Part of a Day in the Life

  Yesterday...

...and today.

I woke up about 1 today and am extremely disoriented. Yesterday I was in sandals happily snapping pictures and improvising a ditty about "Spring has come! Dum-te-dum! Spring is here at last!"

Today I awaken, aware that I've missed a WhatsApp appointment, throw open the blind to find everything covered in ice.

My Amazon delivery was waiting outside the apartment door. Happy.

Went down to discard the cardboard box it was in and found more packages in my mailbox -- new piano literature!  Happy.

Re-entered the building and in the 200 feet between the entrance and the elevator witnessed two different people coughing in the lobby without covering their mouths.  WTF? 

I'm in my apartment now. I won't come out again today.

Corona

Living during the COVID-19 pandemic, my thoughts range widely, provoked usually by a report on BBC, an episode of one of the many podcasts I subscribe to, or something posted to Instagram or YouTube. Today it was a post on Instagram about a family of nine undocumented immigrants living in a tiny shack somewhere on the East Coast. Some of them have already been sick but are recovering without the resources of wage income, health insurance, or access to healthcare or the internet.

I'm hearing a lot of both tongue-in-cheek and totally-serious complaints about the boredom of spending so much time at home -- alone or with kids, the inconvenience of not finding favorite products on the grocery shelves, and the cancelation of anticipated social events. All of this is just more of the same in a sense:  American exceptionalism and sense of entitlement. The story about the undocumented family opened my eyes and heart to a new perspective.

Via text and email, some friends are focused on the possibility that "something good will come out of all this." My response is that "good" and "bad" exist all the time. All in the assessment of the observer. I live in a large government-subsidized housing complex that I've sometimes pronounced a blessing and other times a curse since moving in several months ago. It just depends on the day...

Speaking of which, yesterday I was reminiscing about my historic home in Mississippi known as "the Yellow Fever House".  It was the site of the first yellow fever death in Holly Springs in 1878. I researched the epidemic and loved sharing the history with tourists who stopped by.

Yesterday I thought about the contrast between living alone back then in a house with a history of pestilence and living with a hundred other people now during the current pandemic. Some Holly Springs residents refused to even step onto the front porch of the house, more than a century after the epidemic ended, believing deadly contamination was still possible. 

Here at Babcock, some residents are wearing masks and surgical gloves and insisting on riding the elevator alone. Other more carefree or reckless residents continue to share space in a tiny, enclosed smoking pavilion in the garden that allows less than a foot of social distance. And some people have not been seen since the official lockdown -- no visitors; only healthcare professionals and delivery people admitted; closure of front office and furlough of all onsite staff -- took effect in early March.

Yellow Fever set off widespread anxiety, fear, and sadness during its reign. History repeats itself now.  The anxiety I feel is mostly dread of how my fellow humans will respond to prolonged isolation and other disruptions to routine the pandemic necessitates. It's now been recommended that Americans shelter in place through the end of April. What will life be like, feel like, sound like here in Babcock and across the nation two weeks from now? 

A first hint manifested here late last night. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted into my apartment. Someone has decided life is sufficiently offtrack to justify defying the no-smoking policy.

On Retreat in LFK

A couple of days ago I was standing at a bus stop on Mass Street, debating whether to ride the bus or walk the seven blocks to my friend's house. There's been relatively little snow but this Winter has been mean, physically and emotionally. Temperatures have regularly dipped to bone-chilling negatives -- humbling and dominating the body -- but have periodically soared during the day to ridiculously unseasonable highs.

The first 60-something-degree day made us silly. We abandoned hats and gloves. The air sparkled with sounds of greetings and laughter, like tinkling bells. Traffic hummed on Mass Street and included a few convertibles with tops down. It was like we'd all fallen in love. That night, the temperature dropped to 17 degrees. Our hearts were broken.

We were not as reckless and full-throttle in our enjoyment of the next faux Summer day.

On this day, though, the sun and sky and breeze and temperature were like a caress. The weather offered not a flamboyant promise that Winter was over but a congenial reminder that Spring will come. I was hatless but wore a lightweight, ankle-length coat. I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the blessed sun, the hem of my coat snapping briskly against my calves in the "in like a lion" breeze.

I was yanked from reverie and contemplation by the sound of a male voice shouting "Nigger!" as a car was passed about 10 feet away from me. The car had slowed as it approached the traffic light, which was turning from red to green.

The head and neck of a thirty-something white guy protruded from the rear passenger-side window. I registered the cartoonish exuberance of his features as the face withdrew and the car accelerated through the intersection.

For over a year now, I've been meditating every day in Sam Harris' Waking Up mindfulness meditation course. (You can try it, too, for free, by following the link at his website). I was unfazed by the hateful outburst and I believe my equanimity was due in large part to meditation practice.

