Tethered to Each Other

A mantra we repeated in our many years of Salvation Army work was articulated often by our social worker, Barb Arnold: “No violence or threats of violence.” It’s a simple phrase in expectation that while we were together at The Salvation Army, violence would not be accepted. It reminded the young people in our care that even if we disagreed with each other or became angry, violence was not an appropriate response. We hoped the concept might extend beyond the walls of our building, transferred to homes, schools and neighborhoods as well.

 

Violent actions are not unique to today’s world, despite the headlines that suggest they are. In the 1960s, the assassinations of public figures colored my elementary years, as did the murder/suicide of a family from my school. In November 1978, the deaths of 918 people in Jonestown (Guyana) made international news, while a few months later, my New Jersey neighbor was killed by her husband. Soon, mass killings were labeled by the places they occurred: Columbine High School in Colorado, Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, West Nickel Mines in Pennsylvania, Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. Closer to home, our employee’s daughters was thrown down the stairs by her estranged husband, a child in our Sunday School was beaten to death by his mother, and a young man entered the safe haven of our Salvation Army center with his gun and took aim at an “enemy.” 

 

Over time, the names of the towns fade, as we shove each subsequent attack into a category: church shootings, school shootings, grocery store shootings, workplace shootings. While I still recognize the names of victims from Columbine and Sandy Hook, not so from the Atlanta spas or King Soopers in Boulder. Nor do I remember the name of the woman murdered in a house within walking distance of my home a few months ago, nor of a woman shot to death in the local Bob Evans last week. Violence continues to cast its net around us, yet while I still shudder in its devastation, I feel like I’ve been vaccinated against its ability to shock. With the pandemic, racial unrest, and a haze of violence ever on the horizon, I’m weary, so weary.

 

John Pavlovich explains the emotional exhaustion I’m feeling. “I sense a corporate emotional weariness in kind people these days, the accumulated scar tissue created when you’ve absorbed more bad news, predatory behavior, and attacks on decency than your reserves can manage. Sustained cruelty will do that to the human soul.”

 

In recent days, I hesitate to open my newspaper. Perhaps if I don’t look, there won’t be any reports of mass murders or domestic violence today. Unfortunately, my attempt at magical thinking hasn’t worked, and the violence continues. I’ve been humming a Christmas carol written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1863, expressing his desolation as he listened to the bells of Christmas, with his wife burned to death, his son severely wounded in a Civil War battle, and his nation  at war with itself. “And in despair I bowed my head: ‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said, ‘For hate is strong, and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.’”

 

Quoting Pavlovich again, “. . . one day something snaps and we lose the ability to respond with the same urgency and resilience we once had.A low-grade hopelessness sets in, slowly replacing our activism with apathy and one day rendering us immobile: cruelty sickness.” At times, apathy seems a reasonable response, forgetting the names of the dead and accepting a certain measure of fear as the needed price to pay for life in America.

 

Yet Pavlovich urges us forward: What do we do? “We tether ourselves to one another. Now, more than ever, good and tired people need to cultivate community, to stay connected to our tribes of affinity, and to carry one another through the fatigue when it comes.” Like Longfellow, we must sing of what is, but also listen for a new song. Bill Withers expresses it best: “Lean on me, when you’re not strong . . . we all need somebody to lean on.” A new day dawns. 

 

Changing with Stabler and Gibbs

In our old(er) age, Larry and I are creatures of habit in our television viewing. By 8 or 9 p.m., we settle down in front of the screen to watch network television. Among “our” shows are the NCIS and Law and Order series. We have a long history, as the first Law and Order episode aired in 1990, and SVU premiered on September 20, 1999.

 

The inimitable Leroy Jethro Gibbs of NCIS is a relative newcomer to our lives, debuting in 2003. I recently watched a couple of episodes from 2003 and 2004, and was struck by how much Gibbs has changed. His early interactions with his team showed a man who was arrogant, rude, and often unkind (or downright mean) to the people who worked for him. While he is still no Mother Teresa, the years have brought a transformation to Gibbs. He is still quirky and intense, but he exhibits kindness from time to time, and his arrogance has been tempered by all that life has brought his way over the past twenty years.

 

Can people change? In the hope of emerging from the Pandemic of 20-21, that question is often on my mind. Who do I want to be in the years ahead? Who do we as individuals, families, communities, churches, or even a country want to be when the dust from COVID-19 settles around us?

