'Tis the Season

Call it the holiday blues, the winter doldrums, a seasonally affected disorder--this time of year is a challenge for many.  In the Northern Hemisphere, shorter days and colder cloudier weather can prove too much for the mere charm of chestnuts roasting on an open fire.  Layer on holidays that conjure up feelings that we thought had permanently dissolved in the summer sun and it's a recipe for blah...

But here are a few thoughts and practical ideas that may help: 

It's natural.  Shorter days, longer nights, less available food...our bodies naturally want to slow down and bulk up.  These natural tendencies run head-on into the amped-up demands of the season, the all-you-can-eat holiday feast--so we're stuck in the crunch between "I want to eat a big, rich meal, curl up and take a nap" and "I have to hurry up and get it all done--and maintain my diet, too."  Modern conveniences may help get it all done (and even add to the busy-ness) but do the math: millions of years of evolution won't be changed with an Apple software update. 

Set aside the cellphone and take a nap. 

It's natural, pt. 2.  Much of what is touted as the warm glow of the holiday season ("The most wonderful time of the year!") is nostalgia.  In terms of brain function, nostalgia is part of the natural human way of rewriting the past so that the balance is shifted toward the positive.  But an honest appraisal of the past will lead to the conclusion that, in aggregate, it had its ups and downs.  There was good and there was bad.  And an honest appraisal IN the present tells us that we can't change the past or return to it.  So even if things were better "back in the good old days", it doesn't make a lot of sense to spend time wishing we could go back.  It's a waste of time.  Keep in mind that one of the driving energies behind nostalgic thinking is an aversion to considering our own mortality.  If we dwell in the past, we don't have to consider that we may not be here tomorrow.  Nostalgia is selfish.  And the sad irony of living in the past is that we then miss out on the present--and to heap even greater irony onto that pile, consider that one day, TODAY will be looked upon by someone else as the past for which they long.

Celebrate the past for what was good.  Mourn the past for what was tragic and evil.  Look to the future for what can be--for you and for the world.

You see, there's a reason why we celebrate when the days are short and the nights seem endless--a reason that goes beyond any historic analysis of the evolution of religion: to remember what once was and hope for what can be.

It's already begun, of course, the future!  Hope dawned this morning.  Did you miss it?

Cold Hands, Flat Tire

It dawned on me, in the dawning light, that I'd left for my bike ride ill-prepared for the morning chill.  Not that a 50-degree morning is anything but "bitterly cool," still it makes for some uncomfortable riding, especially without gloves.  For a moment I thought of turning back, but my early-morning brain said otherwise, "Go on, you'll survive without them." And so I did.

About half-way up the hill on which my sites were set I noticed another all-too-familiar feeling: a flat tire.  Ugh!  There's something about getting a flat tire that forces a new perspective.  Suddenly there is no choice in life: stop and fix it.  In this case, no big deal--it was less than 15 minutes and I was on my way again (reminder to self: replace that spare). 

When I made it to the top of the hill I remembered.

See, I'd forgotten all about my cold hands.  The redirect of a more urgent problem took my attention away from the potential of discomfort.  And my hands weren't cold at all, just a little greasy from the tire change.

As I flew down the hill it occurred to me--how very much of my life I spend worrying about things that will never happen, making contingency plans for troubles that will never come to pass, and hardly ever noticing how little control I have or the glorious view I'm missing while I'm wringing my greasy hands over nothing.

"Consider the lilies.  They neither toil nor do they sow, yet..."

 

Well, Duh!

It wasn't one of those great "aha" moments--more like, "well, duh."

This morning I was walking home from "Consumer Cental" (aka, Target) with the symbol of corporate dominance of American life in one hand (my Starbucks coffee) and a turkey in the other (they were on SALE!!).  As I navigated the sidewalks toward home I passed by an all-too-familiar scene: while I was waking up to corporate-sponsored caffeine others were waking up to a very different reality--life on the street.

It's not that I haven't seen it before--heaven knows.  Those experiencing homelessness are as common as the many other symbols of our indifference, as common as the discards from our self-centered lives, our "I've got mine what's wrong with you?" response to the troubles we witness.  We see these people  like we see the trash that litters our streets, only occasionally wondering why some imaginary someone doesn't do something about them, as if they are a problem to be swept away.

But this morning it was a little different; a "well, duh" moment.  This morning as I walked on by, I wondered what I would do if I were to suddenly find myself without a roof over my head.  I wondered how I would answer the question that many are asked, "Don't you have anywhere else to go?"

I do!  I have a family.  I have friends.  I am connected to community.  I have resources.  My skin reflects the color of privilege--so does my gender.  If I were somehow to find myself without a place called "home" it would only be a phone call, wired cash, an invitation from family or friends, a connection to community, and all would be well again.

But what if...

And that's the "well-duh."  Because if I thought for a moment that the majority of people experiencing homelessness had any ONE of the resources I have--family, friends, community, privilege, power--I would just tell them to get up and go. 

Which can mean only one thing: the solution, the hope, the change, must come from somewhere else.  And on my early morning walk, with coffee in one hand and Thanksgiving turkey in the other, the only person I saw who was there to make a difference was me.

Duh.

It's Not Golden Any More

You know that old saying, Silence is Golden.

Well, it's not "golden" any more...in fact, our silence is rusted and tarnished, full of holes and useless.

Our silence isn't golden when people of supposed good will say nothing in the wake of murder.

Our silence isn't golden when people of privilege fail to stand up and recognize their advantage and just drive on by while others are being persecuted.