Contrary to what some believe, my response was not a matter of denial or detachment from "reality". I didn't retreat to a la-la land in my head, clutching a security blanket of numbness or blithe disregard. I could see his face clearly. I remember the license plate number and make of the car. There were four people in the car and the driver was the only woman. As they passed, I watched through the rear window as she turned around and briefly chastised the passenger.

I saw and heard everything. Mindfulness practice enabled tremendous clarity. I saw with minimal distraction what was happening -- both in the surrounding environment and within myself -- and was not swept away into either stream.

This morning I heard a rebroadcast of Kamau Bell's story about an incident at the former Elmwood Cafe in Berkeley CA on the radio. Near the end of it, someone said something about fostering the capacity to see racism clearly without internalizing it.

I saw the face. Perceived the ignorance and hatred and stupidity etched thereon. Felt my own startle response and noted my thoughts about the irony of living nearly five years in Mississippi without ever being the target of the epithet but hearing it in Lawrence -- residents lovingly call it LFK, "Lawrence Fucking Kansas" because it's the most liberal place in the state -- on arguably the most beautiful day of the year thus far.

When I reached my friend's house I told him and his wife about what had happened. "I can remember being emotionally and psychologically unsettled by similar events in the past," I commented. "Well, eventually that ignorant older generation will die off," my friend proffered.

"Oh! Well, this guy seemed to be in his early 30s," I said. "And I don't really see bigotry as a generational problem."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Reflecting on my experience this many days later, I remember that I moved to Kansas the Spring after Drumpf became president. The waves of ignorance, greed, hatred, etc. that have swept the nation and world in the intervening months have expanded the possibilities for bigotry. Probably it's easier now to be called "nigger" anywhere and everywhere.  

It's a good time for practicing mindfulness.  

I'm Not Nice. Are You?

Nice is eroding the foundations of interpersonal discourse. It shows up in a variety of ways. Here's an example.

🌒

"No, no. You’re alright..."

I am sitting on a friend's porch drinking iced coffee and telling a story
from my unfocused youth.
Gesturing widely as I talk, I accidentally knock over my friend's glass.
“Oh! Damn!  I’m sorry,” I say.

“No, no. You’re alright,” my friend coos and runs to fetch a towel.

What?

Let’s break it down:  “No, no.” What’s she saying here?
Don’t apologize? I don’t want or need your apology? 
Is she saying an apology is inappropriate?
Unnecessary? 

“You’re alright.”  Well, yes, I do feel fine.
I’m not feeling damaged or at risk. Do I appear uncertain? 
Do I look like I need reassurance or comforting? 

I don’t want “apology” to be dislodged from the social protocol script.
I want to live in a world where people apologize when they spill a drink. I want
to live in a world where my friend accepts rather than negates my apology.
I want to live in a world where an apology doesn't suggest my self-esteem is lagging
or that I'm in need of rescue or succor.

Bert Nash

This is an unfinished, unpublished draft written back in June.  Oh well....

This month I landed a contract to work for two hours each week at the community mental health center.  From 1 to 3 on Tuesdays, I hang out with school-age kids in a frame built of theater arts with an emphasis on improvisation. Today was our fourth meeting.

The content of the program I offer is the same everywhere I go -- I've brought this stuff to Unitarian Universalists on retreat doing anti-racism work, to workshops for "unwed mothers" seeking stress reduction, to team-building seminars in corporate boardrooms and to Women's Studies classes in Indiana and California -- and it works because my fundamental objectives as a transformative performing arts educator don't really change.

I want to facilitate voice and silence. I want teach critical thinking and free thinking. Because so many people stand before groups of people with the intention of communicating and do it poorly or not at all, I want to spread the word about what works and doesn't work when performing. I want to help folks rediscover how interesting they are, and expand the possibility of what they can accept about themselves and others.

All of this is true and there's more I could say but the bottom line truth is that the arts changed my life for the better and continue to do so; and I've witnessed the life-changing power of theater arts so many times that I cannot help but love this work and believe in it.

I love the work. I really like when I'm paid to do it. My best-ever contexts, though, involve damaged or at-risk or problem kids.  I only found this out after nudging myself to take a deep breath and say "yes" to invitations to work with these populations.

What's happening in the current gig is amazing. Mind-blowing. Revolutionary. Transformative.  The kids are popping like flowerbuds in the spring. There's long arc amazing like the nonverbal child who was making no eye contact four weeks ago who touched my hand today and asked if she could go first next Tuesday. There's short arc amazing like the child who had two noisy meltdowns in the first 10 minutes I was there today who hugged me at the end of his group's hour and later joined the other group for more theater games. He told the teacher in the other room he had an idea he wanted to try.

