polls continued to show 90%+ probability that the nation would soon have its first woman president. And the winter of despair that settled in early in the evening of November 8, when even the (very partisan) commentators couldn’t tweak the results enough to make her victory look likely.

 we had everything before us, we had nothing before us …

And you know what happened on November 8. It’s what brought me back here. That was, without a doubt, among the worst of times. We had everything before us: the expectation for positive change ahead, the certainty that at least the outrageousness of the campaign would end on a sane note. And then nothing. Hopes dashed, confusion, anger, fear setting in. Nothing to feed the dreams we might have dared dream if she’d won.

On the other hand, that “nothing” did actually give us something: one of the biggest challenges of our lives (at least mine). I think about that arch I didn’t find last year, but reached this year. And the trail that I decided not to hike in a moment of clarity, but that I plan to walk next year. There’s a lesson here.

And that brings to mind a now decades-old story about a waterfall:

I was on a canoe trip with friends in the Boundary Waters between Minnesota and Canada, six of us, each pair paddling a two-woman-and-a-dog craft crossing lake after lake, portaging in between. We were pulling away from the shore onto one of the string of lakes we were traversing. Just around a bend in the shore from where we were putting in was a falls that flowed from this lake into the one below. As we pulled away from the shore, the current drawn by the falls took our canoe, and we knew we were headed for trouble. I was thinking to myself: This is it. I can just give up and go with this rushing water and see what happens … or I can put all my energy into it, and maybe we can get out of the flow. Without saying a thing, both of us started paddling harder than we ever imagined we could. Slowly, we started making headway, dragging the canoe out of the current and into the calm water of the lake, where we set out in just the direction we had planned.

Landfall that day and camp that night felt especially good. We picked wild blueberries the next morning right outside the tent.

I don’t think of that story too often, but it seems fitting now.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Yogi Berra was right.

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Have you ever written a long email, took you hours (it seemed), only to lose it when you hit some mystery key that snatched it into oblivion? I did something like that yesterday with a blog post. As I was pulling it together, a formatting goblin possessed it and refused to be exorcised no matter which of my clever editing tricks I used. Finally, not enthusiastic about re-typing the whole thing from scratch (I’m a slow and rotten typist), I took it as a sign that I wasn’t supposed to post that particular blog. I was ambivalent about it anyhow. The fact that I’m obsessed with post-election activism, I kept thinking, doesn’t mean everyone wants to read my latest rant. At great length.

So I decided to do the Cliff Notes version of that blog, and pass along some fun photos as insulation. After all, it’s solstice, and we should celebrate the return of the light … while doing our part to be sure it returns (I couldn’t resist that little hint of the goblin-esque blog).

  

So here’s that blog post, in brief:

Yogi Berra was right. It ain’t over til it’s over.

We can’t let the complicated distraction of the holidays—or our activism fatigue from being hyper-energized by this stuff for over a month—persuade us that it’s time to kick back and wait for our next best shot at a different president. We have to be active, stay active, protest, resist, organize … do what JFK called “the quiet work of centuries,”* keep building toward what MLK called “the beloved community.” 

A bunch of articles in recent days have heightened my awareness of how truly, deeply, genuinely scary this time is for our communities and our country. Nobel Prize-winning economist and New York Times columnist Paul Krugman described the moment like this: “If there is any hope of redemption, it will have to begin with a clear recognition of how bad things are. American democracy is very much on the brink.” Michelle Obama said to Oprah, “Now we’re feeling what not having hope feels like.”

To me, those are heads up, wake-up calls to action. For hints of what got me all riled up, read these articles:

How Republics End 

Donald Trump, This is Not Normal! 

In Poland, a Window on What Happens when Populists Come to Power 

Dear America, Why Did You Let Us Down? 

So what should we do?  

“Shout from the rooftops,” despite the exhaustion that comes from sustaining outrage (Charles Blow, NYT).