Our silence isn't golden when people who have skin that is a different tone, or who love people of the same sex, or don't conform to imaginary binary social codes are murdered in cold blood because of who they ARE and we just cross our fingers and hope for a better world, but say nothing.

Our silence is deadly--DEADLY--when we work for compromise and slow progress while life after life lies bleeding.  Our silence is deadly when our goal is to exist together in peace under one big tent and we invite the DEVIL in by never saying "STOP--NOW!"  We are the Devil when we say nothing.  We are.

And it's not enough to say "enough."  "Enough" erases each precious life that has been lost--as if there was ever a tipping point before which it was OK and after which it was not.  It has NEVER BEEN OK. 

Enslavement has NEVER been OK.

Bigotry has NEVER been OK.

Murder has NEVER been OK.

Evil has ALWAYS been wrong.

So say it, goddammit.  Shout out, Howard!  Sing out, Louise! 

And quit asking God, "how long?"  God doesn't have the answer to that question.

We do.

Not Far

We joked that he was never far from his dish.  Even if he was out of sight, whenever there was the slightest hint that food was coming he would appear.  His 'bowl attachment' was so strong he'd taken on a rather bowl-like shape himself.  That was Thomas.  We called him Fat Boy.

Who knows what adventures he'd had before he came to us?  Cats don't tell stories.  What we knew is that he'd settled here.  We didn't find him, he found us.  This was his chosen home...or so we'd thought.

I'd say it was about a month ago that things started to change with him.  Maybe it was longer.  But we really knew something was up when he sniffed at a snack and walked away.  And then, one day, he walked away--from us. 

We weren't sure what happened.  We'd been his family of choice, maybe he'd changed his mind.  We tried not to think about all the ugly possibilities and just hoped for his return.  What else can you do?  But it was an unsettled peace.

And then, just as we were getting used to his absence, he was present again.  It was not long after Easter, and suddenly I was Mary Magdalene in the garden--and Thomas appeared to me.  For a moment I couldn't believe my eyes, but there was no doubt.  He really was back, and I could hardly wait to share the news.

Our joy at his return, however, was soon tempered by the realization that he was, indeed, different.  A trip to the vet and a chunk of change didn't tell us much.  Medicine and TLC seemed to help here and there, but his decline became inevitable. 

Thomas died yesterday.

Before he died he taught me a lesson, though: it's going to be OK.  There will be times when we think it's over but it's not--there's still more to come, perhaps the best part, or maybe the worst.  There will be days when we don't want to venture far from the bowl, and that's alright.  And one day it will be over, and that's going to be OK too.  Even though our hearts are hurting, it's going to be OK.

Because he's home now, and the bowl's not far.

Why I Am Not Homeless

This morning I went for an early morning jog in downtown Santa Barbara.  The bucolic streets of this beautiful city were whisper quiet at 5 am, the only lights glowing were inside the bars where some still labored at cleaning up reveries now complete.  Somewhere between the strain of my run and the solitude of the morning another awareness dawned: people were sitting up in doorways, rags piled on benches began to stir.  Suddenly I was awash in the realization that the differences between us were few, if any.  I held a hotel key card that was my temporary reprieve from homelessness--but what else?

And I began to wonder:  why am I not homeless? 

I could only think of one reason.

You see, I'm "white" and descended from Europeans.  I was born in America into a family that was middle-class and well-established.  My family, though at times quirky and challenging and certainly not without problems, loved me, fed me, clothed me, educated me.  They made sacrifices, yes--because they could--and those sacrifices resulted in the things in which middle class sacrifice results:  higher education, experience, opportunity.  My brain came along for the ride and for the most part works pretty well (thank you, genetics)--and so I believe it to be true of myself that I can do what I set out to do.

In other words, the reason--the ONLY reason--I am not homeless is simply accident of birth.

OK, maybe there's another reason--I've not experienced trauma, at least not to the point where it has debilitated me. 

That's probably luck.

If my ancestors had been enslaved, if my skin were a different color, if my family didn't have the resources or ability or desire, if I'd been subjected to trauma and my brain were not able to comprehend a different reality (let alone work toward it) that would be me on that bench, in that doorway, sucking on that crack pipe just to make it through another miserable day.  You?

It's been said that the homeless crisis in America is "complicated," and that, my friends, is true--the reasons are as many as the people who have no shelter, no family, no home--the people who need someone to love, something to do, and someplace to be--just like we all do.

But it also may be said that the cause of the crisis is simple and singular.  Some have, others do not.

And that, I'm afraid, is no accident.

(c) Steve Fiechter, 2016

Everything

I had a bagel "with everything" this morning.  Toasted.  With cream cheese.

Turns out it wasn't everything, though, which left me wondering.  What would a bagel "with everything" actually look like?  Physically impossible, or course, and beyond imagination.  Like life.  You can't have it all, can you?

But I ordered a life "with everything," you see.  That's what I wanted!  I asked for a life of joy, of happiness, of perfection, with all of the sides...EVERYTHING...that goes along with it.  Apparently they screwed up my order. 

How is yours?

I mean, seriously, when I said "everything" what I MEANT was all the good stuff: not the torn ligament, the dripping faucet, the dead flowers.  Not the unjust system, the ranting politician, the suicide bomber, the endless war.  Not the sick child, the homeless family, the broken heart. 

But I did say "everything," didn't I?

Maybe I'm getting exactly what I ordered after all. 

And that's life.  Everything.