Some of the kids have an adult shadow who sticks with them in case something comes up and they need support and individual attention. It's been a little weird sometimes and today I figured out why:  some of them have a sort of security guard vibe about them. They're like human fire extinguishers, here in case something catches fire.

They thought they saw something on fire a few weeks ago when I asked for a volunteer and one kid raised his hand and approached me. Another boy, whose participation so far had been making noises and shouting "That's stupid" at random moments, jumped up a few seconds later and shouted "I volunteer."

"Just a second too late," I said, "but welcome back from the brink."  I observed a couple of staff exchange looks like "Did she really just say that?" The kid scowled. He wasn't happy. He started working on a full-on breakdown. He kicked the wall and stormed out of the room. I got the feeling some of the staff thought I'd made that happen.

Today, the anticipated blaze finally hit. We were playing "One Scene, Three Attitudes" in which trios of actors (kids) are assigned a situation, e.g., getting a haircut, flying to the moon, babysitting your cousin and given a few minutes to think of three different attitudes toward the situation.  When the trio takes the stage, each actor will express the attitude with face and body.

We've played the game before. Today I added the challenge that the actor must improvise a few lines from inside the attitude.  To illustrate what improvising a few lines might sound like, I gave a sample situation of Mother's Day.  "What are three attitudes someone could have about Mother's Day?" I asked.

"Very very happy because I have the best Mom," said one child.

"Scary," offered another child.  "Scary?" I repeated.  "What's scary about Mother's Day?"

"I'm a super-hero and I can use super powers." We'd had a game earlier in the day about super-heroes.  "Are you a super hero who doesn't like Mother's Day?"  "Yes!" he said.  "OK. I get it," I said.

"What else?  We need one more attitude," I prompted.  A boy offered "Sad."

"OK.  Sad. Why would someone be sad on Mother's Day?" I asked. The staff member beside him gasped, gave me a look of mild horror, and began shooting looks at a staffer on the other side of the room.   "Because someone is sad or a little sad about Mother's Day," he expounded.

"OK. Like someone who doesn't have a mother. Maybe their mom died or something," I said.

"Trigger!" the staffer muttered and glared at me.

"Yes, because his mom died," the kid said.

"We're okay," I assured the staffer.  "OK. I get it. So we would want to see a happy face and body, a scary face and body and a sad face and body," I continued.  At which point the staffer gave me a look and left the room.

We finished the hour minus one staffer. I wasn't surprised when the Director called me into her office as I was leaving.

We just have to be so careful with these kids. You can't know what will set them off and none of us professional therapists. "So don't mention death?" I asked.  Well, maybe. Or don't mention death in the context of a holiday or a family member, she offered.

Through the Looking Glass

In Lawrence, things are vaguely familiar but undeniably altered.

For awhile, Unity Church hired me every other month for a gig. Eventually I chafed under the "no instrumentals" rule. Prayers and sermon and announcements from the pulpit...song lyrics projected onto the big screen...guest musician singing to you.  At Unity your thoughts are always guided by someone saying or singing something. 

The fitted sheet in my new queen-size bed linens set is larger than queen but smaller than king. I fold the top sheet in half to prevent it dragging on the floor. The set contains six pillow cases.

As part of a summer youth program at the mental health center, I led an 8-week theater arts curriculum. I asked several times to meet with the staff beforehand to coordinate my offering with their program objectives but received no response.  At the end of the program, no one but the kids said thanks or goodbye. I requested a debriefing meeting to get some feedback on my debut professional effort in Lawrence.  It's been a month; my request was neither granted nor acknowledged.

Public transportation stops around sundown and doesn't run at all on Sunday in a town that brags about being more "woke" than the rest of the state.

 Things sorta look familiar here but they feel different. They don't quite fit.

I still say it was a mistake to move here but some of the most important lessons of my life have been learned through mistakes.

I'm waking up now it seems.  Two weeks ago I sold the car. After two years of paying enough in gas, repairs, registration and insurance to "buy" the car three times over every year, I decided to stop shooting myself in the foot. 

Two or three months ago it dawned on me:  if I'd applied for subsidized housing when I first arrived, I would be at the top of the two-year waiting list now.  With better-late-than-never optimism, I completed an application Amazingly, it took less than three months to rise to the top of the waiting list.  This week I move into a top floor apartment at Babcock Place where rent and utilities will cost one-third of what I've been paying.

I never read Alice Through the Looking Glass. Does she make it through and out?  Does she learn something along the way?

Film Recommendation: Mountain (2017)

Quite possibly the most beautiful film about people I'll never meet, doing things I will never do, in places I will never see, for reasons I will never understand, that I will ever see.

Thought-provoking to the max.  A meditation and a sermon all in one. Worth seeing.