 

Olga Khazan, a science writer for The Atlantic, provided some answers in her recent New York Times op-ed. Khazan tells us that “adults can alter the five traits that make up a personality – extroversion, openness to experience, emotional stability, agreeableness and conscientiousness,” and we can do so within a few months. Khazan does warn us, however: “Changing a trait requires acting in ways that embody that trait, rather than simply thinking about it.” 

 

Consider those five characteristics. First, extroversion. Post-pandemic, do you wish to be more out-going or less? Are you starved for contact with people, or has the relative solitude been a balm for your soul? Perhaps you’ve been longing to become more open to varied experiences, the second element of change. What might that look like over the next year, the next five years? Sky-diving? Planting a garden?

 

As for  emotional stability, how might you better regulate your emotions? Can you discover ways to be more agreeable with others, kinder, more empathetic (#4)? And being conscientious regarding our responsibilities and relationships – that’s a no-brainer for a long-term over-achiever, but an extra measure of dependability could boost the character of some people I know. 

 

But how does change occur? Faith traditions suggest a supernatural experience is needed to bring about profound change. A personal trainer insists a pattern of regular exercise can change our bodies. A counselor offers cognitive behavioral therapy or even Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), designed to alleviate the distress associated with traumatic memories. Peers challenge us to fake it till we make it. Now, there’s even an app developed by Dr. Mirjam Stieger, reminding us to perform small tasks that tweak our personalities. What did we ever do before cell phones?

It’s tempting to excuse the prickly personality of another person by saying, “that’s just who Gibbs is – he can’t help himself.” A similar scenario is unfolding with Law and Order, as we haven’t seen detective Elliot Stabler in ten years. Since only three episodes have aired since his return, it may be too early to tell, but from what I’ve witnessed so far, he hasn’t done as well as Gibbs in character development, especially in the emotional stability and agreeableness categories. But if Gibbs can do it, there has to be hope for Elliot – and for us.

 

It’s not too late, not for Stabler or for us, as the timing of 2021 offers great opportunity. Khazan explains her thinking: “What better time for transformation than now, when no one has seen you for a year, and might have forgotten what you were like in the first place?” If she offers inspiration, then Alan Watts provides the map: “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” Shall we dance?

 

Weavers

As a child, I remember numerous elm trees of our community being devastated by the Dutch elm disease. On block after block, beetles invaded the trees, and their larvae tunneled under the bark, creating pathways for a deadly fungus to spread, clogging the water-conducting cells of the elms. Without water, the branches wilted, and the trees across the city began to die. Soon, Elmwood Park lost its leafy canopy, and the whir of chain saws could be heard across our small city.

 

I thought about the loss of those towering elms as I read the words of retired UMC pastor Tom Snyder and his wife Kitty. They wrote of the deaths of two long time Ashland residents: “Two giant oaks have fallen.” As the Snyders noted, Norm Sommers wasan educator who helped shape hundreds of educators in his long career, while Joe Murray was both a lawyer and a determined champion of social justice who never really retired. 

 

Many choose to live in a community based upon aesthetic factors such as attractive neighborhoods and cultural institutions, or due to easy access to highways or plentiful employment opportunities. Yet as I reflect upon the true fabric of the communities I’ve lived in over the years, I realize that it is seldom rooted in the oak or elm trees that line its streets; rather, it is woven by the people like Joe and Norm who bring their individual gifts and skills to its homes, schools, offices, factories, and churches.

 

Thus, Ashland becomes someplace special because of the giant oaks such as Joe Murray and Norm Sommers, as well as so many others who contribute to its health in large and small ways. Some are rooted in Ashland seemingly forever, like Joe and Norm, while others come for a time, make their mark on our lives, and then quietly slip away to another community, another opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others.

 

Two of the “oaks” who stand tall, whose lives have been woven bountifully into the fabric of life in Ashland, are Bob and Jan Archer. If a philanthropist is someone with the desire to promote the welfare of others, expressed especially by the generous donation of money to good causes, then Bob and Jan are Ashland’s philanthropists, sowing the seeds of financial resource with abundance. Yet while the financial support has been beneficial to the community, those of us who know them recognize how their desire to promote the welfare of others reaches far beyond any monetary gift they may give. In particular, the value of Jan’s words of encouragement to me have worth far beyond dollars and cents. Mighty oaks for sure.