Stand up, speak up, protest, write letters, make phone calls, write emails, sign petitions, lobby elected officials, demonstrate. And then do it all again. (Paraphrased from comments by the ED of the Colorado ACLU at a recent community forum).

And from author Ken Burns, asked by a student what she should do in the face of the threat posed by Trump:

What to do, you ask? A million things, of course. But it begins with the first step of awareness and commitment, which you have already made.

Just go forward. Engage. Don’t despair. Find likeminded people—not from your social circle, but everywhere. Change the opinions of others, not with ridicule, but reason.

Finally, remember too that Barack Obama himself has said that the highest office in the land is not president, but citizen.

Be one.

He was talking to me. Be a citizen, he said. Be a participant in this marvelous experiment in Democracy—or share the responsibility if it crashes.

And remember, some people don’t have the option of stepping back. People of color, religious minorities, immigrants, people with disabilities, veterans, LGBTQ (especially trans) people, women … all of the people that this president elect and his nascent administration have targeted or promised to target—they/we are members of our communities, too, and we/they can’t sit back and wait. The dangers are every day for them/us. Those of us with great privilege need to spend it now, spend it toward the beloved community.

If we’re in this for the long haul—and we are, like it or not—we have to look beyond the cartoon image of a mass of orange hair hovering above the inaugural bible. We have to stay engaged when the ceremonies are over and the daily grind sets in.

P.S.     If you’re looking for some ideas about just how to get active, stay tuned for a soon-to-be-announced (by Out Boulder County and A Queer Endeavor) “Community 100-Day Plan”—a people’s equivalent to the president’s “first 100-days” plan. I can just about promise that something there will get you jazzed.

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* Aptly, the phrase “the quiet work of centuries” became the title of Resonance Women’s Chorus’ recent post-election concert.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Psychic pruning

I promise that not every edition of this blog henceforth will be about the election and its residue, although I imagine that life (mine and others’) will be pretty intensely shaped by those things for a long time. Like the heightened awareness of oppression in all its manifestations that DT and his ilk have stirred. So, the other day, I had an experience that called my attention to one such manifestation: ageism. Not the sort directed by others at those of us who are old, but the internalized type, the (often unrecognized) ways in which ageism lives under the skin of all of us, including those of us who are its target, those of us who are old.

So here’s the story: I was walking along the bike path, near a pond where some daring (fool-hearty?) person and their dog had recently played on the very thin ice ...

(here’s a picture to spruce up the page) ... 

... when I saw two women walking together toward me. An older woman, maybe my age, had a dog on a leash and was walking slightly behind a younger, middle-aged woman. The older woman had a slight smile on her face, a smile that I saw as resigned, maybe even sad. The younger woman was saying something, but the words weren’t clear to me.

As I passed them, I almost instantly made up a story about them.

They are mother and daughter, and the mother is visiting from out of town. Their conversation is congenial, but a bit tense. Maybe the mom has said something that the daughter sees as mistaken—even ill informed or out of touch. They have such conversations pretty frequently, where the daughter is slightly dismissive, while the mom is eager to engage, eager to find a moment of positive connection. She tries hard to say and do things that will please her daughter so they can have a close relationship. She always hopes for that, though it keeps eluding her. She wants to go back to the warm intimacy of her relationship with her 8-year-old daughter, even her early-teenage daughter, before her child reached the age when she needed to push away, to find herself and her own life. Mom so looks forward to these visits, always imagining that something might light that spark again.

Now, the daughter is off into her own life, her own relationships, her own priorities. Leaving her mom behind … figuratively as well as literally. The daughter thinks mom is a bit of a pain. She still loves her mom—after all, it’s her mom! But their interests are just so different, and her mom seems so far outside this world, always wanting to talk about issues that don’t matter much and memories that don’t mean much to the daughter. She’s happy with her life, which is very full without squeezing mom into her schedule. She doesn’t long for the earlier days at all … in fact, she doesn’t remember much about her early years as a kid. Her first clear recollections of her mom are from adolescence, when her mother just didn’t “get it.” They didn’t fight really, but she chafed at how much her mom wanted to be in the middle of her life. She was glad to go away to college, and pretty much never looked back.