 

But saplings also contribute to the health of a community. Our young neighbors on Walnut Street, Kaitlynn and Spencer Dolezal, were immigrants to Ashland for a time, and they wove their way into our hearts through Spencer’s music ministry and his commitment to the troubled teens of our community, and Kaitlynn’s service as a social worker and yoga instructor. Now, a job change has sent them north with their precious little boy, but Kaitlynn’s words of care serve as a benediction of sorts for those they leave behind:  “May we find the balance of grieving, healing, resting,  engaging, serving, learning, and unlearning.”  

 

Like Joe Murray, Norm Sommers, and Jan and Bob Archer, Spencer and Kaitlyn know what it means to be a weaver of community. The Aspen Institute sponsors Weave: The Social Fabric Project, explaining, “Weave supports the many Americans in every community who are working to create social trust and weave neighbors together to strengthen their communities.” They understand that “weaving is a way of life and a state of mind, not a set of actions. It’s about the spirit of caring you bring to each interaction with someone else. It’s a willingness to be open and loving, whether you get anything in return . . . Weavers make the effort to  build [honest, deep] connections and make others feel valued.”

 

Indeed, Ashland is blessed by those who live for others. We grieve a community’s loss today while giving thanks for those who continue to weave with care among us.  

Standing in Line

One of my pet peeves is waiting in line. Daily cafeteria lines in high school and college come to mind, as do security checks at airports and sporting events. My one cruise experience was even worse, as we were herded like cows through a cattle chute as we prepared to board the ship. I’m not much for small talk with people I don’t know, so I often carry a book when I anticipate standing in a line for an extended period of time. Girl Scout motto: Be prepared!

 

Disney’s FastPass+ and Cedar Point’s Fast Lane+ allow those willing to dish out extra money to skip the line (or at least access the shorter line) is brilliant. My commitment to the idea of equal access for all conflicts horribly with paying to cut the line, so it’s a struggle. However, I’ve also waited over an hour in the blazing sun without any water to go on an amusement ride that lasted about two minutes – and scared me half to death. If I ever get to Disney again, and if Disney resumes their FastPass+, I will be faced with a moral dilemma.   

 

One of the benefits of the pandemic is that it’s cut down on the time spent standing in line. I was thinking about that as I waited in the queue at a vaccination site that processes a thousand of my friends and neighbors each day. I’ve avoided many usual lines by going on-line, and even the DMV wasn’t crowded. The only times I’ve stood in a line of any size over the past year has been for early voting and to get a COVID-19 vaccine. Otherwise, just not happening. Will Rogers understands: “The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for.” 

 

The two “V’s” of  2020-2021 are worth waiting for. However, it’s ironic that doing my civic duty and my medically-necessary duty (for myself and others) brought me into the closest contact I’ve come to strangers over the course of the pandemic.

 

When I went to the vaccine center, I was prepared for a wait if needed, with my book in hand and my cell-phone charged. I watched and listened as conversations started up around me. I also witnessed the kindness of strangers, as an older woman with a walker was offered a space closer to the front of the line (I later found out she was ninety-three). Had it been a hot day, perhaps the prepared Girl Scouts would have distributed water. Because we care about each other in community, we do whatever we can to make our line-waiting more comfortable for all of us. Unless we live in Georgia on election day.

 

But here’s my question. Why the line at all? At the amusement park, during peak hours, more people want to get on the ride than it can accommodate. Some rides are more popular than others, and therefore, we’re good with waiting, although do grumble a bit. But with voting? As individual counties and as a country as a whole, we know to expect a certain number of people at each polling place. An equitable distribution of polling locations and voting machines seems like a better answer than banning the distribution of food and water to those waiting for hours – that is, if we believe every American citizen should have a vote (that pesky fifteenth amendment).

 

And with the vaccines? I’m grateful for the tireless efforts of the scientific community in developing the vaccine. But why wasn’t there a simultaneous effort to create a comprehensive on-line sign-up system to schedule appointments? We can purchase tickets for baseball games on-line, down to the individual seats and date – 40,000 at a time. Someone could have sorted out how to match vaccines and arms so ninety-three-year-old women weren’t standing in line.

 

“Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.” Winnie the Pooh gives us perfect advice for a lazy river in the noon-day sun. But we’re needing to draw upon every skill as we paddle for our lives in the raging storm to get home safe and sound with no more losses. All hands on board is the watchword for today.