Mom, for her part, had looked forward to this trip with eager anticipation. She planned carefully what clothes she’d bring, imagined how happy she’d be to see her daughter and grandkids. She’d been counting the days. Now here she is, with this awkward little tension between them, displacing the shared joy she’d imagined.

OK, I elaborated my on-the-spot story a little. Not all of that went through my mind in the minutes right after I saw them. Some of it did. And then, as I reflected on this encounter and the instant story I’d spun about it, some was added based on previous experiences. Like seeing a woman (presumably a mom) greeted, or left to wait alone, at the airport, a half-hug her only connection with others. Or a mom at dinner with her adult offspring’s family, sitting silently, wearing her nicest outfit while her kid’s family stare at their cell phones, wearing jeans and sweatshirts. Some of the story comes from imagining my own mom’s experience and wondering whether my actions made her feel as I imagine these women might be feeling. So, in truth, virtually all of my story about that day is a snapshot of my own feeling about moms, especially my mom. And about what my life as an old woman will become over the years.

But the part of this encounter I want to focus on is this: There I was, walking along, crafting this sad tale in my mind, when I suddenly caught myself.

Wait a minute, Janis (I said). Why are you assuming that this woman is so passive, so at the mercy of her kids? Why aren’t you granting her some agency in her own life? Give her a break! Maybe her smile isn’t sad or resigned at all, but quietly contented. Maybe she loves these times with her daughter, enjoying watching this younger woman build a vibrant life—just what she would have wished for her child. Maybe her smile betrays her calm recognition that they’re different people, with different ideas … and the hope that soon, her daughter will be able to accept that, too. Heck, maybe she came simply because these visits are important to them both, even though she’ll be happy to get back home so she can get on with organizing teach-ins with her activist friends. Why am I so quick to make her powerless, abandoned, tragic?

I knew the answer at the same time I asked myself these questions. I was imagining her this way because I believe (if only non-consciously) that this is what old age means: abandonment, loneliness, emptiness, powerlessness—even though I may (consciously) insist that my friends and I are exceptions to this general rule. Ah, internalized ageism, that recurrent bugaboo.

I’ve written about this here before (and experienced it far more than I’ve written). It’s hard to shake this sense that aging is inevitably miserable when that’s how it’s so persistently portrayed, how we learned, throughout the many decades of our own lives, to see it. Why else would we feel offended if someone refers to us as "old"? I apparently learned that lesson well. My assumptions about these women, after all, are totally made up—I know nothing about them. Instead, they reveal my fears about myself and, increasingly, my own life: that I will be pitiful, pitiable. That I’ll be dependent on others' generosity, my happiness totally bound up in their attentiveness to me.

Like other forms of oppression—overt and internalized—this stuff requires constant, or at least repeated, attention. In a strange twist, I’m glad I had this internal story-writing experience, if only to catch myself doing it … again. To remind myself, again, how deeply rooted these ageist attitudes become over a long lifetime.

I often think that ageism is so very difficult to overcome—in our attitudes toward others and our feelings about our own worth—because each of us has such a short time to deal with it. We believe the lies until we’re at this stage in our own lives. Then, by the time we get here and find out that they’re lies, we’re already declared by others to be irrelevant because we’re old (and even worse, old women). We aren’t important enough for our insights to matter. Bad timing: we just barely “get it,” when we lose our credibility. And then we die, taking our newfound wisdom with us. Bummer.

Unless, that is, we refuse to let ageism (along with all the other “-isms” that have grown in our psychic gardens over the years) go unrecognized and unchallenged. And that requires, first of all, that we extract it, root and shoot, from our own psyches.

Now there’s a mental gardening task!

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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